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OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


OXFORD  EDITION 

THE  PLAYS 

OF 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

TOGETHER   WITH 

THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 

EDITED,   WITH  GLOSS ARIAL  INDEX  AND  NOTES 

BY 

C  £;  DOBLE,   M.A. 

WITH  THE  ASSISTANCE  OF 

G.  OSTLER 


WITH  FORTY-SIX  ILLUSTRATIONS 


HENRY  FROWDE 

LONDON,  EDINBURGH,  GLASGOW,  NEW  YORK 
TORONTO  AND  MELBOURNE 

1909 


OXFORP:    HORACE  HART 
PRINTER  TO  THE  VITIVERSITY 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  volume  contains  the  best-known  and  most 
popular  of  Goldsmith's  prose  writings,  viz.  The  Good- 
Natur*d  Man,  She  Stoops  to  Cimquer,  and  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  It  is  intended  to  form  a  supplementary 
volume  to  the  Poetical  Works  edited  by  Mr.  Austin 
Dobson  for  the  same  Series.  The  texts  of  the  plays  are 
based  on  the  early  editions.  In  the  case  of  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  the  text  is  that  of  thei  second  edition,  in  which 
Goldsmith  made  several  slight  changes,  as  well  as  some 
of  more  importance,  as  noted  in  the  Appendix.  A  few 
additional  corrections  have  now  been  made,  and  the 
readings  of  later  editions  adopted  where  there  seemed 
sufficient  grounds  for  the  change. 

Of  the  editorial  matter,  the  notes  have  been  thrown 
into  the  form  of  a  Glossarial  Index,  as  affording  a  ready 
means  of  access  to  any  given  subject.  In  this  will  be 
found  many  parallel  passages  gathered  from  Goldsmith's 
miscellaneous  prose  works,  showing  incidentally  the 
frequency  with  which  our  author  drew  upon  himself. 
The  passages,  in  most  instances,  have  been  quoted  in 
fuU,  to  obviate  the  necessity  of  reference  to  the  original. 
In  the  Appendix  a  short  history  of  each  of  the  works  in 
this  volume  has  been  given,  together  with  a  few  notes 
supplementary  to  the  Glossarial  Index. 

C.  E.  DOBLE. 


206941 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.    A  Comedy. 

Preface 3 

Prologue.    Written  by  Dr.  Johnson           ...  4 

Dramatis  Personae 6 

Act  I.      Scene:  An  Apartment  in  Young  Hone3rwood'8 

House 7 

Act  n.    Scene:  Croaker's  House       ....  22 

Act  III.  Scene:  Young  Hone3rwood's  House     .        .  37 

Act  IV.   Scene:  Croaker's  House       ....  51 

Act  V.     Scene :  An  Inn 66 

Epilogue 82 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER ;    ok.  The  Mistakes  op 
A  Night.    A  Comedy. 

Dedication  to  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson   .        .        .         .87 
Prologue.    Written  by  David  Garrick        ...       88 

Dramatis  Personae 90 

Act  I.      Scene :  A  Chamber  in  an  old-fashioned  House      91 
Scene:  An     Ale-house    Boom    (The   Three 

Pigeons) 98 

Act  II.    Scene :  An  oki-fashioned  House   •        .  104 

Act  III.  Scene:  An  old-fashioned  House  .  126 

Act  IV.    Scene:  An  old-fashioned  House  .138 

Act  V.      Scene:  An  old-fashioned  House  .  153 

Scene :  The  Back  of  the  Garden  .     157 

Scene:   An  old-fashioned  House  .        .     163 

Epilogue.    Written  by  Goldsmith  .169 

Epilogue.    Written  by  J.  Cradock     .        .        .        .171 


SCENE  FROM  *  THE  GRUMBLER ' 


173 


▼i  CONTENTS 

PAGS 

THE  VICAB  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

Facsimile  Tttle-pa^e  of  the  Fnst  Editioa                   .  181 

AdT«rtifleiiieat 183 

Coatents  of  tlie  Chxpbea 185 

Text 187 

GL06SABIAL  INDEX 417 

APPENDIX. 

Notes  aa  The  Good-Nahir'd  Man       ....  488 

Notes  oa  She  Sloops  to  Conquer  499 

Note  oa  The  Orumbier 505 

Notes  on  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield       ....  505 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PLATES 

Portrait  op  Oliver  Goldsmith         .        .        .    Frontispiece 
Croaker  thrashino  the  Postboy  (Oood-NeUur'd  Man), 

From  an  engraviDg  published  in  1805  .         •  To  face  p.  72 
Mr.  Quick  in  the  character  of  Tony  Lumpkin  (She 

Stoops  to  Conquer),     Erom  the  1780  edition  of  Poems 

and  Plays  .         .         .         .         ,        .         ,  To  face  p.  158 
Wakefield.     Engraved  by  J.  Walker  from  an  original 

drawing  by  W.  Turner  ;   published  in  1798     To  face  p,  188 
George's  Departure.    From  an  engraving  by  Stothard ; 

published  in  1792         .         .         .         .        ,   To  face  p.  199 
Wakefield   Bridge.    Engraved  by  J.   Rogers   from  a 

drawing  by  N.  Whittock ;  published  in  1829     To  face  p.  2^ 
Chantry  on  the  Bridge  at  Wakefield.    Engraved  by 

J.  Rogers  from  a  drawing  by  N.  Whittock ;  published 

in  1829 .     To /ace  p.  202 

Sandal  Castle,  near  Wakefield.     From  an  engraving 

published  in  1785        .        .        .        %        ,     To  face  p,  204 
Mr.  Burchell  reading  the  Ballad  of  the  Hermit. 

From  an  engraving   in  the  Paris  edition  cf   1806. 

To  face  p,  226 
Discovery  of  Olivia.    From  an  engraving  by  Stothard ; 

published  in  1792 To  face  p,  330 

Pickering,  Yorkshire.     Engraved  by  J.  Walker  from  an 

original  drawing  by  J.  Homsey ;    published  in  1797 

To  face  p.  354 
Interior  of  Pickering  Castle.    Sketched  and  engraved 

by  W.  Tombleson To  face  p.  364 

The  Vicar  and  his  Family.     From  an  engraving  by 

Stothard ;  published  in  1792       .         .         ,  To  face  p.  4U 
The  Deaf  Postilion.     From  an  engraving  by  George 

Cruikdiank To  face  p.  496 


viii  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  *  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD ' 
By  WiUiam  Mulready,  R.A.,  1843 

FAQS 

The  Wedding  Dress 187 

The  Vicar's  Dispute  with  Wihnot 192 

Sophia  rescued  from  Drowning 197 

Flamborough  and  the  Piper 205 

Concert  in  the  Arbour,  and  Approach  of  Thomhiii  210 

Haymaking:  Burchell  and  Sophia 215 

Dispute  between  Moses  and  Thomhiii      ....  220 

Dining  in  the  Hay-field 225 

Too  late  for  Church 236 

Pudge! 241 

Moses  going  to  the  Pair 246 

The  Vicar  showing  his  horse  Blackberry  .  252 

Burcheli's  Pocket-book  found 258 

Nearly  of  a  Size 263 

The  Elopement 270 

The  Vicar,  the  Stroller,  and  the  entrance  of  Arabella  Wilmot  276 

George  bribing  the  Servant 283 

Mr.  Crispe's  Office 292 

George  entertaining  the  Cottagers 298 

Olivia,  Thomhiii,  and  the  young  Baronet        .  308 

The  Kre 324 

Olivia's  Misery 334 

The  Cattle  driven  for  the  Rent 339 

Attempt  to  Rescue    .        . 345 

The  Vicar  paying  his  Footing  .        .       ,.        .        .  351 

The  Pirst  Exhortation 357 

Reformation 363 

Abduction  of  Sophia 368 

Sermon  in  the  Cell 380 

Return  of  Sophia 386 

Conviction  of  lliomhill 395 

At  the  Altar 412 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D   MAN 

A  COMEDY 

AS  PEBFOBUED  AT  THE 

THEATRE-ROYAL,  COVENT-GARDEN 

[Fiist  printed  in  1768] 


aOLDSmTH.     II 


PREFACE 

WflEN  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I  confess  I  was 
strongly  prepossessed  in  favour  of  the  poets  of  the  last 
age,and  strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term,  genteel  comedy, 
was  then  unknown  amongst  us,  and  little  more  was 
desired  by  an  audience,  than  nature  and  humour,  in  what- 
ever walks  of  life  they  were  most  conspicuous.  The  author 
of  the  following  scenes  never  imagined  that  more  would 
be  expected  of  him,  and  therefore  to  delineate  character 
has  been  his  principal  aim.  Those  who  know  any  thing 
of  composition,  are  sensible,  that  in  pursuing  humour,  it 
will  sometimes  lead  us  into  the  recesses  of  the  mean ; 
I  was  even  tempted  to  look  for  it  in  the  master  of  a  spung- 
ing-house  ;  but  in  deference  to  the  public  taste,  grown  of 
late,  perhaps,  too  delicate,  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs  was 
retrenched  in  the  representation.  In  deference  also  to 
the  judgment  of  a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a  particular 
way,  the  scene  is  here  restored.  The  author  submits  it 
to  the  reader  in  his  closet ;  and  hopes  that  too  much 
refinement  will  not  banish  humour  and  character  from 
ours,  as  it  has  already  done  from  the  French  theatre. 
Indeed  the  French  comedy  is  now  become  so  very  elevated 
and  sentimental,  that  it  has  not  only  banished  humour 
and  Moliere  from  the  stage,  but  it  has  banished  all 
spectators  too. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  his  thanks  to  the 
public  for  the  favourable  reception  which  The  Good- 
Natur'd  Man  has  met  with  :  and  to  Mr.  Colman  in  par- 
ticular, for  his  kindness  to  it.  It  may  not  also  be  im- 
proper to  assure  any,  who  shall  hereafter  write  for  the 
theatre,  that  merit,  or  supposed  merit,  will  ever  be  a 
sufficient  passport  to  his  protection. 


PROLOGUE 
TO  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN 

WRITTEN  BY   DR.   JOHNSON 

SPOKEN"  BY  MB.   BENSLEY 

Pbest  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 

Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind ; 

With  cool  submission  joins  the  lab'ring  train. 

And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain : 

Our  anxious  bard,  without  complaint,  may  share 

This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care. 

Like  Caesar's  pilot,  dignified  by  fate. 

Tost  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great ; 

Distrest  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit, 

When  one  a  borough  courts,  and  one  the  pit. 

The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame. 

Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same ; 

Disabled  both  to  combat,  or  to  fly. 

Must  hear  all  taimts,  and  hear  without  reply. 

Uncheck'd,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 

As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 

Th'  ofiFended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale. 

For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 

Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 

Till  that  glad  night,  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 

*  This  day  the  powder'd  curls  and  golden  coat,' 
Says  swelling  Crispin,  *  begg'd  a  cobler's  vote.' 

•  This  night,  our  wit,'  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 
*Lies  at  my  feet,  I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies.' 

The  great,  'tis  true,  can  charm  the  electing  tribe ; 


PROLOGUE 

The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 
Yet  judg'd  by  those,  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold ; 
But  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts  without  fear,  to  merit,  and  to  you. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONAE 

Men. 

Mr,  Honeyioood Mr.  Powell. 

Croaker Mr.  Shuter. 

Lofty Mr.  Woodward. 

Sir  William  Honeyivood       .        .        .  Mr.  Clarke. 

Leontine Mr.  Bensley. 

Jarvis Mr.  Dunstall. 

Butler Mr.  Cushing. 

Bailiff Mr.  R.  Smith. 

Duhardieu Mr.  Holtam. 

Postboy Mr.  Quick. 


Women. 


Miss  Richland 


Mrs  Croaker 
Oarnet 
Landlady     . 


Mrs.  Bulkley. 
Mrs.  Mattocks. 
Mrs.  Pitt. 
Mrs.  Green. 
Mrs.  Whitb. 


Scene,  London. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN 

ACT  I 

SCENE,  AN  APARTMENT  IN  YOUNG  HONEYWOOD'S 

HOUSE.. 

Enter  Sir  William  HoTieywood,  Jarvis. 

Sir  Will.  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for  this 
honest  bluntness.  Fidelity  like  yours  is  the  best  excuse 
for  every  freedom. 

Jarv.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very  angry 
too,  when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so  good,  so 
worthy  a  young  gentleman  as  your  nephew,  my  master. 
All  the  world  loves  him. 

Sir  Will.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the  world  ;  that 
is  his  fault. 

Jarv.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear  to  him 
than  you  are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you  since  he  was  a 
child. 

Sir  WilL  What  signifies  his  affection  to  me ;  or  how 
can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart,  where  every  sharper 
and  coxcomb  find  an  easy  entrance  ? 

Jarv.  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good-natur'd ; 
that  he 's  too  much  every  man's  man ;  that  he  laughs  this 
minute  with  one,  and  cries  the  next  with  another  :  but 
whose  instructions  may  he  thank  for  all  this  ? 

Sir  WiU.  Not  mine,  sure  ?  My  letters  to  him  during 
my  employment  in  Italy,  taught  him  only  that  philosophy 
which  might  prevent,  not  defend  his  errors. 

Jarv.  Faith,  begging  your  honour's  pardon,  I'm  sorry 


8  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  i 

they  taught  him  any  philosophy  at  all ;  it  has  only 
serv'd  to  spoil  him.  This  same  philosophy  is  a  good  horse 
in  the  stable,  but  an  arrant  jade  on  a  journey.  For  my 
own  part,  whenever  I  hear  him  mention  the  name  on 't, 
I'm  always  sure  he 's  going  to  play  the  fool. 

Sir  Will.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his  philo- 
sophy, I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good  nature  arises 
rather  from  his  fears  of  ofiFending  the  importunate,  than 
his  desire  of  making  the  deserving  happy. 

Jarv,  What  it  arises  from,  I  don't  know.  But  to  be 
sure,  every  body  has  it  that  asks  it. 

Sir  WUL  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have  been 
now  for  some  time  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies, 
and  find  them  as  boundless  as  his  dissipation. 

Jarv,  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name  or  other  for 
them  all.  He  calls  his  extravagance,  generosity ;  and 
his  trusting  every  body,  universal  benevolence.  It  was 
but  last  week  he  went  security  for  a  fellow  whose  face  he 
scarce  knew,  and  that  he  called  an  act  of  exalted  mu — mu 
— munificence  ;  ay,  that  was  the  name  he  gave  it. 

Sir  WiU.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last  effort, 
though  with  very  little  hopes  to  reclaim  him.  That  very 
fellow  has  just  absconded,  and  I  have  taken  up  the 
security.  Now,  my  intention  is  to  involve  him  in  ficti- 
tious distress,  before  he  has  plung'd  himself  into  real 
calamity.  To  arrest  him  for  that  very  debt,  to  clap  an 
officer  upon  him,  and  then  let  him  see  which  of  his  friends 
will  come  to  his  relief. 

Jarv,  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  liim  thoroughly 
vexed,  every  groan  of  his  would  be  music  to  me  ;  yet 
faith,  I  believe  it  impossible.  I  have  tried  to  fret  him 
myself  every  morning  these  three  years  ;  but  instead  of 
being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly  to  hear  me  scold,  as  he  does 
to  his  hair-dresser. 

Sir  WiU.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  however,  and 


ACT  I]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  9 

I'll  go  this  instant  to  put  my  scheme  into  execution :  and 
A  I  don't  despair  of  succeeding,  as,  by  your  means,  I  can 
;  have  frequent  opportunities  of  being  about  him  without 
being  known.  What  a  pity  it  is,  Jarvis,  that  any  man's 
good-will  to  others  should  produce  so  much  neglect  of 
himself,  as  to  require  correction  ?  Yet,  we  must  touch 
his  weaknesses  with  a  delicate  hand.  There  are  some 
faults  so  nearly  allied  to  excellence,  that  we  can  scarce 
weed  out  the  vice  without  eradicating  the  virtue. 

[Exit, 
Jarv.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  ^Honeywood. 
It  is  not  without  reason  that  the  world  allows  thee  to  be 
the  best  of  men.  But  here  comes  his  hopeful  nephew ; 
the  strange,  good-natur'd,  foolish,  open-hearted — ^And 
yet,  all  his  faults  are  such  that  one  loves  him  still  the 
better  for  them. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeyw,  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my  friends 
this  morning  ? 

Jarv.  You  have  no  friends. 

Honeyw.  Well ;    from  my  acquaintance  then  ? 

Jarv.  (Pvlling  out  hills,)  A  few  of  our  usual  cards  of 
compliment,  that 's  all.  This  bill  from  your  tailor ;  this 
from  your  mercer ;  and  this  from  the  little  broker  in 
Crooked-lane.  He  says  he  has  been  at  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  to  get  back  the  money  you  borrowed. 

Honeyw.  That  I  don't  know ;  but  I'm  sure  we  were 
at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to  lend  it. 

Jarv,  He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeyw.  Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jarv.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  sending  to 

the  poor  gentleman  and  his  children  in  the  Fleet.   I  believe 

that  would  stop  his  mouth,  for  a  while  at  least. 

Honeyw.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their  mouths  in 

B3 


"*^ 


10  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  i 

the  mean  time  ?  Must  I  be  cruel  because  he  happens  to 
be  importunate :  and,  to  relieve  his  avarice,  leave  them 
to  insupportable  distress  ? 

Jarv,  'Sdeath  !  Sir,  the  question  now  is  how  to  relieve 
yourself.  Yourself — Havn't  I  reason  to  be  out  of  my 
senses,  when  I  see  things  going  at  sixes  and  sevens  ? 

Honeyw.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for  being 
out  of  your  senses,  I  hope  you'll  allow  that  I'm  not  quite 
unreasonable  for  continuing  in  mine. 

Jarv,  You're  the  only  man  alive  in  your  present  situa- 
tion that  could  do  so^ — Every  thing  upon  the  waste. 
There 's  Miss  Richland  and  her  fine  fortune  gone  already, 
and  upon  the  point  of  being  given  to  your  rival. 

Honeyw.  I'tn  no  man's  rival. 

Jarv»  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disinherit  you  ; 
your  own  fortune  almost  spent ;  and  nothing  but  pressing 
creditors,  false  friends,  and  a  pack  of  drunken  servants 
that  your  kindness  has  made  unfit  for  any  other  family. 

Honeyw.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for  being 
in  mine. 

Jarv.  Soh  !  What  will  you  have  done  with  him  that 
I  caught  stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry  ?  In  the  fact ; 
I  caught  him  in  the  fact. 

Honeyw.  In  the  fact  ?  If  so  I  really  think  that  we 
should  pay  him  his  wages  and  turn  him  off. 

Jarv.  He  shall  be  turn'd  off  at  Tyburn,  the  dog  ;  we'll 
hang  him,  if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Honeyw,  No,  Jarvis ;  it 's  enough  that  we  have  lost 
what  he  has  stolen,  let  us  not  add  to  it  the  loss  of  a  fellow- 
creature  ! 

Jarv.  Very  fine ;  well,  here  was  the  footman  just  now, 
to  complain  of  the  butler  ;  he  says  he  does  most  work, 
and  ought  to  have  most  wages. 

Honeyw.  That 's  but  just ;  though  perhaps  here  comes 
the  butler  to  complain  of  the  footman. 


ACT  I]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  11 

Jarv,  Ay,  it 's  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the  scullion 
to  the  privy-counsellor.  If  they  have  a  bad  master  they 
keep  quarrelling  with  him  ;  if  they  have  a  good  master, 
they  keep  quarrelling  with  one  another. 


Enter  Butler,  drunk. 

But,  Sir,  I'll  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jonathan,  you 
must  part  with  him,  or  part  with  me,  that's  the  ex-ex- 
exposition  of  the  matter,  Sir. 

Honeyw,  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what's  his 
fault,  good  Philip  ? 

But,  Sir,  he 's  given  to  drinking,  Sir,  and  I  shall  have 
my  morals  corrupted,  by  keeping  such  company, 

Honeyw,  Ha  !  ha  !  He  has  such  a  diverting  way — 

Jarv,   0,  quite  amusing. 

But,  I  find  my  wine 's  a-going.  Sir ;  and  liquors  don't 
go  without  mouths.  Sir  ;   I  hate  a  drunkard.  Sir. 

Honeyw,  Well,  well,  Philip,  I'll  hear  you  upon  that 
another  time,  so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jarv,   To  bed  !  Let  him  go  to  the  devil ! 

But,  Begging  your  honour's  pardon,  and  begging  your 
pardon,  master  Jarvis,  I'll  not  go  to  bed,  nor  to  the  devil 
neither..  I  have  enough  to  do  to  mind  my  cellar.  I  for- 
got, your  honour,  Mr.  Croaker  is  below.  I  came  on 
purpose  to  tell  you. 

Honeyw,  Why  didn't  you  show  him  up,  blockhead  ? 

Bui,  Shew  him  up,  Sir  !  With  all  my  heart.  Sir.  Up 
or  down,  all 's  one  to  me.  {Exit, 

Jarv,  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family  in  this 
house  from  morning  till  night.  He  comes  on  the  old 
affair,  I  suppose.  The  match  between  his  son  that's 
just  retum'd  from  Paris,  and  Miss  Richland,  the  young 
lady  he 's  guardian  to. 

Honeyw.  Perhaps    so.     Mr.    Croaker,    knowing    my 


12  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  i 

friendship  for  the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into  his  head  that 
I  can  persuade  her  to  what  I  please. 

Jarv,  Ah !  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as  well  as 
she  loves  you,  we  should  soon  see  a  marriage  that  would 
set  all  things  to  rights  again. 

Honeyw.  Love  me  !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream.  No,  no  ; 
her  intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to  more  than 
friendship — mere  friendship.  That  she  is  the  most  lovely 
woman  that  ever  warm'd  the  himian  heart  with  desire, 
I  own.  But  never  let  me  harbour  a  thought  of  making 
her  unhappy,  by  a  connexion  with  one  so  unworthy  her 
merits  as  I  am.  No,  Jarvis,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  serve 
her,  even  in  spite  of  my  wishes  ;  and  to  secure  her  happi- 
ness, though  it  destroys  my  own. 

Jarv.  Was  ever  the  like  !  I  want  patience. 

Honeyw,  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  obtain  Miss 
Richland's  consent,  do  you  think  I  could  succeed  with 
her  guardian,  or  Mrs.  Croaker  his  wife  ?  who,  though 
both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are  yet  a  little  opposite  in 
their  dispositions,  you  know. 

Jarv.  Opposite  enough,  heaven  knows ;  the  very 
reverse  of  each  other ;  she  all  laugh  and  no  joke ;  he 
always  complaining  and  never  sorrowful ;  a  fretful  poor 
soul  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every  hour  in  the  four 
and  twenty — - 

Uoneyw.  Hush,  hush,  he 's  coming  up,  he'll  hear  you. 

Jarv,  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing  bell — 

Honeyw,  Well,  well,  go,  do. 

Jarv.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief ;  a 
coffin  and  cross  bones  ;  a  bundle  of  rue  ;  a  sprig  of  deadly 
night-shade  ;  a — (HoneyiVood  stopping  his  mouth,  at  last 
pushes  him  off.)  [Exit  Jarvis, 

Honeyw.  I  must  own  my  old  monitor  is  not  entirely 
wrong.  There  is  something  in  my  friend  Croaker's  con- 
versation that  quite  depresses  me»     His  very  mirth  is  an 


ACT  I]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  13 

antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and  his  appearance  has  a  stronger 
efiFect  on  my  spirits  than  an  undertaker's  shop. — Mr. 
Croaker,  this  is  such  a  satisfaction — 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croak,  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honeywood,  and 
many  of  them.  How  is  this  ?  you  look  most  shockingly 
to-day,  my  dear  friend.  I  hope  this  weather  does  not 
affect  your  spirits.  To  be  sure,  if  this  weather  continues 
— I  say  nothing — But  God  send  we  be  all  better  this  day 
three  months. 

Honeyw.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though  I  own 
not  in  your  apprehensions. 

Croak.  May  be  not.  Indeed  what  signifies  what 
weather  we  have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin  like  ours  ? 
taxes  rising  and  trade  falling.  Money  flying  out  of  the 
kingdom,  and  Jesuits  swarming  into  it.  I  know  at  this 
time  no  less  than  an  hundred  and  twenty-seven  Jesuits 
between  Charing-cross  and  Temple-bar. 

Honeyw.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert  you  or  me,  I 
should  hope. 

Croak.  May  be  not.  Indeed  what  signifies  whom  they 
pervert  in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any  religion  to  lose  ? 
I'm  only  afraid  for  our  wives  and  daughters. 

Honeyw.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies,  I 
assure  you. 

Croak.  May  be  not.  Indeed  what  signifies  whether 
they  be  perverted  or  no  ?  the  women  in  my  time  were 
good  for  something.  I  have  seen  a  lady  drest  from  top 
to  toe  in  her  own  manufactures  formerly.  But  now-a- 
days  the  devil  a  thing  of  their  own  manufacture 's  about 
them,  except  their  faces. 

Honeyw.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be  practised 
abroad,  you  don't  find  them  at  home,  either  with 
Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or  Miss  Richland. 


14  THE  GOOD-NATUJl'D  MAN  [act  i 

Croak,  The  best  of  them  will  nfever  be  canoniz'd  for 
a  saint  when  she 's  dead.  By  the  bye,  my  dear  friend, 
I  don't  find  this  match  between  Miss  Richland  and  my 
son  much  relished,  either  by  one  side  or  t'other. 

Honeyw.  I  thought  otherwise. 

Croak,  Ah,  Mr.  Honejrwood,  a  little  of  your  fine  serious 
advice  to  the  young  lady  might  go  far  :  I  know  she  has 
a  very  exalted  opinion  of  your  understanding. 

Honeyw.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an  authority 
that  more  properly  belongs  to  yourself  ? 

Croak,  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of  my 
authority  at  home.  People  think,  indeed,  because  they 
see  me  come  out  in  a  morning  thus,  with  a  pleasant  face, 
and  to  make  my  friends  merry,  that  all 's  well  within. 
But  I  have  cares  that  would  break  an  heart  of  stone. 
My  wife  has  so  encroached  upon  every  one  of  my  privi- 
leges, that  I'm  now  no  more  than  a  mere  lodger  in  my 
own  house. 

Honeyw,  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side  might 
perhaps  restore  your  authority. 

Croak,  No,  though  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion !  I  do 
rouse  sometimes.  But  what  then  !  always  haggling  and 
haggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting  the  better  before  his 
wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  victory. 

Honeyw,  It 's  a  melancholy  consideration  indeed,  that 
our  chief  comforts  often  produce  our  greatest  anxieties, 
and  that  an  increase  of  our  possessions  is  but  an  inlet  to 
new  disquietudes. 

Croak,  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  these  were  the  very  words 
of  poor  Dick  Doleful  to  me  not  a  week  before  he  made 
away  with  himself.  Indeed,  Mr.  Honeywood,  I  never 
see  you  but  you  put  me  in  mind  of  poor — ^Dick.  Ah, 
there  was  merit  neglected  for  you  !  and  so  true  a  friend  ; 
we  lov'd  each  other  for  thirty  years,  and  yet  he  never 
asked  me  to  lend  him  a  single  farthing. 


ACT  I]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  15 

Honeyw,  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  commit  so 
rash  an  action  at  last  ? 

Croak,  I  don't  know,  some  people  were  malicious 
enough  to  say  it  was  keeping  company  with  me  ;  because 
we  used  to  meet  now  and  then  and  open  our  hearts  to 
each  other.  To  be  sure  I  lov'd  to  hear  him  talk,  and 
he  lov'd  to  hear  me  talk  ;  poor  dear  Dick.  He  us'd  to 
say  that  Croaker  rhym'd  to  joker :  and  so  we  us'd  to 
laugh — Poor  Dick.  [Going  to  cry, 

Honeyw,   His  fate  affects  me. 

Croak.  Ay,  be  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life,  where  we 
do  nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry,  dress  and  undress, 
get  up  and  lie  down  ;  while  reason,  that  should  watch 
like  a  nurse  by  our  side,  falls  as  fast  asleep  as  we  do. 

Honeyw,  To  say  truth,  if  we  compare  that  part  of  life 
which  is  to  come,  by  that  which  we  have  past,  the  pros- 
pect is  hideous. 

Croak,  Life  at  the  greatest  and  best  is  but  a  froward 
child,  that  must  be  humoui'd  and  coax'd  a  little  till  it 
falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  care  is  over. 

Honeyw,  Very  true,  Sir,  nothing  can  exceed  the  vanity 
of  our  existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits.  We  wept 
when  we  came  into  the  world,  and  every  day  tells  us  why. 

Croak,  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satisfaction 
to  be  miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leontine  shan't  lose 
the  benefit  of  such  fine  conversation.  I'll  just  step  home 
for  him.  I  am  wiUing  to  show  him  so  much  seriousness 
in  one  scarce  older  than  himself — And  what  if  I  bring  my 
last  letter  to  the  Gazetteer  on  the  increase  and  progress 
of  earthquakes  ?  It  will  amuse  us,  I  promise  you.  I 
there  prove  how  the  late  earthquake  is  coming  round 
to  pay  us  another  visit,  from  London  to  Lisbon,  from 
Lisbon  to  the  Canary  Islands,  from  the  Canary  Islands 
to  Palmyra,  from  Palmyra  to  Constantinople,  and  so 
from  Constantinople  back  to  London  again.  [Exit, 


16  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  i 

Honeyw,  Poor  Croaker !  his  situation  deserves  the 
utmost  pity.  I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits  these 
three  days.  Sure,  to  live  upon  such  terms  is  worse  than 
death  itself.  And  yet,  when  I  consider  my  own  situation, 
a  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless  passion,  friends  in  distress  ; 
the  wish  but  not  the  power  to  serve  them — {pausing  and 
sighing). 

Enter  BuUer, 

BuL  More  company  below,  sir ;  Mrs.  Croaker  and 
Miss  Richland ;  shall  I  shew  them  up  ?  but  they're 
shewing  up  themselves.  [Exit 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker  and  Miss  Richland, 

Miss  Rich.   You're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croak.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear  Honejrwood, 
from  the  auction.  Theie  was  the  old  deaf  dowager,  as 
usual,  bidding  like  a  fury  against  herself.  And  then  so 
curiou»  in  antiques !  herself  the  most  genuine  piece  of 
antiquity  in  the  whole  collection. 

Honeyw.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness  from 
friendship  makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this  good  humour  : 
I  know  you'll  pardon  me. 

Mrs.  Croak.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as  if  he 
had  taken  a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning.  Well, 
if  Richland  here  can  pardon  you,  I  must. 

Miss  Rich.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate,  madam,  that 
I  have  particular  reasons  for  being  disposed  to  refuse  it. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear,  don't  be 
so  ready  to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Rich.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry,  Mr.  Honeywood's 
long  friendship  and  mine  should  be  misunderstood. 

Honeyw.  There  's  no  answering  for  others,  madam. 
But  I  hope  you'll  never  find  me  presuming  to  offer  more 
than  the  most  delicate  friendship  may  readily  allow. 


ACT  I]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  17 

Miss  Rich.  Arid  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a  tribute  from 
you  than  the  most  passionate  professions  from  others. 

Honeyw.  My  own  sentiments,  madam  :  friendship  is 
a  disinterested  commerce  between  equals  ;  love,  an  abject 
intercourse  between  tyrants  and  slaves. 

Miss  Rich.  And,  without  a  compliment,  I  know  none 
more  disinterested,  or  more  capable  of  friendship,  than 
Mr.  Honejrwood. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And,  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that  has 
more  friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss  Fruzz, 
Miss  Odbody,  and  Miss  Winterbottom,  praise  him  in  all 
companies.  As  for  Miss  Biddy  Bundle,  she 's  his  pro- 
fessed admirer. 

Miss  Rich.  Indeed  !  an  admirer  !  I  did  not  know.  Sir, 
you  were  such  a  favourite  there.  But  is  she  seriously  so 
handsome  ?     Is  she  the  mighty  thing  talked  of  ? 

Honeyw.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to  praise 
a  lady's  beauty,  till  she 's  beginning  to  lose  it.    (Smiling.) 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  she's  resolved  never  to  lose  it,  it 
seems.  For,  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her  skill  improves 
in  making  the  artificial  one.  Well,  nothing  diverts  me 
more  than  one  of  those  fine,  old,  dressy  things,  who 
thinks  to  conceal  her  age,  by  every  where  exposing  her 
person  ;  sticking  herself  up  in  the  front  of  a  side  box  : 
trailing  through  a  minuet  at  Almack's ;  and  then,  in 
the  public  gardens,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  one 
of  the  painted  ruins  of  the  place. 

Honeyw.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies.  While 
you,  perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer  climates 
of  youth ;  there  ought  to  be  some  to  carry  on  a  useful 
commerce  in  the  frozen  latitudes  beyond  fifty. 

Miss  Rich,  But,  then,  the  mortifications  they  must 
suffer,  before  they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic.  I  have 
seen  one  of  them  fret  a  whole  morning  at  her  hair- 
dresser, when  all  fche  fault  was  her  face. 


18      .  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  i 

H(meyw.  And  yet,  I'll  engage,  has  carried  that  face 
at  last  to  a  very  good  market.  This  good-natur'd  town, 
madam,  has  husbands,  like  spectacles,  to  fit  every  age, 
from  fifteen  to  fourscore. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natur'd  creature. 
But  you  know  you're  engaged  with  us  this  morning 
upon  a  strolling  party.  I  want  to  shew  Olivia  the  town, 
and  the  things  ;  I  believe  I  shall  have  business  for  you 
for  the  whole  day. 

Honeyw.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  appointment 
with  Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossible  to  put  off. 

Mrs.  Croak.  What !  with  my  husband  !  then  I'm 
resolv'd  to  take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest  you  must. 
You  know  I  never  laugh  so  much  as  with  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I'll  swear  you  have 
put  me  into  such  spirits.  Well,  do  you  find  jest,  and 
I'll  find  laugh,  I  promise  you.  We'll  wait  for  the  chariot 
in  the  next  room.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Leont.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy.  My 
dearest  Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you  capable  of 
sharing  in  their  amusements,  and  as  chearful  as  they  are? 

Oliv.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  chearful,  when  I 
have  so  many  terrors  to  oppress  me  ?  The  fear  of  being 
detected  by  this  family,  and  the  apprehensions  of  a  cen- 
suring world,  when  I  must  be  detected — 

Leont.  The  world !  my  love,  what  can  it  say  ?  At 
worst  it  can  only  say  that,  being  compelled  by  a  mercenary 
guardian  to  embrace  a  life  you  disliked,  you  formed  a 
resolution  of  flying  with  the  man  of  your  choice ;  that 
you  confided  in  his  honour,  and  took  refuge  in  my  father's 
house  ;  the  only  one  where  your's  could  remain  without 
censure. 

Oliv.  But  consider,  Leontine,  your  disobedience  and 


ACT  I]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  19 

my  indiscretion ;  your  being  sent  to  France  to  bring 
home  a  sister ;  and,  instead  of  a  sister,  bringing 
home 

Leont  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One  that 
I  am  convinced  will  be  equally  dear  to  the  rest  of  the 
family,  when  she  comes  to  be  known. 

Oliv.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leont.  Impossible,  'till  we  ourselves  think  proper  to 
make  the  discovery.  My  sister,  you  know,  has  been  with 
her  aunt,  at  Lyons,  since  she  was  a  child,  and  you  find 
every  creature  in  the  family  takes  you  for  her. 

Oliv.  But  mayn't  she  write,  mayn't  her  aunt  write  ? 

Leont.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my  sister's 
letters  are  directed  to  me. 

Oliv.  But  won't  your  refusing  Miss  Richland,  for  whom 
you  know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you,  create  a  sus- 
picion ? 

Leont.  There,  there's  my  master-stroke.  I  have  re- 
solved not  to  refuse  her ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I  have 
consented  to  go  with  my  father  to  make  her  an  offer  of 
my  heart  and  fortune. 

Oliv.  Your  heart  and  fortune  ! 

Leont.  Don't  be  alarm'd,  my  dearest.  Can  Olivia 
think  so  meanly  of  my  honour,  or  my  love,  as  to  suppose 
I  could  ever  hope  for  happiness  from  any  but  her  ?  No, 
my  Olivia,  neither  the  force,  nor,  permit  me  to  add,  the 
delicacy  of  my  passion,  leave  any  room  to  suspect  me. 
I  only  offer  Miss  Richland  a  heart,  I  am  convinced,  she 
will  refuse  ;  as  I  am  confident,  that,  without  knowing  it, 
her  affections  are  fixed  upon  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Oliv.  Mr.  Honeywood!  You'll  excuse  my  apprehen- 
sions ;  but  when  your  merits  come  to  be  put  in  the 
balance — 

Leont.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality.  How- 
ever, by  making  this  offer,  I  shew  a  seeming  compliance 


20  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  i 

with  my  father's  command ;  and  perhaps,  upon  her 
refusal,  I  may  have  his  consent  to  chuse  for  myself. 

Oliv.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leontine,  I  own, 
I  shall  envy  her,  even  your  pretended  addresses.  I  con- 
sider every  look,  every  expression  of  your  esteem,  as 
due  only  to  me.  This  is  folly  perhaps  :  I  allow  it :  but 
it  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  merit  which  has  made  an 
impression  on  one's  own  heart,  may  be  powerful  over 
that  of  another. 

Leont.  Don't,  my  life's  treasure,  don't  let  us  make 
imaginary  evils,  when  you  know  we  have  so  many  real 
ones  to  encounter.  At  worst,  you  know,  if  Miss  Richland 
should  consent,  or  my  father  refuse  his  pardon,  it  can 
but  end  in  a  trip  to  Scotland  ;  and — 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croak,  Where  have  you  been,  boy?  I  have  been  seeking 
you.  My  friend  Honeywood  here,  has  been  saying  such 
comfortable  things.  Ah !  he 's  an  example  indeed. 
Where  is  he  ?    I  left  him  here. 

Leont  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and  hear  him 
too  in  the  next  room ;  he 's  preparing  to  go  out  with  the 
ladies. 

Croak.  Good  gracious,  can  I  believe  my  eyes  or  my 
ears  !  I'm  struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity,  and  stunn'd 
with  the  loudness  of  his  laugh.  Was  there  ever  such 
a  transformation  !  (a  laugh  behind  the  scenes.  Croaker 
mimics  it.)  Ha !  ha !  ha !  there  it  goes  :  a  plague  take 
their  balderdash  ;  yet  I  could  expect  nothing  less,  when 
my  precious  wife  was  of  the  party.  On  my  conscience, 
I  believe  she  could  spread  an  horse-laugh  through  the 
pews  of  a  tabernacle. 

Leont.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  a  wife,  Sir, 
how  can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recommending  one  to  me  ? 

Croak^  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again,  boy,  that 


ACT  I]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  21 

Miss  Richland's  fortune  must  not  go  out  of  the  family ; 
one  may  find  comfort  in  the  money,  whatever  one  does 
in  the  wife. 

Leont.  But,  Sir,  though,  in  obedience  to  your  desire, 
I  am  ready  to  marry  her  ;  it  may  be  possible,  she  has  no 
inclination  to  me. 

Croak.  I'll  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands.  A  good 
part  of  Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  consists  in  a  claim 
upon  government,  which  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Lofty, 
assures  me  the  treasury  will  allow.  One  half  of  this  she 
is  tp  forfeit,  by  her  father's  will,  in  case  she  refuses  to 
marry  you.  So,  if  she  rejects  you,  we  seize  half  her  for- 
tune ;  if  she  accepts  you,  we  seize  the  whole,  and  a  fine 
girl  into  the  bargain. 

Leont.  But,  Sir,  if  you  will  but  listen  to  reason — 

Croak.  Come,  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I  tell  you 
I'm  fix'd,  determined,  so  now  produce  your  reasons. 
When  I'm  determined,  I  always  listen  to  reason,  because 
it  can  then  do  no  harm. 

Leont.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice  was  the 
first  requisite  in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croak.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a  mutual  choice. 
She  has  her  choice — ^to  marry  you  or  lose  half  her  fortune ; 
and  you  have  your  choice — to  marry  her,  or  pack  out  of 
doors  without  any  fortune  at  all. 

Leont.  An  only  son.  Sir,  might  expect  more  indulgence. 

Croak.  An  only  father,  Sir,  might  expect  more 
obedience ;  besides,  has  not  your  sister  here,  that  never 
disobliged  me  in  her  life,  as  good  a  right  as  you  ?  He 's 
a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and  would  take  all  from  you. 
But  he  shan't,  I  tell  you  he  shan't,  for  you  shall  have  your 
share. 

Oliv.  Dear. Sir,  I  wish  you'd  be  convinced  that  I  can 
never  be  happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune,  which  is 
taken  from  his. 


22  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  i 

Croak,  Well,  well,  it 's  a  good  child,  so  say  no  more ; 
but  come  with  me,  and  we  will  see  something  that  will  give 
us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  I  promise  you ;  old  Ruggins, 
the  curry-comb  maker,  lying  in  state ;  I  am  told  he 
makes  a  very  handsome  corpse,  and  becomes  his  coffin 
prodigiously.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  and 
these  are  friendly  things  we  ought  to  do  for  each  other. 


ACT  n 

SCENE,   croaker's  HOUSE. 

Miss  Richland,  Garnet, 

Miss  Rich.  Olivia  not  his  sister  ?  Olivia  not  Leontine's 
sister  ?  You  amaze  me  ! 

Gam,  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am  ;  I  had  it  all  from 
his  own  servant ;  I  can  get  any  thing  from  that  quarter. 

Miss  Rich,  But  how  ?    Tell  me  again,  Garnet. 

Gam,  Why,  Madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  instead  of 
going  to  Lyons,  to  bring  home  his  sister,  who  has  been 
there  with  her  aunt  these  ten  years ;  he  never  went 
further  than  Paris ;  there  he  saw  and  fell  in  love  with 
this  yoimg  lady,  by  the  by,  of  a  prodigious  family. 

Miss  Rich,  And  brought  her  home  to  my  guardian,  as 
his  daughter  ? 

Gam,  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If  he  don't 
consent  to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying  what  a 
Scotch  parson  can  do. 

Miss  Rich,  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived  me — ^And 
so  demurely  as  Olivia  carried  it  too  ! — Would  you  believe 
it  Garnet,  I  told  her  all  my  secrets  ;  and  yet  the  sly  cheat 
concealed  all  this  from  me  ? 


ACT  II]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  23 

Gam,  And,  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  don't  much  blame 
her  :  she  was  loth  to  trust  one  with  her  secrets,  that  was 
so  very  bad  at  keeping  her  own. 

Mis8  Rich,  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the  young 
gentleman,  it  seems,  pretends  to  make  me  serious  pro- 
posals. My  guardian  and  he  are  to  be  here  presently,  to 
open  the  affair  in  form.  You  know  I  am  to  lose  half 
my  fortune  if  I  refuse  him. 

Gam,  Yet,  what  can  you  do  ?  For  being,  as  you  are, 
in  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood,  madam — 

Miss  Rich,  How !  ideot :  what  do  you  mean  ?  In  love 
with  Mr.  Honeywood  !  Is  this  to  provoke  me  ? 

Gam,  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him ;  I 
meant  nothing  more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope  to  be 
married ;  nothing  more. 

Miss  Rich,  Well,  no  more  of  this  !  As  to  my  guardian, 
and  his  son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared  to  receive  them  ; 
I'm  resolved  to  accept  their  proposal  with  seeming 
pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by  compliance,  and  so  throw  the 
refusal  at  last  upon  them. 

Gam,  Delicious  !  and  that  will  secure  your  whole 
fortune  to  yourself.  Well,  who  could  have  thought  so 
innocent  a  face  could  cover  so  much  'cuteness  ! 

Miss  Rich,  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  prudence  to 
their  cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson  they  have  taught  me 
against  themselves. 

Gam,  Then  you're  likely  not  long  to  want  employment, 
for  here  they  come,  and  in  close  conference. 

Enter  Croaker,  Leontine, 

Leont.  Excuse  me.  Sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate  upon  the 
point  of  putting  to  the  lady  so  important  a  question. 

Croak.  Lord  !  good  Sir,  moderate  your  fears  ;  you're 
so  plaguy  shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had  changed 
sexes.     I  tell  you  we  must  have  the  half  or  the  whole. 


24  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  ii 

Come,  let  me  see  with  what  spirit  you  begin  ?  Well,  why 
don't  you  !  Eh  I  What  1  Well  then — I  must,  it  seems — 
Miss  Richland,  my  dear,  I  believe  you  guess  at  our  busi- 
ness ;  an  affair  which  my  son  here  comes  to  open,  that 
nearly  concerns  your  happiness. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to  be  pleased 
with  any  thing  that  comes  recommended  by  you. 

Croak,  How,  boy,  could  you  dedre  a  finer  opening  ? 
Why  don't  you  begin,  I  say  ?  \To  Leant, 

LeonL  'Tis  true,  madam,  my  father,  madam,  has  some 
intentions — hem — of  explaining  an  affair — ^which — ^him- 
self— can  best  explain,  madam. 

Croak.  Yes,  my  dear  ;  it  comes  entirely  from  my  son  ; 
it 's  all  a  request  of  his  own,  madam.  And  I  will  permit 
him  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Leont  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam  ;  my  father 
has  a  proposal  to  make,  which  he  insists  none  but  himself 
shall  deliver. 

Croak,  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will  never  be 
brought  on  (Aside.)  In  short,  madam,  you  see  before 
you  one  that  loves  you  ;  one  whose  whole  happiness  is 
all  in  you. 

Miss  Rich,  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your  regard.  Sir  : 
and  I  hope  you  can  have  none  of  my  duty. 

Croak,  That 's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting ;  my 
love  !  No,  no,  another-guess  lover  than  I ;  there  he 
stands,  madam,  his  very  looks  declare  the  force  of  his 
passion — Call  up  a  look,  you  dog  (Aside.) — But  then,  had 
you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping,  speaking  soliloquies  and 
blank  verse,  sometimes  melancholy,  and  sometimes 
absent — 

Miss  Rich.  I  fear.  Sir,  he 's  absent  now ;  or  such  a 
declaration  would  have  come  most  properly  from  himself. 

Croak.  Himself !  madam,  he  would  die  before  he 
could  make  such  a  confession  ;  and  if  he  had  not  a  channel 


ACT  n]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  25 

for  his  passion  through  me,  it  would  ere  now  have  drowned 
his  understanding. 

Miss  Rich,  I  must  grant,  Sir,  there  are  attractions  in 
modest  diffidence  above  the  force  of  words.  A  silent 
address  is  the  genuine  eloquence  of  sincerity.  ^ 

Croak,  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any  other 
language  ;  silence  is  become  his  mother  tongue. 

Mi88  Rich.  And  it  must  be  confessed.  Sir,  it  speaks 
very  powerfully  in  his  favour.  And  yet  I  shall  be  thought 
too  forward  in  making  such  a  confession  ;  shan't  I,  Mr. 
Leontine  ? 

Leont.  Confusion  !  my  reserve  will  undo  me.  But,  if 
modesty  attracts  her,  impudence  may  disgust  her.  I'll 
try.  (Aside.)  Don't  imagine  from  my  silence,  madam,  that 
I  want  a  due  sense  of  the  honour  and  happiness  intended 
me.  My  father,  madam,  tells  me,  your  humble  servant 
is  not  totally  indifferent  to  you. — He  admires  you ;  I 
adore  you  ;  and  when  we  come  together,  upon  my  soul 
I  believe  we  shall  be  the  happiest  couple  in  all  St.  James's. 

Miss  Rich.  If  I  could  flatter  myself,  you  thought  as 
you  speak,  Sir — 

Leont.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  ?  By  your  dear 
self  I  swear.  Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire  glory  ?  ask 
cowards,  if  they  covet  safety 

Croak,  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it. 

Leont.  Ask  the  sick,  if  they  long  for  health  ?  ask 
misers,  if  they  love  money  ?  ask 

Croak.  Ask  a  fool,  if  they  can  talk  nonsense  !  What 's 
come  over  the  boy  ?  What  signifies  asking,  when  there 's 
not  a  soul  to  give  you  an  answer  ?  If  you  would  ask  to 
the  purpose,  ask  this  lady's  consent  to  make  you  happy. 

Miss  Rich.  Why  indeed.  Sir,  his  uncommon  ardour 
almost  compels  me — forces  me  to  comply.  And  yet  I'm 
afraid  he'll  despise  a  conquest  gained  with  too  much  ease  : 
won't  you,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 


t 


a 


26  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  n 

Leant.  Confusion  !  {Aside,)  Oh,  by  no  means,  madam, 
by  no  means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talk'd  of  force. 
There  is  nothing  I  would  avoid  so  much  as  compulsion 
in  a  thing  of  this  kind.  No,  madam,  I  will  still  be 
generous,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to  refuse. 

Croak.  But  I  tell  you,  Sir,  the  lady  is  not  at  liberty. 
It 's  a  match.  You  see  she  says  nothing.  Silence  gives 
consent. 

Leont.  But,  Sir,  she  talk'd  of  force.  Consider,  Sir,  the 
cruelty  of  constraining  her  inclinations. 

Croak.  But  I  say  there 's  no  cruelty.  Don't  you  know, 
blockhead,  that  girls  have  always  a  roundabout  way  of 
saying  yes  before  company  ?  So  get  you  both  gone  to- 
gether into  the  next  room,  and  hang  him  that  interrupts 
the  tender  explanation.  Get  you  gone,  I  say  ;  I'll  not 
hear  a  word. 

Leant.  But,  Sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist — 

Croak.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I'll  beg  leave  to  insi&t 
upon  knocking  you  down.  Stupid  whelp  !  But  I  don't 
wonder  !  the  boy  takes  entirely  after  his  mother. 

[Exeunt  Miss  Rich,  and  Leant. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Mr.  Croaker,'!  bring  you  something,  my 
dear,  that  I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croak.  I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Croak.  A  letter ;  and,  as  I  knew  the  hand,  I  ven- 
tur'd  to  open  it. 

Croak.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking  open 
my  letters  should  give  me  pleasure  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Poo,  it's  from  your  sister  at  Lyons,  and 
contains  good  news  ;  read  it. 

Croak.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here  !  That  sister 
of  mine  has  some  good  qualities,  but  I  could  never  teach 
her  to  fold  a  letter. 


Acrn]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAJJ  27 

Mrs.  Croak,  Fold  a  fiddlestick.     Read  what  it  con- 
tains. 
Croak,  (reading.) 

*  Deab  Nick, 

An  English  gentleman,  of  large  fortune,  has  for 
some  time  made  private,  though  honourable  proposals  to 
your  daughter  Olivia.  They  love  each  other  tenderly, 
and  I  find  she  has  consented,  without  letting  any  of  the 
family  know,  to  crown  his  addresses.  As  such  good 
offers  don't  come  every  day,  your  own  good  sense,  his 
large  fortune,  and  family  considerations,  will  induce  you 
to  forgive  her. 

Yours  ever, 

Rachael  Croakeb.' 

My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a  man  of 
large  fortune  !  This  is  good  news,  indeed.  My  heart 
never  foretold  me  of  this.  And  yet,  how  slily  the  little 
baggage  has  carried  it  since  she  came  home,  not  a  word 
on 't  to  the  old  ones  for  the  world.  Yet,  I  thought  I  saw 
something  she  wanted  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed  their  amour, 
they  shan't  conceal  their  wedding  ;  that  shall  be  public, 
I'm  resolv'd. 

Croak.  I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the  most 
foolish  part  of  the  ceremony.  I  can  never  get  this  woman 
to  think  of  the  most  serious  part  of  the  nuptial  engage- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Croak.  What,  would  you  have  me  think  of  their 
funeral  ?  But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you  owe 
more  to  me  than  you  care  to  confess  ?  Would  you  have 
ever  been  known  to  Mr.  Lofty,  who  has  undertaken 
Miss  Richland's  claim  at  the  treasury,  but  for  me  ?  Who 
was  it  first  made  him  an  acquaintance  at  lady  Shab- 
baroon's  rout  ?  Who  got  him  to  promise  us  his  interest  ? 


28  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  ii 

Is  not  he  a  back-stairs  favourite,  one  that  can  do  what  he 
pleases  with  those  that  do  what  they  please  ?  Is  not  he 
an  acquaintance  that  all  your  groaning  and  lamentation 
could  never  have  got  us  ? 

Croak.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant  you.  And 
yet  what  amazes  me  is,  that,  while  he  is  giving  away 
places  to  all  the  world,  he  can't  get  one  for  himself. 

Mrs,  Croak,  That  perhaps  may  be  owing  to  his  nicety. 
Great  men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 

ErUer  Frerich  Servant, 

Serv,  An  expresse  from  Monsieur  Lofty.  He  vil  be 
vait  upon  your  honour's  instamment.  He  be  only  giving 
four  five  instruction,  read  two  tree  memorial,  call  upon 
von  ambassadeur.    He  vil  be  vid  you  in  one  tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croak.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What  an  exten- 
sive department !  Well,  friend,  let  your  master  know,  that 
we  are  extremely  honoured  by  this  honour.  Was  there 
any  thing  ever  in  a  higher  stile  of  breeding  ?  All  messages 
among  the  great  are  now  done  by  express. 

Croak.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things  with  more 
solemnity,  or  claims  more  respect  than  he.  But  he 's  in 
the  right  on 't.  In  our  bad  world,  respect  is  given,  where 
respect  is  clahn'd. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear ;  you 
were  never  in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life.  Let  us 
now  think  of  receiving  him  with  proper  respect,  (a  hmd 
rapping  at  the  door,)  and  there  he  is,  by  the  thundering 
rap. 

Croak.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is  !  as  close  upon  the  heels 
of  his  own  express,  as  an  indorsement  upon  the  back  of 
a  bill.  Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  receive  him,  whilst  I  go  to 
chide  my  little  Olivia  for  intending  to  steal  a  marriage 
without  mine,  or  her  aimt's  consent.  I  must  seem  to  be 
angry,  or  she  too  may  begin  to  despise  my  authority. 

[Exit. 


ACT  n]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  29 

Enter  Lofty,  speaking  to  his  servant,     ^*      ^ — -^ 

Lofty.  '  And  if  tbo  Vonejtuni  amhngHnrtnr,  or  that 
teazing  creature  the  Marquis,  should  call,  I'm  not  at  home. 
Dam'me,  I'll  be  pack-horse  to  none  of  them.'  My  dear 
madam,  I  have  just  snatched  a  moment. — '  And  if  the 
expresses  to  his  Grace  be  ready,  let  them  be  sent  off ; 
they're  of  importance.'  Madam,  I  ask  a  thousand 
pardons. 

Mrs,  Croak,  Sir,  this  honour 

Lofty.  '  And,  Dubardieu  !  if  the  person  calls  about  the 
commission,  let  him  know  that  it  is  made  out.  Ao  for 
Luid  Cumb^'aoujli'n  HtHlfAir'quenf,  id  itm  keep  cold  .  you 
mdorotftiKi  -me.'     Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons. 

yj  iMrs.  Croak.  Sir,  this  honour 

J;  /  Lofty.  '  And,  Dubardieu  !  if  the  man  comes  from  the 
•  yComish  borough,  you  must  do  him  ;  you  must.do  him  I 
\8ay^*^  Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons.  *  And  if  the 
Russian  ambassador  calls  :  but  he  will  scarce  call  to-day, 
I  believe.'  And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  got  time  to 
express  my  happiness  in  having  the  honour  of  being  per- 
mitted to  profess  /nyself  your  most  obedient  humble 
servant.        J,,..:.    -;,.,»     - 

Mrs.  Croak.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honour  are  all 
mine ;  and  yet,  I'm  only  robbing  the  public  while  I  detain 
you. 

Lofty.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair  are  to        ' 
be  attended.    Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so  charmingly  ^i   * 
devoted  !  BinCereTy,  doil^t  you  pity  us  poor  creatures  in ' 
affairs  ?    Thus  it  is  eternally ;   solicited  for  places  here, 
teazed  for  pensions  there,  and  courted  every  where. 
A  know  you  pity  me.    Yes,  I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croak.  S^cctise-merSiry  -  To9s  of  empirics  pleoBttfes 
arc^^^EtthWaUer  says. 

Lofty.  WaflerrWiJler,  isJae  of  the  house  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  "Bto  laedera  poet  oi  that  name;  Sir. 


J 


30  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  n 

Lofty\  Oh,  a  modern  (  We  men  o£  business  despise  the 
modemdv ;  and  as  for  .6he  anciento  Ve  ha^  no  time  to 
i>Bad  thef^.  Poetry  is  a  pretty  thii^  enough  for  our 
wives  and'< daughters  ;  but  not  for  usX/why  now,  here 
I  stand  th^t  kn0w  nothing  of  booksA  I  say,  madam, 
I  ki^0W  notKii)g  of  books ;  and  ye^  I  believe,  upon  a 
laixl-carriag^^shery,  a  ;rtianto-ac^or  a  Jag-hire,  I  can 
talk  my  tw6  hd^^rs  wi^out  fei^ling  the  wa\ft  of  them. 

Mrs.  Croak.  The  world  is  no  stranger  td  Mr.  Lofty's 
eminence  in  every  capacity. 

Lofty.  I  vow  to  gad,  madam,  you  make  me  blush.  I'm 
nothing,  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world  ;  a  mere  obscure 
gentleman.  To^  «are,  indeed,  one  or  two t)f  th»^ucea«it 
minister^  are  pleased  to  represent  me  as  a  formidable 
inaft.  -  jt-fenow  thoy  are  plcagcd  to.  bespcbtter  m&-€b&-all 
their  fittfe-^frty  levees.  .  Yet,  upon  my  soul,-  I  wilder 
lif^ejL  they  see  in  me  to  treat  me  so  !  Measures,  not  men, 
have  always  been  my  mark;  and  I  vow,  by  all  that's 
honourable,  my  resentment  has  never  done  the  men, 
as  mere  men,  any  manner  of  harm — that  is  as  mere  men  \ 

Mrs.  Croak.  What  importance,  and  yet  what  modesty  I 

Lofty.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam  !  there  I 
o,wix».I!2aiJW3cessible  to  pjaiacj^^odesty  is  my  foible  :  it 
was  so,  the  Duke  of  Brentford  used  to  say  of  me.  '  I  love 
^,1.  \  Jack  Lofty,'  he  used  to  say  :  '  no  man  has  a  finer  know- 
ledge of  things  ;  ^[trite  a  man  of  information,;  a^d  when 
he  speaks  up<m  hi»  legs,  by  the  Ix»d  he 's  prodigious,  he 
scouts  them  ;  and  yet  all  men  have  their  faults ;  too 
much  modesty  is  his,'  sayaJais  Grace.* 

Mrs.  Croak.'  And  yet,  I  dare  say;  you  don't  wftHt 

Lofty.  0,  there  indood  I'm  .in  hronrr  -  Apiupw !  I 
have  just  been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's  case  to  a 
certain  personage  ;  we  must  name  no  names.  When  I 
ask,  I'm  not  to  be  put  off,  madam.    No,  ao,  I-talio  my 


•> 


ACT  n]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  31 

ir^^r^;\  llj  Jhtt  TawHhn  'Ai  fine  girl,  Sir  ;  great  justice  in 
her  case.  A  friend  of  mine.  Borough  interest.  Busi- 
ness must  be  done,  Mr.  Secretary.  I  say,  Mr.  Secretary, 
her  business  must  be  done,  Sir.     That 's  my  way,  madam. 

Mrs,  Croak.  Bless  me  !  you  said  all  this  to  the  secre- 
tary of  state,  did  you  ? 

Lo^y.  I  did  not  say  the  secretary,  did  I?  Well,  curse  it, 
since  you  have  found  me  out  I  will  not  deny  it.  It  was 
to  the  secretary. 

Mrs,  Croak.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain  head  at 
once,  not  applying  to  the  understrappers,  as  Mr.  Honey- 
wood  would  have  had  us.  ^^ ^ ^y  ^  f 

Lofty.  Honeywood  !   he  !  he  r'He  was,  indeed,  a  fine    \ 
solicitor.     I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has  just  hap- 
pened to  him  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Poor  dear  man  ;  no  accident,  I  hope. 

Lofty*  Undone,  madam,  that 's  all.  His  creditors  have 
taken  him  into  custody.     A  prisoner  in  his  own  house. 

Mrs.  Croak.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house  !  How  !  At 
this  very  time  !  I'm  quite  unhappy  for  him. 

Lofty.  Why  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure,  was 
immensely  good-natur'd.  But  then  I  could  never  find 
that  he  had  any  thing  in  him. 

Mrs.  Croak.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  excessive 
harmless :  some,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little  dull.  For 
my  part,  I  always  concealed  my  opinion. 

Lofty.  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam ;  the  man  was 
dull,  dull  as  the  last  new  comedy  I  n  pngp  LmpiuitlilugWe  '^ 
■wwiture  !  I  tried  once  or  twice  to  know  if  he  was  fit  for 
business  ;  but  he  had  scarce  talents  to  be  groom-porter 
to  an  orange  barrow. 

Mrs.  Croak.  How  differently  does  Miss  Richland  think  , ' 

of  him  f  For,  I  believe,  with  all  his  faults,  she  loves  him.    ^  | , 

Lofty.  Loves  him !  Does  she  ?  You  should  cure  her 
of  that  by.  all  means.    Let  me  see ;    what  if  she  were 


^ 


viv 


/ 


.'•^ 


V 


32  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  ii 

sent  to  him  this  instant,  in  his  present  doleful  situation  ? 
My  life  for  it,  that  works  her  cure.  Diotrsoo  »  a  p»rf<>ct 
antidutcj  fee4eyg7>  Suppose  we  join  her  in  the  next  room  ? 
liiisslWSliland  is  a  fine  girl,  has  a  fine  fortune,  and  must  not 
be  thrown  a^^B^^  Upon  my  honour,  madam,  I  have  a 
regard  for  Miss  Richland  ;  and  rather  than  she  should  be 
thrown  away,  I  should  think  it  no  indignity  to  marry  her 
myself.  [Exeunt. 


>^  y""^  Enter  Olivia  and  Leontine. 

r 

Leant.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every  reason 
to  expect  Miss  Richland's  refusal,  as  I  did  every  thing  in 
my  power  to  deserve  it.     Her  indelicacy  surprises  me. 

Oliv.  Sure,  Leontine,  there's  nothing  so  indelicate  in 
being  sensible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  I  fear,  I  shall  be  the 
most  guilty  thing  alive, 

L&^.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The  same  atten- 
tion I  used  to  advance  my  merit  with  you,  I  practised  to 
lessen  it  with  her.    What  more  could  I  do  ? 

Oliv.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to  be  done. 
We  have  both  dissembled  too  long. — I  have  always  been 
ashamed — I  am  now  quite  weary  of  it.  Sure  I  could 
never  have  undergone  so  much  for  any  other  but  you. 

Leont.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to  your 
kindest  compliance.  Though  our  friends  should  totally 
forsake  us,  Olivia,  we  can  draw  upon  content  for  the 
deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Oliv.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  of  humble 
happiness,  when  it  is  now  in  our  power  ?  I  may  be  the 
favourite  of  your  father,  it  is  true ;  but  can  it  ever  be 
thought,  that  his  present  kindness  to  a  supposed  child, 
will  continue  to  a  known  deceiver  ? 

Leont.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will.  As  his 
attachments  are  but  few,  they  are  lasting.  His  own 
marriage  was  a  private  one,  as  ours  may  be.    Besides, 


ACT  n]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  33 

I  have  sounded  him  abeady  at  a  distance,  and  find  all 
his  answers  exactly  to  our  wish.  Nay,  by  an  expression 
or  two  that  dropped  from  him,  I  am  induced  to  think  he 
knows  of  this  afPair. 

Oliv.  Indeed  !  But  that  would  be  an  happiness  too 
great  to  be  expected. 

Leant,  However  it  be,  I'm  certain  you  have  power  over 
him ;  and  I'm  persuaded,  if  you  informed  him  of  our 
situation,  that  he  would  be  disposed  to  pardon  it. 

Oliv.  Yuu  luid  giq[ual  ijbj^aotationoj  Looatinoy  from  your 
[tmu  with  Mioo  Biohlaiid,  which  you  find-xhas 
wt  wrettiiiedly. 

Leont.  And  thftt'a  the  bout  luauuil  fui  (jijiiiig  another. 

Oliv.  If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 

Leont.  As  we  could  wish,  he  comes  this  way.  Now,  my 
dearest  Olivia,  be  resolute.  I'll  just  retire  within 
hearing,  to  come  in  at  a  proper  time,  either  to  share  your 
danger,  or  confirm  yomr  victory.  [Exit. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croak.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her ;  and  yet  not  too 
easily,  neither.  It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the  decorums 
of  resentment  a  little,  if  it  be  only  to  impress  her  with  an 
idea  of  my  authority. 

Oliv.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him  ! — ^Might  I  pre- 
sume. Sir, — ^if  I  interrupt  you — 

Croak.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  affection,  it  is  not 
a  little  thing  that  can  interrupt  me.  Affection  gets  over 
little  things. 

Oliv.  Sir,  you're  too  kind.  I'm  sensible  how  ill  I 
deserve  this  partiality.  Yet  heaven  knows,  there  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  to  gain  it. 

Croak.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded,  you  little 
hussy  you.     With  those  endearing  ways  of  yours,  on  my 

GOLDSMITH.    II  O 


L 


34  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  n 

conscience,  I  could  be  brought  to  forgive  any  thing,  unless 
it  were  a  very  great  offence  indeed. 

Oliv.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence — ^When  you  know  my 
guilt — Yes,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I  feel  the  greatest 
pain  in  the  confession. 

Croak,  Why  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a  pain,  you 
may  spare  yourself  the  trouble  ;  for  I  know  every  syllable 
of  the  matter  before  you  begin. 

Oliv,  Indeed  !  Then  I'm  imdone. 

Croak,  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match,  without 
letting  me  know  it,  did  you  ?  But  I'm  not  worth  being 
consulted,  I  suppose,  when  there 's  to  be  a  marriage  in  my 
own  family.  No,  I  am  to  have  no  hand  in  the  disposal 
of  my  own  children.  No,  I'm  nobody.  I'm  to  be  a 
mere  article  of  family  lumber  ;  a  piece  of  crack'd  china 
to  be  stuck  up  in  a  comer. 

Oliv,  Dear  Sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your  authority 
could  induce  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croak,  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more ;  I'm  as 
little  minded  as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter,  just  stuck  up 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  till  there  comes  a  thaw — It  goes 
to  my  heart  to  vex  her.  [Aside. 

Oliv,  1  was  prepar'd.  Sir,  for  your  anger,  and  despair'd 
of  pardon,  even  while  I  presum'd  to  ask  it.  But  your 
severity  shall  never  abate  my  affection,  as  my  punish- 
ment is  but  justice. 

Croak,  And  yet  you  should  not  despair  neither,  Livy. 
We  ought  to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Oliv,  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope.  Sir  ?  Can  I  ever 
expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has  too  long  deceived 
me. 

Croak.  Why  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you  now,  for 
I  forgive  you  this  very  moment,  I  forgive  you  all !  and 
now  you  are  indeed  my  daughter. 

Oliv,  0  transport !   this  kindness  overpowers  me. 


ACT  n]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  IVIAN  35 

Croak,  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our  children. 
We  have  been  young  and  giddy  ourselves,  and  we  can't 
expect  boys  and  girls  to  be  old  before  their  time. 

Oliv,  What  generosity  !  but  can  you  forget  the  many 
falsehoods,  the  dissimulation 

Croak.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin  you ; 
but  where 's  the  girl  that  won't  dissemble  for  an  husband  ? 
My  wife  and  I  had  never  been  married,  if  we  had  not 
dissembled  a  little  beforehand. 

Oliv,  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put  such 
generosity  to  a  second  trial.  AM  iiUi  Iop  tho  partoor  of 
my  offeiioe  and  fnlljTj  from  hia  native  -konuuT v^ftTRihthe 
JMMl  muBtJ  he  httii*  of  his  Arty, 't'^wrTtnswer  f^r  faim 
tbat 

Enter  Leontine, 

Leant,  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself  (Kneding) . 
Thus,  Sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude  for  this  unmerited 
forgiveness.  Yes,  Sir,  this  even  exceeds  all  your  former 
tenderness.  I  now  can  boast  the  most  indulgent  of 
fathers.  The  life  he  gave,  compared  to  this,  was  but 
a  trifling  blessing. 

•  Croak,  And,  good  Sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with  that  fine 
tragedy  face,  and  flourishing  manner  ?  I  don't  know 
what  we  have  to  do  with  your  gratitude  upon  this  occasion. 

Leant,  How,  Sir !  Is  it  possible  to  be  silent,  when  so 
much  obliged  !  Would  you  refuse  me  the  pleasure  of  being 
grateful !  of  adding  my  thanks  to  my  Olivia's  !  of  sharing 
in  the  transports  that  you  have  thus  occasioned  ? 

Croak,  Lord,  Sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough,  without 
your  coming  in  to  make  up  the  party.  I  don't  know 
what 's  the  matter  with  the  boy  all  this  day ;  he  has  got 
into  such  a  rhodomontade  manner  all  this  morning ! 

Leant,  But,  Sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in  the  bene- 
fit, is  it  not  my  duty  to  show  my  joy  ?   is  the  being  ad- 


36  THE  GOOD.NATUR'D  MAN  [act  n 

mitted  to  your  favour  so  slight  an  obligation  ?  is  the 
happiness  of  marrying  my  Olivia  so  small  a  blessing  ? 

Croak.  Marrying  Olivia !  marrying  Olivia ;  marrying 
his  own  sister !  Sure,  the  boy  is  out  of  his  senses.  His 
own  sister ! 

LeorU.  My  sister ! 

Oliv.  Sister  !  How  have  I  been  mistaken  !         [Aside, 

Leotd.  Some  curs'd  mistake  in  all  this  I  find.     [Aside, 

Croak.  What  does  the  booby  mean  ?  or  has  he  any 
meaning  ?  Eh,  what  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead  you  ? 

LeorU.  Mean,  Sir — ^why,  Sir — only  when  my  sister  is 
to  be  married,  that  I  have  the  pleasure  of  marrying  her, 
Sir,  that  is,  of  giving  her  away,  Sir — I  have  made  a  point 
of  it. 

Croak.  0,  is  that  all.  Give  her  away.  You  have  made 
a  point  of  it.  Then  you  had  as  good  make  a  point  of  first 
giving  away  yourself,  as  I'm  going  to  prepare  the  writings 
between  you  and  Miss  Richland  this  very  minute.  What 
a  fuss  is  here  about  nothing !  Why,  what 's  the  matter 
now  ?  I  thought  I  had  made  you  at  least  as  happy  as 
you  could  wish. 

Oliv.  0  !  yes.  Sir,  very  happy. 

Croak.  Do  you  foresee  any  thing,  child  ?  You  look  as  if 
you  did.  I  think  if  any  thing  was  to  be  foreseen,  I  have 
as  sharp  a  look  out  as  another  :  and  yet  I  foresee  nothing. 

[Exit. 

Leontine,  Olivia. 

Oliv.  What  can  it  mean  ? 

Leant.  He  knows  something,  and  yet  for  my  life  I  can^t 
tell  what. 

Oliv.  It  can't  be  the  connexion  between  us,  I'm  pretty 
certain. 

Leont.  Whatever  it  be,  my  dearest,  I'm  resolved  to 
put  it  out  of  fortune's  power  to  repeat  our  mortification. 


ACT  II]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  37 

ril  haste  and  prepare  for  our  journey  to  Scotland  this 
very  evening.  My  friend  Honeywood  has  promised  me 
his  advice  and  assistance.  I'll  go  to  him  and  repose  our 
distresses  on  his  friendly  bosom  :  and  I  know  so  much  of 
his  honest  heart,  that  if  he  can't  relieve  our  uneasinesses, 
he  will  at  least  share  them.  [Exeunt, 


ACT  III 

SCENE,   YOUNG  HONEYWOOD'S  HOUSE. 

Bailiff,  Honeyvxxyd,  Follower. 

Bailiff.  Lookey,  Sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men  as 
you  in  my  time  :  no  disparagement  of  you  neither.  Men 
that  would  go  forty  guineas  on  a  game  of  cribbage.  I 
challenge  the  town  to  show  a  man  in  more  genteeler 
practice  than  myself. 

Honeyw.  Without  all  question,  Mr.  .     I  forget 

your  name,  Sir  ? 

Bail.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never  knew  ;  he  ! 
he!  he! 

Honeyw.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  ? 

Bail.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honeyw.  Then,  pray.  Sir,  what  is  your  name  ? 

Bail.  That  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you.  He !  he ! 
he !  A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among  us  that 
practise  the  law. 

Honeyw.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it  a  secret, 
perhaps  ? 

Bail.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason.  I'm 
ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man.  Sir.  If  you  can 
shew  cause,  as  why,  upon  a  special  capus,  that  I  should 
prove  my  name — But,  come,  Timothy  Twitch  is  my  name. 


38  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  in 

And,  now  you  know  my  name,  what  have  you  to  say  to 
that? 

Honeyw,  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr.  Twitch,  but 
that  I  have  a  favour  to  ask,  that 's  all. 

Bail.  Ay,  favours  are  more  easily  asked  than  granted, 
as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law.  I  have  taken 
an  oath  against  granting  favours.  Would  you  have  me 
perjure  myself  ? 

Honeyw,  But  my  request  will  come  recommended  in 
so  strong  a  manner,  as,  I  believe,  you'll  have  no  scruple 
{pulling  ovi  his  parse).  The  thing  is  only  this  :  I  believe 
I  shall  be  able  to  discharge  this  trifle  in  two  or  three  days 
at  farthest ;  but  as  I  would  not  have  the  affair  known  for 
the  world,  I  have  thoughts  of  keeping  you,  and  your 
good  friend  here,  about  me  till  the  debt  is  discharged ; 
for  which  I  shall  be  properly  grateful. 

Bail.  Oh !  that 's  another  maxum,  and  altogether 
within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an  honest  man  is  to  get 
any  thing  by  a  thing,  there 's  no  reason  why  all  things 
should  not  be  done  in  civility. 

Honeyw.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr.  Twitch ; 
and  yours  is  a  necessary  one.  {Gives  him  money.) 

Bail.  Oh  !  your  honour ;  I  hope  your  honour  takes 
nothing  amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing  but  my  duty 
in  so  doing.  I'm  sure  no  man  can  say  I  ever  give  a 
gentleman,  that  was  a  gentleman,  ill  usage.  If  I  saw 
that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  I  have  taken  money 
not  to  see  him  for  ten  weeks  together. 

Honeyw.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

Bail.  Ay,  Sir,  it 's  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love  to  see  a 
gentleman  with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't  know,  but  I 
think  I  have  a  tender  heart  myself.  If  all  that  I  have 
lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together,  it  would  make  a — ^but 
no  matter  for  that. 

Honeyw.  Don't    account    it    lost, .  Mr.  Twitch.     The 


ACT  III]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  39 

ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive  us  of  the 
conscious  happiness  of  having  acted  with  humanity  our- 
selves. 

Bail.  Humanity,  Sir,  is  a  jewel.  It 's  better  than  gold. 
I  love  humanity.  People  may  say,  that  we  in  our  way, 
have  no  humanity  ;  but  I'll  shew  you  my  humanity  this 
moment.  There 's  my  follower  here,  little  Flanigan,  with 
a  wife  and  four  children,  a  guinea  or  two  would  be  more 
to  him,  than  twice  as  much  to  another.  Now,  as  I  can't 
shew,  him  any  humanity  myself,  I  must  beg  leave  you'll 
do  it  for  me. 

Honeyw,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is  a  most 
powerful  recommendation.  (Giving  money  to  the  follower, ) 

Bail.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman.  I  see  you  know  what  to 
do  with  your  money.  But,  to  business  :  we  are  to  be 
with  you  here  as  your  friends,  I  suppose.  But  set  in  case 
company  comes. — ^Little  Flanigan  here,  to  be  sure  has 
a  good  face  ;  a  very  good  face  ;  but  then,  he  is  a  little 
seedy,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law.  Not 
well  in  clothes.     Smoke  the  pocket-holes. 

Honeyw.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  without  delay. 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 

Honeyw.  How  unlucky  !  Detain  her  a  moment.  We 
must  improve,  my  good  friend,  little  Mr.  Flanigan's 
appearance  first.  Here,  let  Mr.  Flanigan  have  a  suit  of 
my  clothes — quick — the  brown  and  silver — ^Do  you  hear  ? 

Serv.  That  your  honour  gave  away  to  the  begging 
gentleman  that  makes  verses,  because  it  was  as  good  as 
new. 

Honeyw.  The  white  and  gold,  then. 

Serv.  That,  your  honour,  I  made  bold  to  sell,  because 
it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Honeyw.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand  then.    The 


/ 


40  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN         [act  m 

blue  and  gold.  I  believe  Mr.  Flanigan  will  look  best  in 
blue.  [Exit  Flanigan. 

Bail,  Rabbet  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will  look  well  in 
any  thing.  Ah,  if  your  honour  knew  that  bit  of  flesh  as 
well  as  I  do,  you'd  be  perfectly  in  love  with  him.  There 's 
not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four  counties  after  a  shy-cock 
than  he  :  scents  like  a  hound ;  sticks  like  a  weazle. 
He  was  master  of  the  ceremonies  to  the  black  Queen  of 
Morocco,  when  I  took  him  to  follow  me.  {Ee-enter  Flani- 
gan.) Heh,  ecod,  I  think  he  looks  so  well,  that  I  don't 
care  if  I  have  a  suit  from  the  same  place  for  myself. 

Honeyw.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming.  Dear 
Mr.  Twitch,  I  beg  you'll  give  your  friend  directions  not 
to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  I  know  you  will  say  nothing 
without  being  directed. 

Bail.  Never  you  fear  me ;  I'll  show  the  lady  that  I 
have  something  to  say  for  myself  as  well  as  another. 
One  man  has  one  way  of  talking,  and  another  man  has 
another,  that's  all  the  difference  between  them. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  her  Maid. 

Miss  Rich.  You'll  be  surpris'd,  Sir,  with  this  visit. 
But  you  know  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for  chusing  my  little 
library. 

Honeyw,  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary ;  as  it  was 
I  that  was  obliged  by  your  commands.  Chairs  here. 
Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr.  Twitch  and  Mr.  Flani- 
gan.    Pray,  gentlemen,  sit  without  ceremony. 

Miss  Rich.  Who  can  these  odd-looking  men  be  !  I  fear 
it  is  as  I  was  informed.     It  must  be  so.     (Aside.) 

Bail,  (after  a  paiise.)  Pretty  weather,  very  pretty 
weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

Fol.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the  country. 

Honeyw.  You  officers  are  generally  favourites  among 
the  ladies.    My  friends,  madam,  have  been  upon  very 


ACT  III]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  41 

disagreeable  duty,  I  assure  you.  The  fair  should,  in 
some  measure,  recompence  the  toils  of  the  brave  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve  every  favour. 
The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  service,  I  presume,  Sir  ? 

Honeyw,  Why,  madam,  they  do — occasionally  serve 
in  the  Fleet,  madam.     A  dangerous  service  ! 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  told  so.  And  I  own,  it  has  often  sur- 
prised me,  that,  while  we  have  had  so  many  instances  of 
bravery  there,  we  have  had  so  few  of  wit  at  home  to 
praise  it. 

Honeyw.  I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have  not 
written  as  our  soldiers  have  fought ;  but  they  have  done 
all  they  could,  and  Hawke  or  Amherst  could  do  no  more. 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see  a  fine 
subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  writer. 

HoTieyw.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against  dull 
writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one,  but  the  dullest  writer 
exceeds  the  most  rigid  French  critic  who  presumes  to 
despise  him. 

FoL  Damn  the  French,  the  parle  vous,  and  all  that 
belongs  to  them. 

Miss  Rich.   Sir ! 

Honeyw.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  honest  Mr.  Flanigan.  A  true 
English  officer,  madam ;  he 's  not  contented  with  beating 
the  French,  but  he  will  scold  them  too. 

Miss  Rich.  Yet,  Mr.  Honeywood,  this  does  not  con- 
vince me  but  that  severity  in  criticism  is  necessary.  It 
was  our  first  adopting  the  severity  of  French  taste,  that 
has  brought  them  in  turn  to  taste  us. 

Bail.  Taste  us  !  By  the  Lord,  madam,  they  devom*  us. 
Give  monseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll  be  damn'd  but  they 
come  in  for  a  bellyful. 

Miss  Rich.  Very  extraordinary  this  ! 

Fol.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the  bread  rising  ? 
the  parle  vous  that  devour  us.     What  makes  the  mutton 

C3 


42  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  in 

fivepence  a  pound  ?  the  parle  vous  that  eat  it  up.     What 
makes  the  beer  threepence-halfpenny  a  pot  ? 

Honeyw,  Ah  !  the  vulgar  rogues ;  all  will  be  out. 
(Aside,)  Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my  word,  and 
quite  to  the  purpose.  They  draw  a  parallel,  madam, 
between  the  mental  taste  and  that  of  our  senses.  We 
are  injured  as  much  by  the  French  severity  in  the  one, 
as  by  French  rapacity  in  the  other.  That 's  their  meaning. 

Miss  Rich,  Though  I  don't  see  the  force  of  the  parallel, 
yet  I'll  own,  that  we  should  sometimes  pardon  books,  as 
we  do  our  friends,  that  have  now  and  then  agreeable 
absurdities  to  recommend  them. 

Bail,  That 's  all  my  eye.  The  King  only  can  pardon, 
as  the  law  says  :  for,  set  in  case 

Honeyw.  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  Sir.  I  see  the 
whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes,  certainly,  our  pre- 
suming to  pardon  any  work,  is  arrogating  a  power  that 
belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  power  to  condemn,  what 
writer  can  be  free  ? 

Bail.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus  can  set 
him  free  at  any  time  :  for,  set  in  case 

Honeyw,  I'm  oblig'd  to  you,  Sir,  for  the  hint.  If, 
madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so  careful 
of  a  gentleman's  person,  sure  we  ought  to  be  equally 
careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his  fame. 

FoL  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man '«  nabb'd,  you  know 

Honeyw.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever,  you  could 
not  improve  the  last  observation.  For  my  own  part, 
I  think  it  conclusive. 

Bail.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap — 

Honeyw.  Nay,  Sir,  give  me  leave  in  this  instance  to  be 
positive.  For  where  is  the  necessity  of  censuring  works 
without  genius,  which  must  shortly  sink  of  themselves  ? 
what  is  it,  but  aiming  our  unnecessary  blow  against  a 
victim  already  under  the  hands  of  justice  ? 


ACT  m]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  43 

Bail.  Justice !  0,  by  the  elevens,  if  you  talk  about 
justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there  :  for,  in  a  course  of 
law — 

Honeyw.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what  you'd 
be  at  perfectly  ;  and  I  believe  the  lady  must  be  sensible 
of  the  art  with  which  it  is  introduced.  I  suppose  you 
perceive  the  meaning,  madam,  of  his  course  of  law. 

Mi88  Rich.  I  protest.  Sir,  I  do  not.  I  perceive  only 
that  you  answer  one  gentleman  before  he  has  finished, 
and  the  other  before  he  has  well  begun. 

Bail.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I  will  make 
the  matter  out.  This  here  question  is  about  severity  and 
justice,  and  pardon,  and  the  like  of  they.  Now  to  explain 
the  thing — 

Honeyw,  0  !   curse  your  explanations.  [Aside. 

Enter  Servant. 

8erv.  Mr.  Leontine,  Sir,  below,  desires  to  speak  with 
you  upon  earnest  business. 

Honeyw.  That's  lucky.  (Aside.)  Dear  madam,  you'll 
excuse  me  and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a  few  minutes. 
There  are  books,  madam,  to  amuse  you.  Come,  gentle- 
men, you  know  I  make  no  ceremony  with  such  friends. 
After  you.  Sir.  Excuse  me.  Well,  if  I  must.  But  I 
know  your  natural  politeness. 

Bail.  Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Fol.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and  behind. 

[Exeunt  Honeytfjood,  Bailiff,  and  Follower. 

Miss  Rich.  What  can  all  this  mean.  Garnet  ? 

Cram.  Mean,  madam  !  why,  what  should  it  mean,  but 
what  Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  see !  These  people  he 
calls  officers  are  officers  sure  enough  :  sherijff's  officers  ; 
bailiffs,  madam. 

Miss  Rich.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.     Well,  though  his 


44  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  m 

perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure,  yet  I  own 
there's  something  very  ridiculous  in  them,  and  a  just 
punishment  for  his  dissimulation. 

Oarn.  And  so  they  are.  But  I  wonder,  madam,  that 
the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his  debts,  and  set 
him  free,  has  not  done  it  by  this  time.  He  ought  at  least 
to  have  been  here  before  now.  But  lawyers  are  always 
more  ready  to  get  a  man  into  troubles  than  out  of  them. 

Enter  Sir  WiUiam. 

Sir  Will.  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake  setting  him 
free,  I  own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It  has  totally  un- 
hinged my  schemes  to  reclaim  him.  Yet  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  find,  that  among  a  number  of  worthless  friend- 
ships, he  has  made  one  acquisition  of  real  value ;  for  there 
must  be  some  softer  passion  on  her  side  that  prompts  this 
generosity.  Ha !  here  before  me :  I'll  endeavour  to 
sound  her  affections.  Madam,  as  I  am  the  person  that 
have  had  some  demands  upon  the  gentleman  of  this 
house,  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  if  before  I  enlarge  him, 
I  wanted  to  see  yourself. 

Miss  Rich,  The  precaution  was  very  unnecessary,  Sir. 
I  suppose  your  wants  were  only  such  as  my  agent  had 
power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  WilL  Partly,  madam.     But  I  was  also  willing  you 
should  be  fully  apprized  of  the  character  of  the  gentle- 
man you  intended  to  serve. 

Miss  Rich.  It  must  come.  Sir,  with  9,  very  ill  grace 
from  you.  To  censure  it,  after  what  you  have  done, 
would  look  like  malice ;  and  to  speak  favourably  of  a 
character  you  have  oppressed,  would  be  impeaching 
your  own.  And  sure,  his  tenderness,  his  humanity,  his 
universal  friendship  may  atone  for  many  faults. 

Sir  Will.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is  exerted 


^ 


ACT  m]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  45 

in  too  wide  a  sphere,  becomes  totally  useless.  Our 
bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water,  disappears  when  diffused 
too  widely.  They,  who  pretend  most  to  this  universal 
benevolence,  are  either  deceivers,  or  dupes.  Men  who 
desire  to  cover  their  private  ill-nature,  by  a  pretended 
regard  for  all ;  or  men  who,  reasoning  themselves  into 
false  feelings,  are  more  earnest  in  pursuit  of  splendid, 
than  of  useful  virtues. 

Miss  Rich.  I  am  surprised.  Sir,  to  hear  one,  who  has 
probably  been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others,  so  severe 
in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  Will.  Whatever  I  may  have  gained  by  folly, 
madam,  you  see  I  am  willing  to  prevent  your  losing  by  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Your  cares  for  me.  Sir,  are  unnecessary.  I 
always  suspect  those  services  which  are  denied  where  they 
are  wanted,  and  offered,  perhaps,  in  hopes  of  a  refusal. 
No,  Sir,  my  directions  have  been  given,  and  I  insist  upon 
their  being  complied  with. 

Sir  Will.  Thou  amiable  woman !  I  can  no  longer 
contain  the  expressions  of  my  gratitude  :  my  pleasure. 
You  see  before  you  one,  who  has  been  equally  careful  of 
his  interest ;  one,  who  has  for  some  time  been  a  concealed 
spectator  of  his  follies,  and  only  punished,  in  hopes  to 
reclaim  them — ^his  uncle  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  William  Honeywood !  You  amaze  me. 
How  shall  I  conceal  my  confusion  ?  I  fear.  Sir,  you'll 
'think  I  have  been  too  forward  in  my  services.  I  con- 
fess I — 

Sir  Will.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  madam.  I  only 
find  myself  unable  to  repay  the  obligation.  And  yet, 
I  have  been  trying  my  interest  of  late  to  serve  you. 
Having  learnt,  madam,  that  you  had  some  demands  upon 
Government,  I  have,  though  imasked,  been  your  solicitor 
there. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir,  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  your  intentions. 


46  THE  GOODNATUR'D  MAN  [act ni 

But  my  guardian  has  employed  another  gentleman,  who 
assures  him  of  success. 

Sir  WUl.  Who,  the  important  little  man  that  visits 
here  ?  Trust  me,  madam,  he 's  quite  contemptible  among 
men  in  power,  and  utterly  unable  to  serve  you.  Mr. 
Lofty's  promises  are  much  better  known  to  people  of 
fashion,  thaii  his  person,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Rich.  How  have  we  been  deceived !  As  sure  as 
can  be,  here  he  comes. 

Sir  WUL  Does  he !  Remember  Fm  to  continue  un- 
known. My  return  to  England  has  not  as  yet  been  made 
public.    With  what  impudence  he  enters  ! 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Let  the  chariot — ^let  my  chariot  drive  off  ;  I'll 
visit  to  his  Grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland  here  before 
me  !  Punctual,  as  usual,  to  the  calls  of  humanity.  I'm 
very  sorry,  madam,  things  of  this  kind  should  happen, 
especially  to  a  man  I  have  shewn  every  where,  and  carried 
amongst  us  as  a  particular  acquaintance. 

Miss  Rich.  I  find.  Sir,  you  have  the  art  of  making  the 
misfortunes  of  others  your  own. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man  like 
me  do  ?  One  man  can't  do  every  thing  ;  and  then,  I  do 
so  much  in  this  way  every  day  :  let  me  see  ;  something 
considerable  might  be  done  for  him  by  subscription  ;  it* 
could  not  fail  if  I  carried  the  list.  I'll  undertake  to  set 
down  a  brace  of  dukes,  two  dozen  lords,  and  half  the 
lower  house,  at  my  own  peril. 

Sir  WUl.  And,  after  all,  it 's  more  than  probable.  Sir, 
he  might  reject  the  offer  of  such  powerful  patronage. 

Lofty.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do  ?  You  know 
I  never  make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or  twice  tried 
to  do  something  with  him  in  the  way  of  business ;   but. 


ACT  m]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  47 

as  I  often  told  his  uncle,  Sir  William  Honejrwood,  the 
man  was  utterly  impracticable. 

Sir  Will.  His  uncle  !  then  that  gentleman,  I  suppose,  is 
a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Lofty.  Meaning  me,  Sir  ? — Yes,  madam,  as  I  often 
said,  my  dear  Sir  William,  you  are  sensible  I  would  do 
any  thing,  as  far  as  my  poor  interest  goes,  to  serve  your 
family:  but  what  can  be  done?  there's  no  procuring 
first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate  abilities. 

Miss  Rich.  I  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Honejrw^ood  ; 
he 's  abroad  in  employment :  he  confided  in  your  judg- 
ment, I  suppose. 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  madam,  I  believe  Sir  William  had 
some  reason  to  confide  in  my  judgment ;  one  little  reason, 
perhaps. 

Miss  Rich.  Pray,  Sir,  what  was  it  ? 

Lofty.  Why,  madam — but  let  it  go  no  farther — it  was 
I  procured  him  his  place. 

Sir  Will.  Did  you,  Sir  ? 

Lofty.  Either  you  or  I,  Sir. 

Miss  Rich.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind  indeed. 

Lofty.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure  ;  he  had  some  amusing 
qualities ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  a  toast-master  to  a 
club,  or  had  a  better  head. 

Miss  Rich.  A  better  head  ? 

Lofty.  Ay,  at  a  bottle.  To  be  sure  he  was  as  dull  as 
a  choice  spirit :  but  hang  it,  he  was  grateful,  very  grate- 
ful ;   and  gratitude  hides  a  multitude  of  faults. 

Sir  Will.  He  might  have  reason,  perhaps.  His  place 
is  pretty  considerable,  I'm  told. 

Lofty.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle  among  us  men  of  business. 
The  truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill  up  a  greater. 

Sir  Will.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean.  Sir  ?  I'm 
told  he  's  much  about  my  size  and  figure.  Sir. 

Lofty.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment ;   but 


48  THE  GOOD-NATUR'B  MAN  [act  m 

then  he  wanted  a  something — ^a  consequence  of  form — 
a  kind  of  a — I  believe  the  lady  perceives  my  meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  0,  perfectly ;  you  courtiers  can  do  any 
thing,  I  see. 

Lofty,  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere  exchange ; 
we  do  greater  things  for  one  another  every  day.  Why, 
as  thus,  now :  let  me  suppose  you  the  first  Lord  of  the 
Treasury  ;  you  have  an  employment  in  you  that  I  want ; 
I  have  a  place  in  me  that  you  want ;  do  me  here,  do  you 
there  :  intwest  of  both  sides,  few  words,  flat,  done  and 
done,  and  it 's  over. 

Sir  Will.  A  thought  strikes  me.  {Asid^  ^  Y  w  you 
mention  Sir  William  Honejrw^ood,  mada  . ,  and  as  he 
seems,  Sir,  an  acquaintance  of  your^^  ,  you'll  be  glad  to 
hear  he 's  arriv'd  from  Italy ;  I  had  it  from  a  friend  who 
knows  him  as  well  as  he  does  me,  and  you  may  depend 
on  my  information. 

Lofty.  The  devil  he  is  !  If  I  had  known  that,  we  should 
not  have  been  quite  so  well  acquainted.  [Aside. 

Sir  Will.  He  is  certainly  return'd ;  and,  as  this  gen- 
tleman is  a  friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal  service  to 
us,  by  introducing  me  to  him ;  there  are  some  papers 
relative  to  your  affairs,  that  require  despatch  and  his 
inspection. 

Miss  Rich.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is  a  person 
employed  in  my  affairs  :  I  know  you'll  serve  us. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you.  Sir 
William  shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think  proper  to 
command  it. 

Sir  Will.  That  would  be, quite  unnecessary. 

Lofty.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you  then.  Call  upon 
me — let  me  see — ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  Will.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost  for 
ever. 

Lofty.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be.     But 


ACT  ni]         THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  49 

damn  it,  that's  unfortunate;  my  Lord  Grig's  cursed 
Pensacola  business  comes  on  this  very  hour,  and  I'm 
engaged  to  attend — another  time — 

Sir  WUL  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Lofty,  You  shall  have  it ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a  letter 
is  a  very  bad  way  of  going  to  work ;  face  to  face,  that 's 
my  way. 

Sir  WUL  The  letter,  Sir,  will  do  quite  as  well. 

Lofty.  Zounds  !  Sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  me  ? 
direct  me  in  the  business  of  office  1  Do  you  know  me, 
Sir  ?   who  am  I  ? 

Miss^ic\-^i>ea,T  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not  so  much 
his  as  mine ;  if %y  commands — but  you  despise  my  power. 

Lofty.  Delicate  ci*^ature  !  your  commands  could  even 
controul  a  debate  at  Midnight :  to  a  power  so  constitu- 
tional, I  am  all  obedience  and  tranquillity.  He  shall  have 
a  letter  ;  where  is  my  secretary  !  Dubardieu  !  And  yet, 
I  protest  I  don't  like  this  way  of  doing  business.  I  think 
if  I  spoke  first  to  Sir  William — But  you  will  have  it  so. 

[Eodt  tvith  Miss  Richland. 

Sir  Will,  (alone.)  Ha,  ha,  ha !  This  too  is  one  of  my 
nephew's  hopeful .  associates.  0  vanity,  thou  constant 
deceiver,  how  do  all  thy  efforts  to  exalt,  serve  but  to  sink 
us  !  Thy  false  colourings,  like  those  employed  to  heighten 
beauty,  only  seem  to  mend  that  bloom  which  they  con- 
tribute to  destroy.  I'm  not  displeased  at  this  interview  : 
exposing  this  fellow's  impudence  to  the  contempt  it 
deserves,  may  be  of  use  to  my  design ;  at  least,  if  he 
can  reflect,  it  will  be  of  use  to  himself. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

Sir,  Will.  How  now,  Jarvis,  where 's  your  master,  my 
nephew  ? 
I  Jarv.  At  his  wit's  ends,  I  believe :  he 's  scarce  gotten 

out  of  one  scrape,  but  he 's  running  his  head  into  another. 


60  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  m 

Sir  WiU.  How  so  ? 

Jarv.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared  of  the 
bailiffs,  and  now  he 's  again  engaging  tooth  and  nail  in 
assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to  patch  up  a  clandestine 
match  with  the  young  lady  that  passes  in  the  house  for 
his  sister. 

Sir  WiU.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others ! 

Jarv,  Aye,  any  body  but  himself.  The  young  couple, 
it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scotland ;  and  he  sup- 
plies them  with  money  for  the  journey. 

Sir  Will.  Money  !  how  is  he  able  to  supply  others, 
who  has  scarce  any  for  himself  ? 

Jarv.  Why,  there  it  is :  he  has  no  money,  that 's  true ; 
but  then,  as  he  never  said  no  to  any  request  in  his  life,  he 
has  given  them  a  bill,  drawn  by  a  friend  of  his  upon  a 
merchant  in  the  City,  which  I  am  to  get  changed  ;  for  you 
must  know  that  I  am  to  go  with  them  to  Scotland  myself. 

Sir  Will  How  ! 

Jarv.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged  to  take 
a  different  road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is  to  call  upon  an 
uncle  of  his  that  lives  out  of  the  way,  in  order  to  prepare 
a  place  for  their  reception,  when  they  return ;  so  they 
have  borrowed  me  from  my  master,  as  the  properest 
person  to  attend  the  young  lady  down. 

Sir  Will.  To  the  land  of  matrimony !  A  pleasant 
journey,  Jarvis. 

Jarv.  Ay,  but  I'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues  on't. 

Sir  Will.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter,  and  less  fatiguing, 
than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too  much  of  the  young 
lady's  family  and  connexions,  whom  I  have  seen  abroad. 
I  have  also  discovered  that  Miss  Richland  is  not  indif- 
ferent to  my  thoughtless  nephew  ;  and  will  endeavour, 
though  I  fear,  in  vain,  to  establish  that  connexion.  But, 
come,  the  letter  I  wait  for  must  be  almost  finished  ;  I'll 
let  you  farther  into  my  intentions,  in  the  next  room. 

[Exeunt 


ACT  IV]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  51 

ACT  IV 

SCENE,    croaker's  HOUSE. 

Lofty,  Well,  sure  the  devil 's  in  me  of  late,  for  ninning 
my  head  into  such  defiles,  as  nothing  but  a  genius  like 
my  own  could  draw  me  from.  I  was  formerly  contented 
to  husband  out  my  places  and  pensions  with  some  degree 
of  frugality  ;  but,  curse  it,  of  late  I  have  given  away  the 
whole  Court  Register  in  less  time  than  they  could  print 
the  title  page  :  yet,  hang  it,  why  scruple  a  lie  or  two  to 
come  at  a  fine  girl,  when  I  every  day  tell  a  thousand  for 
nothing  ?  Ha !  Honeywood  here  before  me.  Could  Miss 
Richland  have  set  him  at  liberty  ? 

Enter  Honeyioood. 

Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  abroad  again. 
I  find  my  concurrence  was  not  necessary  in  your  unfor- 
tunate affairs.  I  had  put  things  in  a  train  to  do  your 
business ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to  say  what  I  intended 
doing. 

Honeyw.  It  was  unfortunate  indeed.  Sir.  But  what 
adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem  to  be 
acquainted  with  my  misfortune,  I  myself  continue  still 
a  stranger  to  my  benefactor. 

Lofty.  How  !  not  know  the  friend  that  served  you  ? 

Honeyw.  Can't  guess  at  the  person. 

Lofty.  Inquire. 

Honeyw,  1  have  ;  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that  he  chutes 
to  remain  concealed,  and  that  all  inquiry  must  be  fruit- 
less. 

Lofty.  Must  be  fruitless  ! 

Honeyw.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Sure  of  that  ? 

Honeyw.  Very  sure. 


62  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  iv 

Lofty.  Then  I'll  be  damn'd  if  you  shall  ever  know  it 
from  me. 

Honeyw,  How,  Sir  ! 

Lofty.  I  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you  think  my 
rent-roll  very  considerable,  and  that  I  have  vast  sums  of 
money  to  throw  away  ;  I  know  you  do.  The  world, 
to  be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me. 

Honeyw.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no  stranger  to 
your  generosity.     But  where  does  this  tend  ? 

Lofty.  To  nothing  ;  nothing  in  the  world.  The  town, 
to  be  sure,  when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as  me  the  subject 
of  conversation,  has  asserted,  that  I  never  yet  patronised 
a  man  of  merit. 

Honeyw.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  contrary,  even 
from  yourself. 

Lofty.  Yes,  Honeywood,  and  there  are  instances  to  the 
contrary,  that  you  shall  never  hear  from  myself. 

Honeyw.  Ha  !  dear  Sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you  but  one 
question. 

Lofty.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions  :  I  say.  Sir,  ask  me  no 
questions  ;  I'll  be  damned  if  I  answer  them. 

Honeyw.  I  will  ask  no  farther.  My  friend  !  my 
benefactor,  it  is,  it  must  be  here,  that  I  am  indebted  for 
freedom,  for  honour.  Yes,  thou  worthiest  of  men,  from 
the  beginning  I  suspected  it,  but  was  afraid  to  return 
thanks  ;   which,  if  undeserved,  might  seem  reproaches. 

Lofty.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this,  Mr.  Honey- 
wood. You  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do  assure  you. 
Sir — Blood,  Sir,  can't  a  man  be  permitted  to  enjoy  the 
luxury  of  his  own  feelings,  without  all  this  parade  ! 

Honeyw.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an  action 
that  adds  to  your  honour.  Your  looks,  your  air,  your 
manner,  all  confess  it. 

Lofty.  Confess  it,  Sir  !  Torture  itself,  Sir,  shall  never 
bring  me  to  confess  it.    Mr.  Honeywood,  I  have  admitted 


ACT  IV]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  53 

you  upon  terms  of  friendship.  Don't  let  us  fall  out ; 
make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be  buried  in  oblivion.  You 
know  I  hate  ostentation  ;  you  know  I  do.  Come,  come, 
Honeywood,  you  know  I  always  loved  to  be  a  friend, 
and  not  a  patron.  I  beg  this  may  make  no  kind  of  dis- 
tance between  us.  Come,  come,  you  and  I  must  be 
more  familiar — Indeed  we  must. 

Honeyw,  Heavens  !  Can  I  ever  repay  such  friendship  ? 
Is  there  any  way  !  Thou  best  of  men,  can  I  ever  return 
the  obligation  ? 

Lofty,  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle  !  But  I  see  your 
heart  is  labouring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall  be  grateful. 
It  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  you. 

Honeyw,  How!  teach  me  the  manner.  Is  there  any 
way  ? 

Lofty,  From  this  moment  you're  mine.  Yes,  my 
friend,  you  shall  know  it — I'm  in  love. 

Honeyw,  And  can  I  assist  you  ? 

Lofty,  Nobody  so  well. 

Honeyw.  In  what  manner.     I'm  all  impatience. 

Lofty,  You  shall  make  love  for  me. 

Honeyw,  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your  favour  ? 

Lofty,  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  great  interest, 
I  assure  you  :  Miss  Richland. 

Honeyw,  Miss  Richland ! 

Lofty,  Yes,  Miss  Richland.  She  has  struck  the  blow 
up  to  the  hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter. 

Honeyw,  Heavens  !  was  ever  any  thing  more  unfor- 
tunate !  It  is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Lofty,  Unfortunate  indeed  !  And  yet  I  can  endure  it, 
till  you  have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for  me.  Between 
ourselves,  I  think  she  likes  me.  I'm  not  apt  to  boast, 
but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeyw,  Indeed  !  But,  do  you  know  the  person  you 
apply  to  ? 


't 


64  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [activ 

Lofty,  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine ;  that 's 
enough.  To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the  success  of  my 
passion.  I'll  say  no  more,  let  friendship  do  the  rest.  I  have 
only  to  add,  that  if  at  any  time  my  little  interest  can  be 
of  service — but,  hang  it,  I'll  make  no  promises — ^you 
know  my  interest  is  yours  at  any  time.  No  apologies,  my 
friend,  I'll  not  be  answered,  it  shall  be  so.  [Exit, 

Honeyw,  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man  !  He  little 
thinks  that  I  love  her  too  ;  and  with  such  an  ardent  pas- 
sion ! — But  then  it  was  ever  but  a  vain  and  hopeless  one  ; 
my  torment,  my  persecution  !  What  shall  I  do  !  Love, 
friendship,  a  hopeless  passion,  a  deserving  friend !  Love, 
that  has  been  my  tormentor  ;  a  friend,  that  has,  perhaps, 
distressed  himself,  to  serve  me.  It  shall  be  so.  Yes, 
I  will  discard  the  fondling  hope  from  my  bosom,  and  exert 
all  my  influence  in  his  favour.  And  yet  to  see  her  in 
the  possession  of  another ! — Insupportable !  But  then  to 
betray  a  generous,  trusting  friend  ! — ^Worse,  worse  !  Yes, 
I'm  resolv'd.  Let  me  but  be  the  instrument  of  their 
happiness,  and  then  quit  a  country,  where  I  must  for 
ever  despair  of  finding  my  own.  [Exit, 

Enter  Olivia  and  Garnet j  who  carries  a  milliner* a  box, 

Oliv.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  over.  No 
news  of  Jarvis  yet  ?  I  believe  the  old  peevish  creature 
delays  purely  to  vex  me. 

Gam.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  him  say  a 
little  snubbing,  before  marriage,  would  teach  you  to 
bear  it  the  better  afterwards. 

Oliv.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  had  only  to 
get  a  bill  changed  in  the  City  !  How  provoking  ! 

Gam.  I'll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had  twice  as 
much  to  do,  is  setting  oflf  by  this  time  from  his  inn ;  and 
here  you  are  left  behind. 


ACT  IV]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  55 

Oliv,  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming,  however. 
Are  you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing,  Garnet  ? 

(jfam.  Not  a  stick,  madam — ^all  's  here.  Yet  I  wish  you 
could  take  the  white  and  silver  to  be  married  in.  It 's 
the  worst  luck  in  the  world,  in  any  thing  but  white.  I 
knew  one  Bett  Stubbs,  of  our  town,  that  was  married  in 
red  ;  and,  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs,  the  bridegroom  and  she 
had  a  miff  before  morning. 

Oliv,  No  matter.  I'm  all  impatience  till  we  are  out  of 
the  house. 

Gam,  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot  the 
wedding  ring  ! — ^The  sweet  little  thing — I  don't  think  it 
would  go  on  my  little  finger.  And  what  if  I  put  in  a 
gentleman's  night-cap,  in  case  of  necessity,  madam  ? 
But  here 's  Jarvis. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

Oliv,  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last  ?  We  have  been 
ready  this  half -hour.      Now  let 's  be  going.     Let  us  fly  ! 

Jarv.  Aye,  to  Jericho ;  for  we  shall  have  no  going  to 
Scotland  this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Oliv.  How  !   what 's  the  matter  ? 

Jarv.  Money,  money,  is  the  matter,  madam.  We 
have  got  no  money.  What  the  plague  do  you  send  me  of 
your  fool's  errand  for  ?  My  master's  bill  upon  the  City  is 
not  worth  a  rush.  Here  it  is  ;  Mrs.  Garnet  may  pin  up 
her  hair  with  it. 

Oliv,  Undone  !  How  could  Honey  wood  serve  us  so  ! 
What  shall  we  do  ?    Can't  we  go  without  it  ? 

Jarv.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money  !  To  Scotland 
without  money  !  Lord  how  some  people  understand 
geography  I  We  might  as  well  set  sail  for  Patagonia  upon 
a  cork-jacket. 

Oliv,  Such  a  disappointment !    What  a  base  insincere 


56  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  iv 

man  was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this  manner  ?  Is 
this  his  good  nature  ? 

Jarv,  Nay,  don't  talk  ill  of  my  master,  madam.  I 
won't  bear  to  hear  any  body  talk  ill  of  him  but  myself. 

Gam,  Bless  us  !  now  I  think  on 't  madam,  you  need 
not  be  under  any  uneasiness  :  I  saw  Mr.  Leontine  receive 
forty  guineas  from  his  father  just  before  he  set  out,  and 
he  can't  yet  have  left  the  inn.  A  short  letter  will  reach 
him  there. 

Oliv,  Well  remember'd,  Garnet ;  I'll  write^immediately. 
How 's  this !  Bless  me,  my  hand  trembles  so,  I  can't  write 
a  word.  Do  you  write.  Garnet ;  and,  upon  second  thought, 
it  will  be  better  from  you. 

Gam,  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but  poorly. 
I  never  was  kute  at  my  laming.  But  I'll  do  what  I  can 
to  please  you.  Let  me  see.  All  out  of  my  own  head, 
I  suppose ! 

Oliv,  Whatever  you  please. 

Gam,  {Writing,)  'Muster  Croaker' — Twenty  guineas, 
madam  ? 

Oliv.  Aye,  twenty  will  do. 

Gam,  '  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  call'd  for.  Expe- 
dition— Will  be  blown  up — ^All  of  a  flame — Quick  despatch 
— Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love  ' — I  conclude  it,  madam, 
with  Cupid  :   I  love  to  see  a  love-letter  end  like  poetry. 

Oliv,  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  any  thing.  But  how 
shall  we  send  it  ?  I  can  trust  none  of  the  servants  of  this 
family. 

Gam,  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeywood's  butler  is  in  the 
next  room :  he 's  a  dear,  sweet  man ;  he'll  do  any  thing 
for  me. 

Jarv,  He  !  the  dog,  he'll  certainly  commit  some  blun- 
der.    He  's  drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a  day. 

Oliv.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet ;  any  body  we  can 
trust  will  do.  [Exit  Garnet,^  Well,  Jarvis,  now  we  can  have 


ACTiv]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  57 

nothing  more  to  interrupt  us.  You  may  take  up  the 
things,  and  carry  them  on  to  the  inn.  Have  you  no  hands, 
Jarvis  ? 

Jaro.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You,  that  are  going 
to  be  married,  think  things  can  never  be  done  too  fast : 
but  we,  that  are  old,  and  know  what  we  are  about,  must 
elope  methodically,  madam. 

-  Oliv,  Well  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to  be  done 
over  again 

Jarv,  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten  times  over. 

Oliv,  Why  will  you  talk  so  ?  If  you  knew  how  unhappy 
they  make  me 

Jarv.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt :  I  was  once  just  as 
unhappy  when  I  was  going  to  be  married  myself.  I'U  tell 
you  a  story  about  that 

Oliv,  A  story  !  when  I'm  all  impatience  to  be  away. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature  ! 

Jarv.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why  we  will 
march,  that's  all.  Though,  odds-bobs,  we  have  still 
forgot  one  thing ;  we  should  never  travel  without — a 
case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box  of  shaving  powder.  But 
no  matter,  I  believe  we  shall  be  pretty  well  shaved  by 
the  way.  \Goiin^, 

Enter  Oarnet. 

Gam,  Undone,  undone,  madam.  Ah,  Mr.  Jarvis,  you 
said  right  enough.  As  sure  as  death,  Mr.  Honeywood's 
rogue  of  a  drunken  butler  dropp'd  the  letter  before  he 
went  ten  yards  from  the  door.  There 's  old  Croaker  has 
just  pick'd  it  up,  and  is  this  moment  reading  it  to  himself 
in  the  hall. 

Oliv,  Unfortunate  !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Gam,  No,  madam :  don't  be  uneasy,  he  can  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure  he  looks  as  if  he 
was  broke  loose  from  Bedlam  about  it,  but  he  can't  find 


58  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  iv 

what  it  means  for  all  that.     0  lud,  he  is  coming  this  way 
all  in  the  horrors  ! 

Oliv.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant,  for  fear 
he  should  ask  farther  questions.  In  the  mean  time, 
Garnet,  do  you  write  and  send  off  just  such  another. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Croaker, 

Croak.  Death  and  destruction !  Are  all  the  horrors  of 
air,  fire  and  water  to  be  levelled  only  at  me  !  Am  I  only  to 
be  singled  out  for  gunpowder-plots,  combustibles  and  con- 
flagration !  Here  it  is — ^An  incendiary  letter  dropped  at 
my  door.  '  To  muster  Croaker,  these  with  speed.'  Aye, 
aye,  plain  enough  the  direction  :  all  in  the  genuine  in- 
cendiary spelling,  and  as  cramp  as  the  devil.  '  With 
speed.'  0,  confoimd  your  speed.  But  let  me  read  it 
once  more.  (Reads.)  'Mustar  Croaker  as  sone  as  yowe  see 
this  levo  twenty  gunnes  at  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  tell 
called  for,  or  yowe  and  yower  experetion  will  be  all  blown 
up.'  Ah,  but  too  plain.  Blood  and  gunpowder  in  every 
line  of  it.  Blown  up  !  murderous  dog  !  All  blown  up  ! 
Heavens !  what  have  I  and  my  poor  family  done,  to  be  all 
blown  up  !  (Reads.)  '  Our  pockets  are  low,  and  money  we 
must  have.'  Aye,  there's  the  reason;  they'll  blow  us 
up,  because  they  have  got  low  pockets.  (Reads.)  '  It  is 
but  a  short  time  you  have  to  consider  ;  for  if  this  takes 
wind,  the  house  will  quickly  be  all  of  a  ilame.'  Inhuman 
monsters  !  blow  us  up,  and  then  burn  us.  The  earth- 
quake at  Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it.  (Reads.)  '  Make 
quick  despatch,  and  so  no  more  at  present.  But  may 
Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love,  go  with  you  wherever  you 
go.'  The  little  god  of  love  !  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love 
go  with  me  !  Go  you  to  the  devil,  you  and  your  little 
Cupid  together  ;  I'm  so  frightened,  I  scarce  know  whether 
I  sit,  stand,  or  go.     Perhaps  this  moment  I'm  treading  on 


ACT  IV]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  69 

lighted  matches,  blazing  brimstone,  and  barrels  of  gun- 
powder. They  are  preparing  to  blow  me  up  into  the 
clouds.  Murder  !  We  shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds  ;  we 
shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds. 

Enter  Miss  Richland. 

Miss  Rich,  Lord,  Sir,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Croak.  Murder 's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all  blown  up 
in  our  beds  before  morning. 

Miss  Rich  I  hope  not,  Sir. 

Croak.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam,  when 
I  have  a  certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand  ?  Will  nothing 
alarm  my  family  ?  Sleeping  and  eating,  sleeping  and 
eating  is  the  only  work  from  morning  till  night  in  my 
house.  My  insensible  crew  could  sleep  though  rock'd  by 
an  earthquake  ;  and  fry  beef  steaks  at  a  volcano. 

Miss  Rich.  But,  Sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so  often 
already ;  we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes,  famines, 
plagues,  and  mad  dogs  from  year's  end  to  year's  end. 
You  remember.  Sir,  it  is  not  above  a  month  ago,  you 
assured  us  of  a  conspiracy  among  the  bakers,  to  poison 
us  in  our  bread ;  and  so  kept  the  whole  family  a  week 
upon  potatoes. 

Croak.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them.  But 
why  do  I  stand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  I  should  be 
facing  the  enemy  without  ?  Here,  John,  Nicodemus, 
search  the  house.  Look  into  the  cellars,  to  see  if  there 
be  any  combustibles  below  ;  and  above,  in  the  apart- 
ments, that  no  matches  be  thrown  in  at  the  windows. 
Let  all  the  fires  be  put  out,  and  let  the  engine  be  drawn 
out  in  the  yard,  to  play  upon  the  house  in  case  of  necessity. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Rich.  (Alone.)  What  can  he  mean  by  all  this  ? 
Yet,  why  should  I  enquire,  when  he  alarms  us  in  this 
manner  almost  every  day  !   But  Honeywood  has  desired 


60  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  iv 

an  interview  with  me  in  private.  What  can  he  mean  ? 
or,  rather,  what  means  this  palpitation  at  his  approach  ? 
It  is  the  first  time  he  ever  shewed  any  thing  in  his  con- 
duct that  seemed  particular.  Sure  he  cannot  mean  to 
^but  he 's  here. 

Enter  Honeywood. 

Honeyw.  I  presumed  to  solicit  this  interview,  madam, 
before  I  left  town,  to  be  permitted 

M%88  Rich.  Indeed  !  Leaving  town,  Sir  ? — 

Honeyw.  Yes,  madam  ;  perhaps  the  kingdom.  I  have 
presumed,  I  say,  to  desire  the  favour  of  this  interview, — 
in  order  to  disclose  something  which  our  long  friendship 
prompts.     And  yet  my  fears — 

Miss  Rich.  His  fears !  What  are  his  fears  to  mine ! 
(Aside.)  We  have  indeed  been  long  acquainted.  Sir  ;  very 
long.  If  I  remember  our  first  meeting  was  at  the  French 
ambassador's. — ^Do  you  recollect  how  you  were  pleased 
to  rally  me  upon  my  complexion  there  ? 

Honeyw.  Perfectly,  madam  :  I  presumed  to  reprove 
you  for  painting :  but  your  warmer  blushes  soon  con- 
vinced the  company,  that  the  colouring  was  all  from 
nature. 

Miss  Rich.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it  in  your  good- 
natur'd  way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compliment  to  myself. 
In  the  same  manner  you  danced  that  night  with  the  most 
aukward  woman  in  company,  because  you  saw  nobody 
else  would  take  her  out. 

Honeyw.  Yes ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next  night,  by 
dancing  with  the  finest  woman  in  company,  whom  every 
body  wished  to  take  out. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  Sir,  if  you  thought  so  then,  I  fear 
your  judgment  has  since  corrected  the  errors  of  a  first 
impression.    We  generally  show  to  most  advantage  at 


ACT  IV]         THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  61 

first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor  tradesmen,  that  put  all  their 
best  goods  to  be  seen  at  the  windows. 

HoTieyw.  The  first  impression,  madajn,  did  indeed 
deceive  me.  I  expected  to  find  a  woman  with  all.  the  faults 
of  conscious  flattered  beauty.  I  expected  to  find  her 
vain  and  insolent.  But  every  day  has  since  taught  me 
that  it  is  possible  to  posses3  sense  without  pride,  and 
beauty  without  affectation. 

Mis8  Rich,  This,  Sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual  with 
Mr.  Honeywood ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know  why  he 
thus  attempts  to  increase  that  vanity,  which  his  own 
lessons  have  taught  me  to  despise. 

Honeyw,  I  sisk  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from  our  long 
friendship,  I  presumed  I  might  have  some  right  to  offer, 
without  offence,  what  you  may  refuse  without  offending. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  !  I  beg  you'd  refiect ;  though,  I  fear, 
I  shall  scarce  have  any  power  to  refuse  a  request  of  yours  ; 
yet  you  may  be  precipitate  :  consider.  Sir. 

Honeyw.  I  own  my  rashness  ;  but  as  I  plead  the  cause 
of  friendship,  of  one  who  loves — ^Don't  be  alarmed, 
madam — ^who  loves  you  with  the  most  ardent  passion, 
whose  whole  happiness  is  placed  in  you 

Miaa  Rich.  I  fear.  Sir,  I  shall  never  find  whom  you 
mean,  by  this  description  of  him. 

Honeyw.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points  him  out ; 
though  he  should  be  too  humble  himself  to  urge  his 
pretensions,  or  you  too  modest  to  understand  them. 

Miss  Rich.  Well ;  it  would  be  affectation  any  longer 
to  pretend  ignorance ;  and  I  will  own,  Sir,  I  have  long 
been  prejudiced  in  his  favour.  It  was  but  natural  to 
wish  to  make  his  heart  mine,  as  he  seemed  himself 
ignorant  of  its  value. 

Honeyw.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  (Aside.)  I  find, 
madam,  you're  already  sensible  of  his  worth,  his  passion. 
How  happy  is  my  friend,  to  be  the  favourite  of  one  with 


62  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  iv 

such   sense   to  distinguish  merit,  and  such  beauty  to 
reward  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Your  friend,  Sir  !  What  friend  ? 

Honey w.  My  best  friend — my  friend,  Mr.  Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss  Rich.  He,  Sir  ! 

Honeyw.  Yes,  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed,  what  your 
warmest  wishes  might  have  formed  him.  And  to  his 
other  qualities  he  adds  that  of  the  most  passionate  regard 
for  you. 

Miss  Rich.  Amazement ! — No  more  of  this,  I  beg  you,  Sir. 

Honeyw.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and  know  how 
to  interpret  it.  And,  since  I  so  plainly  read  the  language 
of  your  heart,  shall  I  make  my  friend  happy,  by  com- 
municating your  sentiments  ? 

Miss  Rich.  By  no  means. 

Honeyw.  Excuse  me  ;  I  must ;  I  know  you  desire  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Mr.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell  you,  that  you 
wrong  my  sentiments  and  yourself.  When  I  first  applied 
to  your  friendship,  I  expected  advice  and  assistance  ;  but 
now,  Sir,  I  see  that  it  is  in  vain  to  expect  happiness  from 
him,  who  has  been  so  bad  an  economist  of  his  own  ;  and 
that  I  must  disclaim  his  friendship  who  ceases  to  be  a 
friend  to  himself.  [Exit 

Honeyw.  How  is  this  !  she  has  confessed  she  loved  him, 
and  yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displeasure.  Can  I  have 
done  any  thing  to  reproach  myself  with  ?  No :  I  believe 
not :  yet  after  all,  these  things  should  not  be  done  by 
a  third  person  :  I  should  have  spared  her  confusion.  My 
friendship  carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  Croaker,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  And  so,  my  dear,  it 's  your 
supreme  wish  that  I  should  be  quite  wretched  upon  this 
occasion  ?  ha  !  ha  ! 


ACT  IV]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  63 

Croak.  (Mimicking.)  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  And  so,  my  dear, 
it 's  your  supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no  better  conso- 
lation ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  Positively,  my  dear  ;  what  is  this  incen- 
diary stuff  and  trimipery  to  me  ?  our  house  may  travel 
through  the  air  like  the  house  of  Loretto,  for  aught  I  care, 
if  I  am  to  be  miserable  in  it. 

Croak.  Would  to  heaven  it  were  converted  into  a 
house  of  correction  for  your  benefit.  Have  we  not  every 
thing  to  alarm  us  ?  Perhaps  this  very  moment  the  tragedy 
is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress  till  the 
rising  of  the  curtain,  or  give  them  the. money  they  want, 
and  have  done  with  them. 

Croak.  Give  them  my  money  ! — ^And  pray,  what  right 
have  they  to  my  money  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  And  pray,  what  right  then  have  you  to 
my  good  humour  ? 

Croak.  And  so  your  good  humour  advises  me  to  part 
with  my  money  ?  Why  then,  to  tell  your  good  humour 
a  piece  of  my  mind,  I'd  sooner  part  with  my  wife.  Here 's 
Mr.  Honeywood,  see  what  he'll  say  to  it.  My  dear 
Honeywood,  look  at  this  incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my 
door.  It  will  freeze  you  with  terror  ;  and  yet  lovey  here 
can  read  it — can  read  it,  and  laugh. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honejrwood. 

Croak.  If  he  does,  I'll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the  next 
minute  in  the  rogue's  place,  that 's  all. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood ;  is  there  any 
thing  more  foolish  than  my  husband's  fright  upon  this 
occasion  ? 

Honeyw.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide,  madam  ; 
but  doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors,  now,  will  but 
invite  them  to  renew  their  villany  another  time. 

Mrs.  Croak.  I  told  you,  he'd  be  of  my  opinion. 


r  J 


64  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  iv 

Croak.  How,  Sir  !  do  you  maintain  that  I  should  lie 
down,  under  such  an  injury,  and  shew,  neither  by  my 
tears  nor  complaints,  that  I  have  something  of  the  spirit 
of  a  man  in  me  ? 

Honeyw.  Pardon  me,  Sir.  You  ought  to  make  the 
loudest  complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The  surest 
way  to  have  redress,  is  to  be  earnest  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

Croak.  Aye,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now  ? 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  don't  you  think  that  laughing-off  our 
fears  is  the  best  way  ? 

Honeyw.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can  say ; 
but  I'll  maintain  it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croak.  But  we're  talking  of  the  best.  Surely  the  best 
way  is  to  face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and  not  wait  till  he 
plunders  us  in  our  very  bed-chamber. 

Honeyw.  Why,  Sir,  as  to  the  best,  that — that's  a 
very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croak.  But  can  any  thing  be  more  absurd,  than 
to  double  our  distresses  by  our  apprehensions,  and  put 
it  in  the  power  of  every  low  fellow,  that  can  scrawl  ten 
words  of  wretched  spelling,  to  torment  us  ? 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croak.  How  !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to  despise 
the  rattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake  ? 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  perfectly  absurd. 

Croak.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion  ? 

Honeyw.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croak.  And  you  reject  mine  1 

Honeyw.  Heavens  forbid,  madam !  No  sure,  no 
reasoning  can  be  more  just  than  yours.  We  ought 
certainly  to  despise  malice  if  we  cannot  oppose  it,  and 
not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as  fatal  to  our  repose  as 
the  highwayman's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croak.  O  !  then  you  think  I'm  quite  right  ? 

Honeyw.  Perfectly  right. 


ACT  IV]         THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  65 

Croak.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can't  be  both  right. 
I  ought  to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad.  My  hat  must 
be  on  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be  off. 

Mrs.  Croak,  Certainly,  in  two  opposite  opinions,  if  one 
be  perfectly  reasonable,  the  other  can't  be  perfectly  right. 

Honeyw.  And  why  may  not  both  be  right,  madam  ? 
Mr.  Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress,  and  you  in 
waiting  the  event  with  good  humour  ?  Pray  let  me  see 
the  letter  a.gain.  I  have  it.  This  letter  requires  twenty 
guineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  Inn.  If  it  be 
indeed  an  incendiary  letter,  what  if  you  and  I,  Sir,  go 
there ;  and,  when  the  writer  comes  to  be  paid  his  ex- 
pected booty,  seize  him  ? 

Croak,  My  dear  friend,  it 's  the  very  thing ;  the  very 
thing.  While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you  shall  plant  your* 
self  in  ambush  near  the  bar ;  burst  out  upon  the  miscreant 
like  a  masqued  battery  ;  extort  a  confession  at  once,  and 
so  hang  him  up  by  surprise. 

Honeyw,  Yes,  but  I  would  not  chuse  to  exercise  too 
much  severity.  It  is  my  maxim.  Sir,  that  crimes  generally 
punish  themselves. 

Croak,  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little,  I  sup- 
pose ?  [Ironically, 

Honeyw,  Aye,  but  not  punish  him  too  rigidly. 

Croak,  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  benevolence. 

Honeyw,  Well,  I  do ;  but  remember  that  universal 
benevolence  is  the  first  law  of  nature. 

[Exeunt  Honeywood  and  Mrs,  Croaker, 

Croak,  Yes ;  and  my  universal  benevolence  will  hang 
the  dog,  if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  a  hydra. 


«OL,DSMITR.     IX  D 


66  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [acev 

ACT  V 

SCENE,    AN   INN. 

Enter  Olivia,  Jarvia. 

Oliv,  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  Inn,  however. 
Now,  if  the  post-chaise  were  ready — 

Jarv,  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats  ;  and,  as 
they  are  not  going  to  be  married,  they  chuse  to  take  their 
Qwn  time. 

Oliv.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives  to  my 
impatience. 

Jarv,  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses  must  take 
their  own  time  ;  besides,  you  don't  consider,  we  have  got 
no  answer  from  our  fellow-traveller  yet.  If  we  hear 
nothing  from  Mr.  Leontine,  we  have  only  one  way  left  us. 

Oliv.  What  way  ? 

Jarv.  The  way  home  again. 

Oliv.  Not  so.  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go,  and 
nothing  shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jarv.  Aye ;  resolutions  are  well  kept,  when  they 
jump  with  inclination.  However,  I'll  go  hasten  things 
without.  And  I'll  call,  too,  at  the  bar,  to  see  if  any  thing 
should  be  left  for  us  there.  Don't  be  in  such  a  plaguy 
hurry,  madam,  and  we  shall  go  the  faster,  I  promise  you. 

[EqcU  Jarvis. 

Enter  Landlady. 

Land.  What !  Solomon,  why  don't  you  move  ?  Pipes 
and  tobacco  for  the  Lamb  there. — ^Will  nobody  answer  ? 
To  the  Dolphin  ;  quick.  The  Angel  has  been  outrageous 
this  half  hour.     Did  your  ladyship  call,  madam  ? 

Oliv.  No,  madam. 

Land  t  find,  as  you're  for  Scotland,  madam — But 
that's  no  business  of  mine  ;  married,  or  not  married,  I 


ACT  V]  THE  GOODNATUR'D  MAN  67 

ask  no  questions.  To  be  sure  we  had  a  sweet  little  couple 
set  off  from  this  two  days  ago  for  the  same  place.  The 
gentleman,  for  a  tailor,  was,  to  be  sure,  as  fine  a  spo^iLen 
tailor,  as  ever  blew  froth  from  a  full  pot.  And  the  young 
lady  so  bashful,  it  was  near  half  an  hour  before  we  could 
get  her  to  finish  a  pint  of  rasberry  between  us. 

Oliv.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going  to  be 
married,  I  assure  you. 

Land.  May  be  not.  That 's  no  business  of  mine ;  for 
certain,  Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn  out  well.  There 
was,  of  my  own  knowledge.  Miss  Macfag,  that  married 
her  father's  footman. — ^Alack-a-day,  she  and  her  husband 
soon  parted,  and  now  keep  separate  cellars  in  Hedge-lane. 

Oliv.  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what  lies  before  me  ! 

[Aside. 

Enter  Leontine. 

Leont.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you  were  out 
of  danger,  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I  could  not  help 
coming  to  see  you  set  out,  though  it  exposes  us  to  a 
discovery. 

Oliv.  May  every  thing  you  do  prove  as  fortunate.  In- 
deed, Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cruelly  disappointed. 
Mr.  Honeywood's  bill  upon  the  City  has,  it  seems,  been 
protested,  and  we  have  been  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to 
proceed. 

Leont.  How  !  an  offer  of  his  own  too.  Sure,  he  could 
not  mean  to  deceive  us. 

Oliv.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity  ;  he  only  mistook  the 
desire  for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But  let  us  think  no 
more  of  it.     I  believe  the  post-chaise  is  ready  by  this. 

Land.  Not  quite  yet:  and,  begging  your  ladyship's  par- 
don, I  don't  think  your  ladyship  quite  ready  for  the  post- 
chaise.  The  north-road  is  a  cold  place,  madam.  I  have 
a  drop  in  the  house  of  as  pretty  rasberry  as  ever  was 


68  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [actv 

tipt  over  tongue.     Just  a  thimblefull  to  keep  the  wind 

off  your  stomach.     To  be  sure,  the  last  couple  we  had 

here,  they  said  it  was  a  perfect  nosegay.     Ecod,  I  sent 

them  both  away  as  good-natured. — ^Up  went  the  blinds, 

round  went  the  wheels,  and  drive  away  post-boy,  was 

the  word. 

Enter  Croaker, 

Croak.  Well,  while  my  friend  Honeywood  is  upon  the 
post  of  danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my  business  to 
have  an  eye  about  me  here.  I  think  I  know  an  incendiary's 
look  ;  for  wherever  the  devil  makes  a  purchase,  he  never 
faOs  to  set  his  mark.  Ha  !  who  have  we  here  ?  My  son 
and  daughter  !   What  can  they  be  doing  here  ! 

Land.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you  good  ;  I  think 
I  know  by  this  time  what 's  good  for  the  north-road.  It 's 
a  raw  night,  madam — Sir — 

Leont.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I  should  now 
take  it  as  a  greater  favour,  if  you  hasten  the  horses,  for 
I  am  afraid  to  be  seen  myself. 

Land.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solomon  !  are  you 
all  dead  there  ?  Wha,  Solomon,  I  say  !       [Exit  baiding. 

Oliv.  Well !  I  dread,  lest  an  expedition  begun  in  fear, 
should  end  in  repentance. — Every  moment  we  stay  in- 
creases our  danger,  and  adds  to  my  apprehensions. 

Leont.  There's  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear;  there 
can  be  none.  If  Honeywood  has  acted  with  honour,  and 
kept  my  father  as  he  promised,  in  employment  till  we  are 
out  of  danger,  nothing  can  interrupt  our  journey. 

Oliv.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honeywood's  sincerity, 
and  even  his  desires  to  serve  us.  My  fears  are  from  your 
father's  suspicions.  A  mind  so  disposed  to  be  alarmed 
without  a  cause,  will  be  but  too  rea^y  when  there 's  a 
reason. 

Leont.  Why,  let  him  when  we  are  out  of  his  power. 
But  believe  me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great  reason  to  dread 


ACT  V]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  69 

his  resentment.  His  repining  temper,  as  it  does  no  manner 
of  injury  to  himself,  so  will  it  never  do  harm  to  others. 
He  only  frets  to  keep  himself  employed,  and  scolds  for 
his  private  amusement. 

Oliv,  I  don't  know  that ;  but,  I'm  sure,  on  some  occa- 
sions, it  makes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

Croak,  {Discovering  himself.)  How  does  he  look  now  ? — 
How  does  he  look  now  ? 

Oliv.  Ah! 

Leant.  Undone ! 

Croak.  How  do  I  look  now  ?  Sir,  I  am  your  very  hum- 
ble servant.  Madam,  I  am  yours.  What,  you  are  going 
off,  are  you  ?  Then,  first,  if  you  please,  take  a  word  or 
two  from  me  with  you  before  you  go.  Tell  me  first  where 
you  are  going  ?  and  when  you  have  told  me  that,  perhaps 
I  shall  know  as  little  as  I  did  before. 

LeonL  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but  increase 
your  displeasure,  without  adding  to  your  information. 

Croak.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  puppy  :  and 
you  too,  good  madam,  what  answer  have  you  got  ?  Eh  ! 
(A  cry  without.  Stop  him.)  I  think  I  heard  a  noise.  My 
friend  Honey  wood  without — ^has  he  seized  the  incendiary? 
Ah,  no,  for  now  I  hear  no  more  on 't. 

Leont.  Honeywood  without !  Then,  Sir,  it  was  Mr. 
Honeywood  that  directed  you  hither  ? 

Croak.  No,  Sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood  conducted  me 
hither. 

Leont.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Croak.  Possible!  Why  he's  in  the  house  now,  Sir; 
more  anxious  about  me  than  my  own  son.  Sir. 

Leont.  Then,  Sir,  he 's  a  villain. 

Croak.  How,  sirrah !  a  villain,  because  he  takes  most 
care  of  your  father  ?  I'll  not  bear  it.  I  tell  you  I'll  not 
bear  it.  Honeywood  is  a  friend  to  the  family,  and  I'll 
have  him  treated,  as  such. 


70  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [actv 

LeonL  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship  as  it 
deserves. 

Croak,  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly  he  entered 
into  my  griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means  to  detect  them, 
you  would  love  him  as  I  do.  {A  cry  wiihout,  Stop  him.) 
Fire  and  fury  !  they  have  seized  the  incendiary  :  they 
have  the  villain,  the  incendiary  in  view.  Stop  him  !  stop 
an  incendiary  !  a  murderer  ;  stop  him  !  [Exit. 

Oliv.  0,  my  terrors !  What  can  this  new  tumult  mean  ? 

Leont.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr.  Honeywood's 
sincerity.  But  we  shall  have  satisfaction  :  he  shall  give 
me  instant  satisfaction. 

Oliv.  Itmust  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you  value  my  esteem 
or  my  happiness.  Whatever  be  our  fate,  let  us  not  add 
guilt  to  our  misfortunes — Consider  that  our  innocence 
will  shortly  be  all  that  we  have  left  us.  You  must  forgive 
him. 

Leont.  Forgive  him  !  Has  he  not  in  every  instance 
betrayed  us  ?  Forced  me  to  borrow  money  from  him, 
which  appears  a  mere  trick  to  delay  us  ;  promised  to  keep 
my  father  engaged  till  we  were  out  of  danger,  and  here 
brought  him  to  the  very  scene  of  our  escape  1 

Oliv.  Don't  be  precipitate.     We  may  yet  be  mistaken. 

Enter  Postboy,  dragging  in  Jartris,  Honeyioood  entering 

soon  after. 

» 

Post.  Aye,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough.  Here  is 
the  incendiary  dog.  I'm  entitled  to  the  reward ;  I'll 
take  my  oath  I  saw  him  ask  for  the  money  at  the  bar,  and 
then  run  for  it. 

Honeyw.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see  him. 
Let  him  learn  to  blush  for  his  crimes.  {Discovering  his 
mistake.)  Death !  what 's  here !  Jarvis,  Leontine,  Olivia ! 
What  can  all  this  mean  ? 


ACT  V]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  71 

Jarv.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means :  that  I  was 
an  old  fool,  and  that  you  are  my  master — that 's  all. 

Honeyw,  Confusion  ! 

Leant.  Yes,  Sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word  with 
me.  Aft^r  such  baseness,  I  wonder  how  you  can  venture 
to  see  the  man  you  have  injured  ? 

Honeyw,  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my  honour—: 

LeorU.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame  ;  and  do  not  continue 
to  aggravate  baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I  know  you,  Sir, 
I  know  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  won't  you  hear  me !  By  all  that 's  just, 
I  knew  not — 

Leont.  Hear  you.  Sir  !  to  what  purpose  ?  I  now  see 
through  all  your  low  arts ;  your  ever  complying  with 
every  opinion;  your  never  refusing  any  request;  your 
friendship,  as  common  as  a  prostitute's  favours,  and  as 
fallacious  ;  all  these.  Sir,  have  long  been  contemptible  to 
the  world,  and  are  now  perfectly  so  to  me. 

Honeyw.  Ha !  *  contemptible  to  the  world  '  !  that 
reaches  me.  [Aside. 

Leont.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  professions,  I 
now  find,  were  only  allurements  to  betray  ;  and  all  your 
seeming  regret  for  their  consequences  only  calculated  to 
cover  the  cowardice  of  your  heart.     Draw,,  villain  ! 

Enter  Croaker,  out  of  brsath. 

Croak.  Where  is  the  villain  ?  Where  is  the  incendiary  ? 
{Seizing  the  postboy,)  Hold  him  fast,  the  dog :  he  has  the 
gallows  in  his  face.  Come,  you  dog,  confess  ;  confess  all, 
and  hang  yourself. 

Post.  Zounds  !  master,  what  do  you  throttle  me  for  1 

Croak.  {Beaiing  him.)  Dog,  do  you  resist ;  do  you 
resist? 

Post.  Zounds !   master,  I'm  not  he  ;    there 's  the  man 


72  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [actv 

that  we  thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns  out  to  be  one  of 
the  company. 

.Croak.  How  ! 

Honeyw.  Mr,  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  under  a  strange 
mistake  here  ;  I  find  there  is  nobody  guilty  ;  it  was  all 
an  error  ;  entirely  an  error  of  our  own. 

Croak,  And  I  say,  Sir,  that  you're  in  an  error ;  for 
there 's  guilt  and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned  Jesuitical 
pestilential  plot,  and  I  must  have  proof  of  it. 

Honeyw,  Do  but  hear  me. 

Croak.  What,  you  intend  to  bring  'em  off,  I  suppose; 
I'll  hear  nothing. 

Honeyw.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  calm  enough  to 
hear  reason. 

Oliv.  Excuse  me. 

Honeyw.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me  then  explain  it  to  you. 

Jarv.  What  signifies  explanations  when  the  thing  is 
done  ? 

Honeyw.  Will  nobody  hear  me  ?  Was  there  ever  such 
a  set,  so  blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice  !  {To  the  post- 
boy.) My  good  friend,  I  believe  you'll  be  surprised,  when 
I  assure  you — 

Post.  'Sure  me  nothing — I'm  sure  of  nothing  but  a 
good  beating. 

Croak.  Come  then  you,  madam,  if  you  ever  hope  for 
any  favour  or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincerely  all  you  know 
of  this  affair. 

Oliv.  Unhappily,  Sir,  I'm  but  too  much  the  cause  of 
your  suspicions  :  you  see  before  you,  Sir,  one  that  with 
false  pretences  has  stept  into  your  family  to  betray  it : 
not  your  daughter — 

Croak.  Not  my  daughter  ! 

Oliv.  Not  your  daughter — ^but  a  mean  deceiver — ^who 
— support  me,  I  cannot — 

Honeyw.  Help,  she 's  going,  give  her  air. 


CROAKER  THRASHING  THE  POSTBOY 


c 


*••♦ 


ACT  V]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  73 

Croak.  Aye,  aye,  take  the  young  woman  to  the  air  ; 
I  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whoseever  daughter 
she  may  be — not  so  bad  as  that  neither. 

[ExeurU  all  but  Croaker. 

Croak.  Yes,  yes,  all 's  out :  I  now  see  the  whole  affair : 
my  son  is  either  married,  or  going  to  be  so,  to  this  lady, 
whom  he  imposed  upon  me  as  his  sister.  Aye,  certainly 
so ;  and  yet  I  don't  find  it  afflicts  me  so  much  as  one 
might  think.  There's  the  advantage  of  fretting  away 
our  misfortunes  beforehand,  we  never  feel  them  when 
they  come. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Sir  William. 

Sir  Will.  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that  my 
nephew  intends  setting  off  from  this  place. 

Miss  Rich.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come  to  this 
inn,  and  my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending  to  leave  the 
kingdom,  suggested  the  rest.  But  what  do  I  see,  my 
guardian  here  before  us  !  Who,  my  dear  Sir,  could  have 
expected  meeting  you  here  ?  to  what  accident  do  we 
owe  this  pleasure  ? 

Croak.  To  a  fool,  I  believe. 

Miss  Rich.  But  to  what  purpose  did  you  come. 

Croak.  To  play  the  fool. 

Miss  Rich.  But  with  whom  ? 

Croak.  With  greater  fools  than  myself. 

Miss  Rich.  Explain. 

Croak.  Why,  Mr.  Honeywood  brought  me  here,  to  do 
nothing,  now  I  am  here ;  and  my  son  is  going  to  be 
married  to  I  don't  know  who,  that  is  here  :  so  now  you 
are  as  wise  as  I  am. 

Miss  Rich.  Married  !  to  whom,  Sir  ? 

Croak.  To  Olivia,  my  daughter  as  I  took  her  to  be ; 
but  who  the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter  she  is,  I  know 
no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 

Sir  Will.  Then,  Sir,  I  can  inform  you  ;  and,  though  a 

D3 


74  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  v 

stranger,  yet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to  your  family  :  it 
will  be  enough,  at  present,  to  assure  you,  that  both  in 
point  of  birth  and  fortune  the  young  lady  is  at  least  your 
son's  equal.  Being  left  by  her  father  Sir  James  Wood- 
ville 

Croak,  Sir  James  Woodville  !  What,  of  the  West  ? 

Sir  WUL  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care  of  a 
mercenary  wretch,  whose  only  aim  was  to  secure  her 
fortune  to  himself,  she  was  sent  to  France,  under  pretence 
of  education ;  and  there  every  art  was  tried  to  fix  her 
for  life  in  a  convent,  contrary  to  her  inclinations.  Of 
this  I  was  informed  upon  my  arrival  at  Paris ;  and,  as  I 
had  been  once  her  father's  friend,  I  did  all  in  my  power  to 
frustrate  her  guardian's  base  intentions.  I  had  even 
meditated  to  rescue  her  from  his  authority,  when  your 
son  stept  in  with  more  pleasing  violence,  gave  her  liberty, 
and  you  a  daughter. 

Croak.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my  own 
chusing,  Sir.  A  young  lady.  Sir,  whose  fortune,  by  my 
interest  with  those  who  have  interest,  will  be  double  what 
my  son  has  a  right  to  expect.  Do  you  know  Mr.  Lofty, 
Su-? 

Sir  Will.  Yes,  Sir ;  and  know  that  you  are  deceived  in 
him.     But  step  this  way,  and  I'll  convince  you. 

[Croaker  and  Sir  William  seem  to  confer. 

Enier  Honeytvood. 

Honey  w.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his  outrage  ! 
insulted  by  him,  despised  by  all,  I  now  begin  to  grow 
contemptible,  even  to  myself.  How  have  I  sunk  by  too 
great  an  assiduity  to  please !  How  have  I  over-taxed  all 
my  abilities,  lest  the  approbation  of  a  single  fool  should 
escape  me  !  But  all  is  now  over  ;  I  have  survived  my 
reputation,  my  fortune,  my  friendships,  and  nothing 


ACT  V]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  75 

remains  henceforward  for  me  but  solitude  and  repent- 
ance. 

Mi88  Rich,  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that  you  are 
setting  off,  without  taking  leave  of  your  friends  ?  The 
report  is,  that  you  are  quitting  England.     Can  it  be  ? 

Honeyw.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so  unhappy 
as  to  have  fallen  under  your  displeasure,  yet,  thank 
Heaven,  I  leave  you  to  happiness,  to  one  who  loves 
you,  and  deserves  your  love  ;  to  one  who  has  power  to 
procure  you  affluence,  and  generosity  to  improve  your 
enjoyment  of  it. 

Mi88  Rich,  And  are  you  sure,  Sir,  that  the  gentleman 
you  mean  is  what  you  describe  him  ? 

Honeyw.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it,  his  serving 
me.  He  does  indeed  deserve  the  highest  happiness,  and 
that  is  in  your  power  to  confer.  As  for  me,  weak  and 
wavering  as  I  have  been,  obliged  by  all,  and  incapable  of 
serving  any,  what  happiness  can  I  find  but  in  solitude  ? 
What  hope  but  in  being  forgotten  ? 

Miaa  Rich.  A  thousand !  to  live  among  friends  that 
esteem  you,  whose  happiness  it  will  be  to  be  permitted  to 
oblige  you. 

Honeyw.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed.  Inferio 
rity  among  strangers  is  easy ;  but  among  those  that  once 
were  equals,  insupportable.  Nay,  to  shew  you  how  far 
my  resolution  can  go,  I  can  now  speak  with  calmness  of 
my  former  follies,  my  vanity,  my  dissipation,  my  weak- 
ness. I  will  even  confess,  that,  among  the  number  of 
my  other  presumptions,  I  had  the  insolence  to  think  of 
loving  you.  Yes,  madam,  while  I  was  pleading  the  pas- 
sion of  another,  my  heart  was  tortur'd  with  its  own. 
But  it  is  over,  it  was  unworthy  our  friendship,  and  let  it 
be  forgotten. 

Miss  Rich.  You  amaze  me  ! 

Honeyw.  But  you'll  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will ;  since 


76  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  v 

the  confession  should  not  have  come  from  me  even  now, 

but  to  convince  you  of  the  sincerity  of  my  intention  of — 

never  mentioning  it  more.  [Going- 

Miss  Etch.  Stay,  Sir,  one  moment — ^Ha  !  he  here— 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Is  the  coast  clear  ?  None  but  friends  ?  I  have 
followed  you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  intelligence : 
but  it  goes  no  farther,  things  are  not  yet  ripe  for  a  dis- 
covery. I  have  spirits  working  at  a  certain  board  ;  your 
affair  at  the  treasury  will  be  done  in  less  than — ^a  thou- 
sand years.     Mum ! 

Miss  Rich,  Sooner,  Sir,  I  should  hope. 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into  proper 
hands,  that  know  where  to  push  and  where  to  parry ; 
that  know  how  the  land  lies — eh,  Honeywood  ! 

Miss  Rich.  It  has  fallen  into  yours. 

Lofty.  WeU,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense,  your 
thing  is  done.  It  is  done,  I  say — that's  all.  I  have  just 
had  assurances  from  Lord  Neverout,  that  the  claim  has 
been  examined,  and  found  admissible.  Quietus  is  the 
word,  madam. 

Honey  w.  But  how!  his  lordship  has  been  at  Newmarket 
these  ten  days. 

Lofty.  Indeed !  Then  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must  have 
been  most  damnably  mistaken.     I  had  it  of  him. 

Miss  Rich.  He !  why  Sir  Gilbert  and  his  family  have 
been  in  the  country  this  month. 

Lofty.  This  month  !  it  must  certainly  be  so — Sir 
Gilbert's  letter  did  come  to  me  from  Newmarket,  so  that 
he  must  have  met  his  lordship  there ;  and  so  it  came  * 
about.  I  have  his  letter  about  me  ;  I'll  read  it  to  you, 
(Taking  ovi  a  large  bundle,)  That 's  from  Paoli  of  Corsica, 
that  from  the  marquis  of  Squilachi. — ^Have  you  a  mind 
to  see  a  letter  from  Count  Poniatowski,  now  King  of 


ACT  V]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  77 

Poland — Honest  Pon — (Searching.)  0,  Sir,  what,  are  you 
here  too  ?  I'll  tell  you  what,  honest  friend,  if  you  have 
not  absolutely  delivered  my  letter  to  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood,  you  may  return  it.  The  thing  will  do  without 
him. 

Sir  Will,  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it ;  and  must  inform 
you,  it  was  received  with  the  most  mortifying  contempt. 

Croak,  Contempt !  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that  mean  ? 

Lofty,  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say.  You'll  find 
it  come  to  something  presently. 

Sir  Will,  Yes,  Sir,  I  believe  you'll  be  amazed,  if  after 
waiting  some  time  in  the  anti-chamber,  after  being  sur- 
veyed with  insolent  curiosity  by  the  passing  servants, 
I  was  at  last  assured,  that  Sir  William  Honeywood  knew 
no  such  person,  and  I  must  certainly  have  been  imposed 
upon. 

Lofty,  Good  ;   let  me  die ;   very  good.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Croak,  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half  the  good- 
ness of  it. 

Lofty,  You  can't.     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Croak,  No,  for  the  soul  of  me  !  I  think  it  was  as  con- 
founded a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from  one  private 
gentleman  to  another. 

Lofty.  And  so  you  can't  find  out  the  force  of  the  mes- 
sage ?  Why,  I  was  in  the  house  at  that  very  time.  Ha  ! 
ha  !  It  was  I  that  sent  that  very  answer  to  my  own  letter.. 
Ha !  ha ! 

Croak,  Indeed !   How  ?   why  ? 

Lofty,  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William  and 
me  must  be  behind  the  cuurtain.  A  party  has  many  eyes. 
*&e  sides  with  Lord  Buzzard,  I  side  with  Sir  Gilbert  Goose. 
So  that  unriddles  the  mystery. 

Croak,  And  so  it  does,  indeed  ;  and  all  my  suspicions 
are  over. 

Lofty,  Your  suspicions !    What,  then,  you  have  been 


78  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  v 

suspecting,  you  have  been  suspecting,  have  you  ? 
Mr.  Croaker,  you  and  I  were  friends  ;  we  are  friends  no 
longer.     Never  talk  to  me.     It 's  over  ;  I  say,  it 's  over. 

Croak,  As  I  hope  for  your  favour  I  did  not  mean  to 
oflFend.     It  escaped  me.     Don't  be  discomposed. 

Lofty.  Zounds  !  Sir,  but  I  am  discomposed,  and  will 
be  discomposed.  To  be  treated  thus  !  Who  am  I !  Was 
it  for  this  I  have  been  dreaded  both  by  ins  and  outs  ? 
Have  I  been  libelled  in  the  Gazetteer,  and  praised  in  the 
St.  James's  ?  have  I  been  chaired  at  Wildman's,  and  a 
speaker  at  Merchant-Tailors'  Hall  ?  have  I  had  my  hand 
to  addresses,  and  my  head  in  the  print-shops  ;  and  talk 
to  me  of  suspects  ? 

Croak,  My  dear  Sir,  be  pacified.  What  can  you  have 
but  asking  pardon  ? 

Lofty,  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified — Suspects  !  Who  am 
I !  To  be  used  thus  !  Have  I  paid  court  to  men  in  favour 
to  serve  my  friends  ;  the  lords  of  the  treasury.  Sir  William 
Hone3rwood,  and  the  rest  of  the  gang,  and  talk  to  me  of 
suspects  !  Who  am  I,  I  say,  who  am  I ! 

Sir  Witt.  Since,  Sir,  you  are  so  pressing  for  an  answer, 
I'll  tell  you  who  you  are.  A  gentleman,  as  well  ac- 
quainted with  politics  as  with  men  in  power ;  as  well  ac- 
quainted with  persons  of  fashion  as  with  modesty  ;  with 
lords  of  the  treasury  as  with  truth  ;  and  with  all,  as  you 
are  with  Sir  William  Honeywood.  I  am  Sir  William 
Honeywood.  [Discovering  his  ensigns  of  the  Bath. 

Croak.  Sir  William  Honeywood  ! 
^' Honey  w.  Astonishment!  my  uncle!  (Aside.) 

Ldfty.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been  all  this 
time  only  leading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in  order  to  fling  me 
out  of  the  window. 

Croak.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these  your 
works  !  Suspect  you  ?  You,  who  have  been  dreaded  by 
the  ins  and  outs :  you,  who  have  had  your  hand  to 


ACT  v]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  79 

addresses,  and  your  head  stuck  up  in  print-shops.  If 
you  were  served  right,  you  should  have  your  head  stuck 
up  in  a  pillory. 

Lofty.  Aye,  stick  it  where  you  will ;  for  by  the  Lord,  it 
cuts  but  a  very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks  at  present. 

Sir  Will,  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now  see  how 
incapable  this  gentleman  is  of  serving  you,  and  how  little 
Miss  Richland  has  to  expect  from  his  influence. 

Croak.  Aye,  Sir,  too  well  I  see  it ;  and  I  can't  but  say 
I  have  had  some  boding  of  it  these  ten  days.  So  I'm 
resolved,  since  my  son  has  placed  his  affections  on  a  lady 
of  moderate  fortune,  to  be  satisfied  with  his  choice,  and 
not  run  the  hazard  of  another  Mr.  Lofty  in  helping  him 
to  a  better. 

Sir  Will.  I  approve  your  resolution ;  and  here  they 
come  to  receive  a  confirmation  of  youur  pardon  and  con- 
sent. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker,  Jarvis,  Leontine,  and  Olivia. 

Mrs.  Croak.  Where 's  my  husband !  Come,  come,  lovey, 
you  must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here  has  been  to  tell  me 
the  whole  affair ;  and  I  say,  you  must  forgive  them. 
Our  own  was  a  stolen  match,  you  know,  my  dear ;  and 
we  never  had  any  reason  to  repent  of  it. 

Croak.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  However,  this 
gentleman.  Sir  William  Honeywood,  has  been  before- 
hand with  you  in  obtaining  their  pardon.  So,  if  the  two 
poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry,  I  think  we  can  tack 
them  together  without  crossing  the  Tweed  for  it. 

[Joining  their  hands. 

Leant.  How  blest  and  unexpected !  What  what  can 
we  say  to  such  goodness  ?  But  our  future  obedience  shall 
be  the  best  reply.  And  as  for  this  gentleman,  to  whom 
we  owe— 

Sir  Will.  Excuse  me.  Sir,  if  I  interrupt  your  thanks,  as 


80  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  [act  v 

I  have  here  an  interest  that  calls  me.  (Turning  to  Honey- 
ivood.)  Yes,  Sir,  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  ;  and  I  own 
that  a  desire  of  correcting  your  follies  led  me  hither. 
I  saw  with  indignation  the  errors  of  a  mind  that  only 
sought  applause  from  others ;  that  easiness  of  disposition, 
which  though  inclined  to  the  right  had  not  courage  to 
condemn  the  wrong.  I  saw  with  regret  those  splendid 
errors,  that  still  took  name  from  some  neighbouring  duty  ; 
your  charity,  that  was  but  injustice ;  your  benevolence, 
that  was  but  weakness  ;  and  your  friendship,  but  credu- 
lity. I  saw  with  regret  great  talents  and  extensive 
learning  only  employed  to  add  sprightliness  to  error,  and 
encrease  your  perplexities.  I  saw  your  mind  with  a 
thousand  natural  charms  :  but  the  greatness  of  its 
beauty  served  only  to  heighten  my  pity  for  its  prostitu- 
tion. 

Honeyw.  Cease  to  upbraid  me.  Sir  :  I  have  for  some 
time  but  too  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your  reproaches. 
But  there  is  one  way  still  left  me.  Yes,  Sir,  I  have  deter- 
mined this  very  hour  to  quit  for  ever  a  place  where  I  have 
made  myself  the  voluntary  slave  of  all,  and  to  seek  among 
strangers  that  fortitude  which  may  give  strength  to  the 
mind,  and  marshal  all  its  dissipated  virtues.  Yet  ere 
I  depart,  permit  me  to  solicit  favour  for  this  gentleman  ; 
who,  notwithstanding  what  has  happened,  has  laid  me 
under  the  most  signal  obligations.     Mr.  Lofty 

Lofty.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  resolved  upon  a  reforma- 
tion as  well  as  you.  I  now  begin  to  find  that  the  man 
who  first  invented  the  art  of  speaking  truth  was  a  much 
cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought  him.  And  to  prove  that 
I  design  to  speak  truth  for  the  future,  I  must  now  assure 
you,  that  you  owe  your  late  enlargement  to  another ;  as, 
upon  my  soul,  I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter.  So  now,  if 
any  of  the  company  has  a  mind  for  preferment,  he  may 
take  my  place,  I'm  determined  to  resign.        •         \Exit. 


ACT  V]  THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  81 

Honeyw.  How  have  I  been  deceived  ! 

Sir  Will.  No,  Sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  a  kinder, 
fairer  friend  for  that  favour — to  Miss  Richland.  Would 
she  complete  our  joy,  and  make  the  man  she  has  honoured 
by  her  friendship  happy  in  her  love,  I  should  then  forget 
all,  and  be  as  blest  as  the  welfare  of  my  dearest  kinsman 
can  make  me. 

Miss  Rich,  After  what  is  past  it  would  be  but  affecta- 
tion to  pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I  will  own  an  at- 
tachment, which  I  find  was  more  than  friendship.  And 
if  my  intreaties  cannot  alter  his  resolution  to  quit  the 
country,  I  will  even  try  if  my  hand  has  not  power  to 
detain  him.  [Giving  her  hand, 

Honeyw,  Heavens  !  how  can  I  have  deserved  all  this  ? 
How  express  my  happiness,  my  gratitude !  A  moment 
like  this  overpays  an  age  of  apprehension. 

Croak,  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face ;  but 
heaven  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three  months  ! 

Sir  WUl,  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect  your- 
self. He  who  seeks  only  for  applause  from  without,  has 
all  his  happiness  in  another's  keeping. 

Honeyw.  Yes,  Sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive  my  errors ; 
my  vanity  in  attempting  to  please  all  by  fearing  to  offend 
any ;  my  meanness  in  approving  folly  lest  fools  should 
disapprove.  Henceforth,  therefore,  it  shall  be  my  study 
to  reserve  my  pity  for  real  distress ;  my  friendship  for 
true  merit ;  and  my  love  for  her,  who  first  taught  me 
what  it  is  to  be  happy. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  GOOD-NATURT> 

MAN  1 

SPOKEN    BY  MRS.   BULKLEY 

As  puffing  qviacks  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 
To  swear  the  pill,  or  drop,  has  wrought  a  cure  ; 
Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  play-wrights  still  depend 
For  Epilogues  and  Prologues  on  some  friend, 
Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 
And  makes  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 
Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about. 
And  teaz'd  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out. 
An  Epilogue,  things  can't  go  on  without  it ; 
It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it. 
Young  man,  cries  one  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover), 
Alas,  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over ; 
Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  I ; 
Your  brother  Doctor  there,  perhaps,  may  try. 
What  I !    dear  Sir,  the  Doctor  interposes  ; 
What,  plant  my  thistle,  Sir,  among  his  roses  ! 
No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain ; 
To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick-lane. 
Go  ask  your  manager — Who,  me  !     Your  pardon  ; 
Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent-garden. 
Our  author's  friends,  thus  plac'd  at  happy  distance. 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 

The  author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a  friend  at 
Oxford,  deferred  writing  one  himself  till  tne  very  last  hour.  What 
is  here  offered,  owes  all  its  success  to  the  graceful  manner  of  the 
actress  who  spoke  it. 


«■ 


EPILOGUE  83 

As  some  unhappy  wight,  at  some  new  play, 
At  the  pit  door  stands  elbowing  away, 
While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  slirug, 
^e  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug ; 
His  simpering  friends,  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 
Sink  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 
He  nods,  they  nod ;    he  cringes,  they  grimace ; 
But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 
Since  then,  unhelp'd,  our  bard  must  now  conform 
*  To  'bide  the  pelting  of  thispitt'less  storm,* 
Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can, 
And  be  each  critick  the  Good-natured  Man. 


1 


SHE    STOOPS   TO    CONQUER 

OR 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT 

A  COMEDY 

AS   ACTED   AT  THE 

THEATRE-ROYAL,  COVENT-GARDEN 

[First  printed  in  1773] 


DEDICATION 

TO   SAMUEL  JOHNSON,   LL.D. 

Dear  Sib, 

By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you,  I  do 
not  mean  so  much  to  compHment  you  as  myself.  It 
may  do  me  some  honour  to  inform  the  public,  that  I 
have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.  It  may 
serve  the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  inform  them,  that 
the  greatest  wit  may  be  found  in  a  character,  without 
impairing  the  most  unaffected  piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for  your 
partiality  to  this  performance.  The  undertaking  a 
Comedy,  not  merely  sentimental,  was  very  dangerous ; 
and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw  this  piece  in  its  various  stages, 
always  thought  it  so.  However,  I  ventured  to  trust  it 
to  the  public  ;  and,  though  it  was  necessarily  delayed  till 
late  in  the  season,  I  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful. 
I  am, 

Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  sincere 
Friend  and  admirei, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


PROLOGUE 

BY   DAVID   GARRICK,   ESQ. 

Enter  Mr.   Wooduxird,  dressed  in  blacky  and  holding  a 

Handkerchief  to  his  Eyes. 

Excuse  me,  Sirs,  I  pray — ^I  can't  yet  speak — 
I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the  week. 
'  'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit/  good  masters  : 
*  I've  that  within  ' — for  which  there  are  no  plasters  ! 
Pray,  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying  ? 

Thft   r^ffli^^   Muse,    lon^   g^nlr     ia    nn^   ft-f^r'^fT  * 

And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop ; 
For  as  a  play'r,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop ; 
I  am  undone,  that 's  all — shall  lose  my  bread — 
I'd  rather,  but  that 's  nothing — lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  ma\\kish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  Sentimentals,  will  succeed ! 
Poor  Ked  and  I  are  dead  to  all  intents ; 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  Sentiments  ! 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up. 
We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 
^liat  shall  we  do  ? — If  Comedy.  forsaJkeu&I 
They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us. 
But,  why  can't  I  be  moral  ? — Let  me  try — 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fix'd  my  face  and  eye — 
With  a  sententious  look,  that  nothing  means, 
(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes) 


PROLOGUE  89 

Thus  I  begin — 'All  is  not  gold  that  glitters. 
Pleasures  seem  sweet,  but  prove  a  glass  of  bitters. 
When  ign' ranee  enters,  folly  is  at  hand : 
Learning  is  better  far  than  house  and  land. 
Let  not  your  virtue  trip,  who  trips  may  stumble, 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue,  if  she  tumble.' 

I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  nue  ; 
To  make  you  laugh,  I  must  play  tragedy. 
One  hope  remains — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 
A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  shew  his  skill. 
To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion, 
He,  in  Five  Draughts  prepar'd,  presents  a  potion : 
A  kind  of  magic  charm — for  be  assur'd. 
If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cur'd  : 
But  desperate  the  Doctor,  and  her  case  is, 
If  you  reject  the  dose,  and  make  wry  faces  ! 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 
No  pois'nous  drugs  are  mix'd  in  what  he  gives. 
Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree ; 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee  ! 
The  college  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 
Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  hirii  Quack. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE 

Men. 

Sir  Charles  Marlow      ....  Mr.  Gardner. 
1  Young  Marlow^  {Jiis  son)      .        .        .  Mr.  Lewis. 

HardcasUe Mr.  Shuter. 

*>iHaotings Mr.  Dubeixamy. 

Tony  Lumpkin Mr.  Quick. 

lyiggory Mr.  Saunders. 

a 

J'                           Women. 
ardcastle Mrs.  Green. 

i  Miss  Hardcastle Mrs.  Bulkley. 

At  Miss  Neville Mrs.  Kniveton. 

Maid MissWiLLEMS. 

Landlord,  Servants y  <ikc,,  dfc. 


SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER 

OR 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT 

ACT  I 

SCENE,   A  CHAMBER  IN  AN  OLD-FASHIONBD  HOUSE. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcctstle  and  Mr,  Hardcastle, 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  very  par- 
ticular. Lis  there  a  creature  in  the  whole  country  but 
ourselves,  that  does  not  take  a  trip  to  town  now  and  then, 
to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little  ?  There 's  the  two  Miss  Hoggs, 
and  our  neighbour  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go  to  take  a  month's 
polishing  every  winter. 

Hard/  Ay,  and,  bring  back  vanity  and  affectation  to 
last  them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why  London  cannot 
keep  its  own  fools  at  home  !  In  my  time,  the  follies  of 
the  town  crept  slowly  among  us,  but  now  they  travel 
faster  than  a  stage-coach.  Its  fopperies  come  down  not 
only  as  inside  passengers,  but  in  the  very  basket. 

Mrs,  Hard.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine  times  indeed ; 
you  haVe  been  telling  us  of  them  for  many  a  long  year. 
Here  we  live  in  an  old  rumbling  mansion,  that  looks  for 
all  the  world  like  an  inn,  but  that  we  never  see  company. 
Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs.  Oddfish,  the  ciurate's  wife, 
and  httle  Cripplegate,  the  lame  dancing-master  ;  and  all 
our  entertainment  your  old  stories  of  Prince  Eugene  and 


92  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  i 

the  Duke  of  Marlborough.     I  hate  such  old  fashioned 
trumpery.  y 

Hard.  And  I  love  it. yl  love  every  thing  that 's  old  : 
old  friends,  old  times,  old  manners,  old  books,  old  wines  ; 
and,  I  believe,  Dorothy,  {Taking  her  hand)  you'll  own 
I  have  been  pretty  fond  of  an  old  wife. 

Mrs.  Hard,  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  for  ever  at 
your  Dorothy's,  and  your  old  wives.  You  may  be  a 
Darby,  but  I'll  be  no  Joan,  I  promise  you.  I'm  not  so 
old  as  you'd  make  me,  by  more  than  one  good  year.  Add 
twenty  to  twenty,  aiid  make  money  of  that. 

Hard.  Let  me  see ;  twenty  added  to  twenty  makes 
just  fifty  and  seven. 

Mrs.  Hard.  It 's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle ;  I  was  but 
twenty  when  I  was  brought  to  bed  of  Tony,  that  I  had  by 
Mr.  Lumpkin,  my  first  husband  ;  and  he  's  not  come  to 
years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hard.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him.  Ay,  you 
have  taught  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Hard.  No  matter.  Tony  Lumpkin  has  a  good 
fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning.  I  don't 
think  a  boy  wants  much  learning  to  spend  fifteen  hundred 
a  year. 

Hard.  Learning,  quotha  !  a  mere  composition  of  tricks 
and  mischief. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Humour,  my  dear  :  nothing  but  humour. 
Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow  the  boy  a  little 
humour. 

Hard.  I'd  sooner  allow  him  an  horse-pond.  If  burning 
the  footmen's  shoes,  frighl^ning  the  maids,  and  worrying 
the  kittens  be  humour,  he  has  it.  It  was  but  yesterday 
he  fastened  my  wig  to  the  back  of  my  chair,  and  when 
I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popt  my  bald  head  in  Mrs. 
Frizzle's  face. 

Mrs.  Hard.  And  am  I  to  blame  ?   The  poor  boy  was 


ACT  I]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  93 

always  too  sickly  to  do  any  good.  A  school  would  be  his 
death.  When  he  comes  to  be  a  little  stronger  who  knows 
what  a  year  or  two's  Latin  may  do  for  him  ? 

Hard.  Latin  for  him.     A  cat  and  fiddle.     No,  no,  the.|y/ 
ale-house  and  the  ^stable  are  the  only  schools  he'll  ever 
go  to. 

Mrs,  Hard,  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor  boy  now, 
for  I  believe  we  shan't  have  him  long  among  us.  Any 
body  that  looks  in  his  face  may  see  he 's  consumptive. 

Hard,  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the  symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hard.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hard.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong  way.  ^/ 

Mrs.  Hard.  I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hard.  And  truly  so  am  I ;  for  he  sometimes  whoops  like 
a  speaking  trumpet — (Tony  hallooing  behind  the  scenes.) — 
O  there  he  goes — a  very  consumptive  figure,  truly. 

Enter  Tony,  crossing  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my  charmer  ? 
Won't  you  give  papa  and  I  a  little  of  your  company,  lovee? 

Tony.  I'm  in  haste,  mother,  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw  evening, 
my  dear  :  You  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  '  Three  Pigeons ' 
expects  me  down  every  moment.  There's  some  fun 
going  forward. 

Hard.  Ay;  the  ale-house,  the  old  place:/ 1  thought  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 

Tony.  Not  so  low  neither.  There 's  Dick  Muggins  the 
exciseman,  Jack  Slang  the  house  doctor,  little  Aminidab 
that  grinds  the  music  box,  and  Tom  Twist  that  spins  the 
pewter  platter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them  for  one 
night  at  least. 


94  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  i 

Tony,  As  for  disappointing  them  I  should  not  so  much 
mind  ;  but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint  myself. 

Mrs.  Hard,  {Detaming  him,)  You  shan't  go. 

Tony,  I  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs,  Hard,  I  say  you  shan't. 

Tony,  We'll  see  which  is  strongest,  you  or  I. 

[Eocit  hauling  her  out. 

Hard,  (Soltis,)  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that  only  spoil 
each  other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  a  combination 
to  drive  sense  and  discretion  out  of  doors  ?  There 's  my 
pretty  darling  Kate  !  the  fashions  of  the  times  have  al- 
most infected  her  too.  By  living  a  year  or  two  in  town, 
she  is  as  fond  of  gauze  and  French  frippery  as  the  best  of 
them. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcasile, 

Hard,  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence !  drest  out 
as  usual,  my  Kate.  Goodness !  What  a  quantity  of 
superfluous  silk  hast  thou  got  about  thee,  girl !  I  could 
never  teach  the  fools  of  this  age,  that  the  indigent  world 
could  be  clothed  out  of  the  trimmings  of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hard,  You  know  our  ^agreement.  Sir.  You  allow 
me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits,  and  to  dress 
in  my  own  manner ;  and  in  the  evening  I  put  on  my 
housewife's  dress  to  please  you. 

Hard,  Well,  remember  I  insist  on  the  terms  of  our 
agreement ;  and,  by  the  by,  I  believe  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  try  your  obedience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hard,  I  protest.  Sir,  I  don't  comprehend  your 
meaning. 

Hard,  Then  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I  expect  the 
young  gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be  your  husband  from 
town  this  very  day.  I  have  his  father's  letter,  in  which  he 
informs  me  his  son  is  set  out,  and  that  he  intends  to  follow 
himself  shortlj'  after. 


ACT  I]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  95 

Miss  Hard,  Indeed  !  I  wish  I  had  known  something 
of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how  shall  I  behave  1  It's  a 
thousand  to  one  I  shan't  like  him  ;  our  meeting  will  be  so 
formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  business,  that  I  shall  find  no 
room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hard,  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  never  will  contro^l 
your  choice !  but  Mr,  Marlow,  whom  I  have  pitched 
upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  of 
whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often.  The  young 
gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  designed  for  an 
employment  in  the  service  of  his  country,  I  am  told  he 's 
a  man  of  an  excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hard.  Is  he  ? 

Hard^  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hard.  I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him*' 

Hard.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more  (kissing  his 
hand),  he  's  mine,  I'll  have  him. 

Hard.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he  's  one  of  the  most 
bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  Eh  !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death  again. 
That  word  'reserved'  has  undone  all  the  rest  of  his  accom- 
plishments.    A  reserved  lover  it  is  said  always  makes  y 
a  suspicious  husband. 

Hard.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  resides  in  a 
breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler  virtues.  It  was 
the  very  feature  in  his  character  that  first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hard.  He  must  have  more  striking  features  to 
catch  me,  I  promise  you.  However,  if  he  be  so  young, 
and  so  every  thing  as  you  mention,  I  believe  he'll  do 
still.     I  think  I'll  have  him. 

Hard.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle.  It 's 
mote  tihan  an  even  wager  he  may  not  have  you. 


98  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  i 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mortify  one 
BO  ?  Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking  my  heart  at 
his  indifference,  I'll  only  break  my  glass  for  its  flattery, 
set  my  cap  to  some  newer  fashion,  and  look  out  for 
some  less  difficult  admirer. 

Hard.  Bravely  resolved  !  In  the  mean  time  I'll  go 
prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception  :  as  we  seldom  see 
company,  they  want  as  much  training  as  a  company  of 
recruits  the  first  day's  muster.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  (Alone.)  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's  puts  me 
all  in  a  flutter.  Young,  handsome  ;  these  he  put  last ; 
but  I  put  them  foremost.  Sensible,  good-natured ;  I 
like  all  that.  But  then  reserved  and  sheepish,  that 's 
much  against  him.  Yet  can't  he  be  cured  of  his  timidity, 
by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of  his  wife  ?  Yes,  and  can't  I 
— But  I  vow  I'm  disposing  of  the  husband,  before  I  have 
secured  the  lover. 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Neville,  my  dear. 
Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look  this  evening  ?  Is 
there  any  thing  whimsical  about  me  ?  Is  it  one  of  my 
well-looking  days,  child  ?  am  I  in  face  to-day  ? 

Miss  Nev.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet  now  I  look  again 
— bless  me ! — sure  no  accident  has  happened  among  the 
canary  birds  or  the  gold  fishes.  Has  your  brother  or  the 
cat  been  meddling  ?  or  has  the  last  novel  been  too  moving  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No ;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have  been 
threatened — I  can  scarce  get  it  out — I  have  been  threat- 
ened with  a  lover  ! 

Miss  Nev.  And  his  name — 

Miss  Hard.  Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Nev.  Indeed ! 

Miss  Hard.  The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Nev.  As   I   live,  the   most   intimate   friend  of 


ACT  I]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  97 

Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never  asunder. 
I  believe  you  must  have  seen  him  when  we  lived  in 
town. 

Miss  Hard,  Never. 

Miss  Nev,  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I  assure 
you.  Among  women  of  reputation  and  virtue  he  is  the 
modestest  man  alive ;  but  his  acquaintance  give  him 
a  very  different  character  among  creatures  of  another 
stamp :  you  understand  me. 

Miss  Hard.  An  odd  character,  indeed.  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  manage  him.  What  shall  I  do  ?  Pshaw,  think 
no  more  of  him,  but  trust  to  occurrences  for  success.  But 
how  goes  on  your  own  affair,  my  dear  ?  has  my  mother 
been  courting  you  for  my  brother  Tony  as  usual  ? 

Miss  Nev,  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our  agreeable 
tete-^-tetes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hundred  tender 
things,  and  setting  oflE  her  pretty  monster  as  the  very 
pink  of  perfection.  . 

Miss  Hard.  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that  she  actually  / 
thinks  him  so.     A  fortune  like  yours  is  no  small  tempta-l 
tion.     Besides,  as  she  has  the  sole  management  of  it,  I'nJ 
not  surprised  to  see  her  unwilling  to  let  it  go  out  of  th^ 
family. 

Miss  Nev.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly  consists 
in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation.  But  at  any 
rate  if  my  dear  Hastings  be  but  constant,  I  make  no 
doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last.  However,  I  let 
her  suppose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  son,  and  she 
never  once  dreams  that  my  affections  are  fixed  upon 
another. 

Miss  Hard.  My  good  brother  holds  out  stoutly.  I 
could  almost  love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Nev.  It's  a  good-natured  creature  at  bottom, 
and  I'm  sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married  to  any  body 
but  himsell.     But  my  aunt's  bell  rings  for  our  afternoon's 

GOLDSMITH.      II  B 


98  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  i 

walk  found  the  improvements.      AUons !     Courage  is 
necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miaa  Hard.  '  Would  it  were  bed-time  and  all  were  weU.' 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE,   AN  ALEHOUSE  BOOM. 

Several  ehahhy  fMowe  unth  punch  and  tobacco.  Tony  at 
the  head  of  the  tahle,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest :  a  mallet 
in  his  hand. 

Omnes.  Hurrea  !  hurrea  !  hurrea  !  bravo ! 

First  Fel.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song.  The 
'squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a  song. 

Omnes.  Ay,  a  song,  a  song  ! 

Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  'song  I  made 
upon  this  alehouse,  the  Three  Pigeons. 

Song. 
Let  school-masters  puzzle  their  brain. 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning. 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain. 

Gives  geniLS  a  better  discerning. 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods. 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 
Their  qui's,  and  their  quae's,  and  their  quod's. 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 

When  Methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown. 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 
For  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence. 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense. 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 


ACT  I]  8HE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  99 

•     « 

Then  come  put  the  jorum  ahout, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  JoUy  Pigeons  for  ever. 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare. 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons ; 
But  of  all  the  gay  birds  in  the  air. 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 

Omnes,  Bravo,  bravo ! 

First  Fel,  The  'squire  has  got  spunk  in  him. 

Second  Fd.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays  he  never 
gives  us  nothing  that 's  low. 

Third  Fd.  O  damn  any  thing  that's  low,  I  cannot 
bear  it. 

Fourth  Fd.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel  thing  at 
any  time.  If  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees  in  a  concatena- 
tion accordingly. 

Third  Fd.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it.  Master  Muggins. 
What,  though  I  am  obligated  to  dance  a  bear,  a  man 
may  be  a  gentleman  for  all  that.  May  this  be  my  poison, 
if  my  bear  ever  dances  but  to  the  very  genteelest  of  tunes ; 
'  Water  Parted,'  or  tbjB  minuet  in  *  Ariadne.' 

Second  Fd.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  'squire  is  not  come  to 
his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the  publicans  within 
ten  miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would.  Master  Slang.  I'd  then 
shew  what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Fd.  0  he  takes  after  his  own  father  for  that. 
To  be  sure  old  'squire  Lumpkin  was  the  finest  gentleman 
I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For  winding  the  straight  horn, 
or  beating  a  thicket  for  a  hare,  or  a  wench,  he  never  had 
his  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in  the  place  that  he  kept  the 
best  horses,  dogs,  and  girls  in  the  whole  county. 

Tony,  Ecod,  and  when  I'm  of  age,  I'll  be  no  bastard. 


100  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  i 

I  promise  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of  Bett  Bouncer 
and  the  miller's  grey  mare  to  begin  with.  But  come  my 
boys,  drink  about  and  be  merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckoning. 
Well,  Stingo,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Enter  Landlord. 

Land,  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post-chaise  at  the 
door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upo'  the  forest ;  and 
they  are  talking  something  about  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony,  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be  the 
gentleman  that 's  coming  down  to  court  my  sister.  Do 
they  seem  to  be  Londoners  ? 

y   Land.  I  believe  they  may.     They  look  woundily  like 
V  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and  I'll  set 
them  right  in  a  twinkling.  (Exit  Landlord.)  Gentlemen,  as 
they  mayn't  be  good  enough  company  for  you,  step  down 
for  a  moment,  and  I'll  be  with  you  in  the  squeezing  of 
a  lemon.  [Exeunt  mob. 

Tony.  (Alone.)  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me 
whelp  and  hound  this  half  year.  Now  if  I  pleased,  I  could 
be  so  revenged  on  the  old  grumbletonian.  But  then  I'm 
afraid — afraid  of  what !  I  shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen 
hundred  a  year,  and  let  him  frighten  me  out  of  that  if  he 
can. 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and  Hastings. 

Marl.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day  have  we  had 
of  it !  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty  miles  across  the 
country,  and  we  have  come  above  threescore. 

Hast.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccountable 
reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  inquire  more  fre- 
quently on  the  way. 

Marl.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to  lay  myself 
under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I  meet :  and  often  stand 
the  chance  of  an  unmannerly  answer. 


ACT  I]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  101 

Host,  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely  to  receive 
any  answer. 

Tony,  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I'm  told  you  have 
been  inquiring  for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle  in  these  parts. 
Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  country  you  are  in  ? 

HaaU  Not  in  the  least.  Sir,  but  should  thank  you  for 
information. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

HasU  No,  Sir,  but  if  you  can  inform  us 

Tony,  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the  road 
you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the  road  you  came, 
the  first  thing  I  have  to  infonja  you  is,  that — ^you  have 
lost  your  way. 

Marl.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
the  place  from  whence  you  came. 

Marl.  That 's  not  necessary  toward  directing  us  where 
we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence  ;  but  question  for  question  is  all 
fair,  you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this  same  Hard- 
castle a  cross-grain'd,  old-fashion'd,  whimsical  fellow, 
with  an  ugly  face  ;  a  daughter,  and  a  pretty  son  ? 

Hast.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman,  but  he  has 
the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping,  talk- 
ative maypole — the  son,  a  pretty,  well-bred,  agreeable 
youth,  that  everybody  is  fond  of. 

Marl.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The  daughter 
is  said  to  be  well-bred  and  beautiful ;  the  son,  an  auk- 
ward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother's  apron- 
string. 

Tony.  He-he-4iem  ! — Then  gentlemen,  all  I  have  to 
tell  you  is,  that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house 
this  night,  I  believe. 

Ha^t.  Unfortunate  ! 


102  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  i 

Tony.  It 's  a  damn'd  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty,  dangerous 
way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the  way  to  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's  !  {Winking  upon  the  Landlord.)  Mr.  Hardcastle's, 
of  Quagmire  Marsh,  you  understand  me  ? 

Land,  Master  Hardcastle's!  Lock-a-daisy,  my  masters, 
you're  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong  !  When  you  came  to 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  you  should  have  cross'd  down 
Squash-Lane. 

Marl,  Cross  down  Squash-Lane ! 

Land.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  forward,  'till 
you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marh  Come  to  where  fpur  roads  meet ! 

Tony.  Ay  ;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only  one  of 
them. 

Marl.  O  Sir,  you're  facetious. 

Tony.  Then  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go  side- 
ways 'till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  common :  there  you 
must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the  wheel,  and  go  for- 
ward 'till  you  come  to  farmer  Murrain's  barn..  Coming 
to  the  farmer's  bam  you  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  then 
to  the  left,  and  then  to  the  right  about  again,  till  you  find 
out  the  old  mill. 

Marl.  Zounds,  man !  we  could  as  soon  find  out  the 
longitude ! 

HasU  What 's  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Marl.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  reception ; 
though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accommodate  us. 

Land.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one  spare  bed  in  the 
whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that 's  taken  up  by  three 
lodgers  already.  (After  a  pauae,  in  which  the  rest  seem 
disconcerted.)  I  have  hit  it.  Don't  you  think,  Stihgo,  our 
landlady  could  accommodate  the  gentlemen  by  the  fire- 
side, with three  chairs  and  a  bolster  ? 

Ha^t.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fire-side. 


ACT  I]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER-  103 

Marl,  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a  bolster. 

Tony,  You  do,  do  you  ! — then  let  me  see — what  if  you 
go  on  a  mile  further,  to  the  Buck's  Head  ;  the  old  Buck's 
Head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the  whole  county  ? 

Hast.  0  ho  !  so  we  have  escaped  an  adventure  for  this 
night,  however. 

Land,  (Apart  to  Tony,)  Sure,  you  ben't  sending  them 
to  your  father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? 

Tony,  Mum,  you  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that  out. 
(To  them.)  You  have  only  to  keep  on  straight  forward, 
till  you  come  to  a  large  old  house  by  the  road  side.  You'll 
see  a  pair  of  large  horns  over  the  door.  That 's  the  sign. 
Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly  about  you. 

Hast.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The  servants  can't 
miss  the  way  ? 

Tony.  Noi  no  ;  but  I  tell  you  though,  the  landlord  is 
rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business ;  so  he  wants  to 
be  thought  a  gentleman,  saving  your  presence,  he  !  he  ! 
he  !  He'll  be  for  giving  you  his  company,  and  ecod,  if  you 
mind  bim,  he'll  persuade  you  that  his  mother  was  an 
aldermaif,  and  his  aunt  a  justice  of  peace. 

Land.  A  troublesome  old  blade  to  be  sure ;  but  a' 
keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the  whole  country. 

Marl.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  w^e  shall  want 
no  farther  connexion.  We  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  did 
you  say  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  :  straight  forward.  I'll  just  st«p  myself, 
and  shew  you  a  piece  of  the  way.  (To  the  landlord,)  Mum. 

Land.  Ah,  bless  yo\ir  heart,  for  a  sweet,  pleasant 

damn'd  mischievous  son  of  a  whore.  [Exeunt. 


104  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUEK  [act  n 

ACT   II 

'  SCENE,   AN   OLD-FASHIONED  HOUSE. 

Enter  HardcasUcy  followed  by  three  or  four  aukward  Servania. 

Hard.  WeD,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the  table  exer- 
cise I  have  been  teaching  you  these,  three  days.  You  all 
know  your  posts  and  your  places,  and  can  shew  that  you 
have  been  used  to  good  company,  without  ever  stirring 
from  home. 

Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hard,  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to  pop  out 
and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like  frighted  rabbits  in 
a  warren. 

Omnes,  No,  no. 

Hard.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from  the 
bam,  are  to  make  a  shew  at  the  side-table ;  and  you, 
Roger,  whom  I  have  advanced  from  the  plough,  are  to 
place  yourself  behind  my  chair.  But  you're  not  to  stand 
so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets.  Take  your  hands 
from  your  pockets,  Roger ;  and  from  your  head,  you 
blockhead  you.  See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands. 
They're  a  little  too  stiff,  indeed,  but  that 's  no  great 
matter. 

Dig.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned  to  hold 
my  hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill  for  the  militia. 
And  so  being  upon  drill 

Hard.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory.  You 
must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests.  You  must  hear  us 
talk,  and  not  think  of  talking;  you  must  see  us  drink, 
and  not  think  of  drinking — you  must  see  us  eat,  and  not 
think  of  eating. 

Dig.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that 's  parfectly  un- 
possible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees  yeating  going  forward, 
ocod,  he  's  always  wishing  for  a  mouthful  himself. 


ACT  n]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  105 

Hard,  Blockhead !  Is  not  a  belly-full  in  the  kitchen  as 
good  as  a  belly-full  in  the  parlour  ?  Stay  your  stomach 
with  that  reflection. 

Dig,  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I'll  make  a  shift 
to  stay  my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef  in  the 
pantry. 

Hard,  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative.  Then  if  I  hap- 
pen to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story  at  table,  you 
must  not  all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if  you  made  part  of 
the  company. 

Dig,  Then  ecod,  your  worship  must  not  tell  the  story 
of  ould  grouse  in  the  gun-room  :  I  can't  help  laughing 
at  that — ^he  !  he  !  he  ! — ^for  the  soul  of  me.  We  have 
laughed  at  that  these  twenty  years — ^ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard,  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  The  story  is  a  good  one.  Well, 
honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that — ^but  still  remem- 
ber to  be  attentive.  Suppose  one  of  the  company  should 
call  for  a  glass  of  wine,  how  will  you  behave  ?  A  glass  of 
wine.  Sir,  if  you  please,  (To  Diggory) — Eh,  why  don't  you 
move  ? 

Dig,  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  courage  till 
I  see  the  eatables  and  drinkables  brought  upo'  the  table, 
and  then  I'm  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hard,  What,  will  nobody  move  ? 

First  Serv,  I'm  not  to  leave  this  place. 

Second  Serv,  I'm  sure  it 's  no  place  of  mine. 

Third  Serv.  Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Dig,  Wauns,  and  I'm  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hard,  You  numbskulls !  and  so  while,  like  your 
betters,  you  are  quarrelling  for  places,  the  guests  must 
be  starved.     O  you  dunces  !  I  find  I  must  begin  aD  over 

again But  don't  I  hear  a  coach  drive  into  the  yard  ? 

To  your  posts,  you  blockheads.  I'll  go  in  the  mean  time, 
and  give  my  old  friend's  son  a  hearty  reception  at  the 
gate.  [Exit  Hardcastle, 

E  3 


106  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  n 

Dig,  By  the  elevens,  my  place  is  gone  quite  out  of  my 
head. 

Roger,  I  know  that  my  place  is  to  be  every  where. 

First  8erv.  Where  the  devil  is  mine  ? 

Second  Serv.  My  place  is  to  be  no  where  at  all ;  and  so 
ize  go  about  my  business.  [Exeunt  servants^  running  about 

as  if  frighted,  different  uxzys. 

Enter   Servant   with   candles,    sheunng   in   Marlow   and 

Hastings. 

Serv.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome  !  This  way. 

Hast,  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day,  welcome 
once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a  clean  room,  and 
a  good  fire.  Upon  my  word,  a  very  weU-looking  house, 
antique  but  creditable. 

Marl.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion.  Having  first 
ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keeping,  it  at  last  comes 
to  levy  contributions  as  an  inn. 

Hast.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be  taxed  to  pay 
all  these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen  a  good  side-board,  or 
a  marble  chimney-piece,  though  not  actually  put  in  the 
biD,  inflame  a  reckoning  confoundedly. 

Marl.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all  places  :  the 
only  difference  is,  that  in  good  inns  you  pay  dearly  for 
luxuries  ;  in  bad  inns  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Hast.  You  have  hved  pretty  much  among  them.  In 
truth,  I  have  been  often  surprised,  that  you  who  have 
seen  so  much  of  the  world,  with  your  natural  good  sense, 
and  your  many  opportunities,  could  never  yet  acquire 
a  requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Marl.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell  me,  George, 
where  could  I  have  learned  that  assurance  you  talk  of  ? 
My  life  has  been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college  or  an  inn,  in 
seclusion  from  that  lovely  part  of  the  creation  that  chiefly 


1 


ACTH]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  107 

teach  men  confidence.     I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever 
familiarly  acquainted  with  a  single  modest  woman,  ex- 
cept my  mother — But  among  females  of  another  class, 
you  know — 
Hdst.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent  enough  of 

aU  conscience. 

* 

Marl.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hast.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of  reputation 
I  never  saw  such  an  ideot,  such  a  trembler ;  you  look  for 
all  the  world  as  if  you  wanted  an  opportunity  of  stealing 
out  of  the  room. 

Marl,  Why,  man,  that 's  because  I  do  want  to  steal  out 
of  the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed  a  resolution  to 
break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at  any  rate.  But  I  don't 
know-how,  a  single  glance  from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  has 
totally  overset  my  resolution.  An  impudent  fellow  may 
counterfeit  modesty  :  But  I'll  be  hanged  if  a  modest  man 
can  ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Ha^t,  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine  things  to  them, 
that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon  the  bar-maid  of  an  inn, 
or  even  a  college  bed-maker — 

Marl,  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things  to  them  ; 
they  freeze,  they  petrify  me.  They  may  talk  of  a  comet, 
or  a  burning  mountain,  or  some  such  bagatelle.  But  to 
me,  a  modest  woman,  drest  out  in  all  her,  finery,  is  the 
most  tremendous  object  of  the  whole  creation. 

Hast,  Ha  !  ha  1  ha  \  At  this  rate,  man,  how  can  you 
ever  expect  to  marry  ? 

Marl. .  Never,  unless,  as  among  kings  and  princes,  my 
bride  were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If,  indeed,  like  an 
eastern  bridegroom,  one  were  to  be  introduced  to  a  wife 
he  never  saw  before,  it  might  be  endured.  But  to  go 
through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal  courtship,  together 
with  the  episode  of  aunts,  grandmothers,  and  cousins,  and 
at  last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring  question  of, '  Madam, 


108  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  ii 

will  you  many  me  ? '  No,  no,  that 's  a  strain  much  above 
me,  I  assure  you. 

H<i8t,  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend  behaving 
to  the  lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at  the  request. of 
your  father. 

Marl.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies. .  Bow  very  low- 
Answer  yes  or  no  to  all  her  demands — But  for  the  rest,  I 
don't  think  I  shall  venture  to  look  in  her  face  till  I  see  my 
father's  again. 

Hast.  I'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm  a  friend 
can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

Marl.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my  chief 
inducement  down  was  to  be  instrumental  in  forwarding 
your  happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss  Neville  loves  you, 
the  family  don't  know  you,  as  my  friend  you  are  sure  of 
a  reception,  and  let  honour  do  the  rest. 

Ha^t.  My  dear  Marlow  !  But  I'll  suppress  the  emotion. 
Were  I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to  carry  off  a  fortune, 
you  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would  apply  to 
for  assistance.  But  Miss  Neville's  person  is  all  I  ask,  and 
that  is  mine,  both  from  her  deceased  father's  consent,  and 
her  own  inclination. 

Marl.\  Happy  man !  You  have  talents  and  art  to  capti- 
vate any  woman.  I'm  doom'd  to  adore  the  sex,  and  yet 
to  converse  with  the  only  part  of  it  I  despise.  This 
stammer  in  my  address,  and  this  aukward  prepossessing 
visage  of  mine,  can  never  permit  me  to  soar  above  the 
reach  of  a  milliner's  'prentice,  or  one  of  the  duchesses  ol 
Drury-lane.   )  Pshaw  !   this  fellow  here  to  interrupt  us  ! 

Erder  HardcasUe. 

Hard.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily  welcome. 
Which  is  Mr.  Marlow  ?  Sir,  you  are  heartily  welcome. 
It 's  not  my  way,  you  see,  to  receive  my  friends  with  my 
back  to  the  fire.     I  like  to  give  them  a  hearty  reception 


ACT  n]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  109 

ih  the  old  style,  at  my  gate.  I  like  to  see  their  horses 
and  trunks  taken  care  of. 

Marl.  (Aside.)  He  has  got  our  names  from  the  servants 
already.  {To  him.)  We  approve  your  caution  and  hospi- 
tality, Sir.  {To  Hastings.)  I  have  been  thinking,  George, 
of  changing  our  travelling  dresses  in  the  morning.  I  am 
grown  confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hard.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no  ceremony  in 
this  house. 

HorSt.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you're  right :  the  first  blow  is 
half  the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the  campaign  with  the 
white  and  gold. 

Hard.  Mr.  Marlow — Mr.  Hastings — ^gentlemen — ^pray 
be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house.  This  is  Liberty-hall, 
gentlemen.     You  inay  do  just  as  you  please  here. 

Marl,  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign  too  fiercely 
at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  before  it  is  over.  I 
think  to  reserve  the  embroidery  to  secure  a  retreat. 

Hard.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow,  puts  me 
in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  when  we  went  to 
besiege  Denain     He  first  summoned  the  garrison — 

Marl.  Don't  you  think  the  ventre  dor  waistcoat  will 
do  with  the  plain  brown  ? 

Hard.  He  first  simimoned  the  garrison,  which  might 
consist  of  about  five  thousand  men 

HaM.  I  think  not :  brown  and  yellow  mix  but  very 
poorly. 

Hard.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you,  he  sum- 
moned the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of  about  five 
thousand  men 

Marl.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hard.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand 
men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammunition,  and  other 
implements  of  war.  '  Now,'  says  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough to  George  Brooks,  that  stood  next  to  him — Youf 


110  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  n 

must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks — '  I'll  pawn  my 
dukedom,'  says  he,  *but  I  take  that  garrison  without 
spilling  a  drop  of  blood.'     So — — 

Marl,  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us  a  glass  of 
punch  in  the  mean  time,  it  would  help  us  to  carry  on  the 
siege  with  vigour. 

Hard,  Punch,  Sir  !  {Aside,)  This  is  the  most  unac- 
countable kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met  with. 

Marl,  Yes,  Sir,  punch.  A  glass  of  warm  punch,  after 
our  journey,  will  be  comfortable.  This  is  Liberty-hall, 
you  know. 

Hard,  Here  's  cup,  Sir. 

Marl,  {Aside,)  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty-hall,  will 
only  let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hard,  {Taking  the  cup.)  I  hope  you'll  find  it  to  your 
mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands,  and  I 
believe  you'll  own  the  ingredients  are  tolerable.  Will  you 
be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  Sir  ?  Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here 
is  to  our  better  acquaintance.  (Drinks.) 

Marl,  {Aside,)  A  very  impudent  feUow  this  !  but  he 's 
a  character,  and  I'll  humour  him  a  little.  Sir,  my  service 
to  you.  {Drinks,) 

Hast,  {Aside,)  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give  us  his 
company,  and  forgets  that  he 's  an  innkeeper,  before  he 
has  learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 

Marl,  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my  old  friend, 
I  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  business  in  this  part  of 
the  country.  Warm  work,  now  and  then  at  elections,  I 
suppose. 

Hard,  No,  Sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work  over. 
Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  electing 
each  other,  there  is  no  business  *  for  us  that  sell  ale.' 

Hast.  So,  then,  you  have  no  turn  for  politics,  I  find. 

Hard,  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time,  indeed,  I 
fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of  government,  like 


ACTii]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  111 

other  people  ;  but  finding  myself  every  day  grow  more 
angry,  and  the  government  growing  no  better,  I  left  it  to 
mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more  trouble  my  head 
about  Heyder  Ally  or  Ally  Cawn,  than  about  Ally  Croaker. 
Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

Hast.  So  that  with  eating  above  stairs,  and  drinking 
below,  with  receiving  your  friends  within,  and  amusing 
them  without,  you  lead  a  good  pleasant  bustling  life  of  it. 

Hard.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that 's  certain. 
Half  the  differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in  this  very 
parlour. 

Marl.  {After  drinking,)  And  you  have  an  argument  in 
your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than  any  in  Westminster- 
hall. 

Hard.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little  philo- 
sophy. 

Marl.  (Aside.)  WeD,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard 
of  an  inn-keeper's  philosophy. 

Hast.  So  then,  like  an  experienced  general,  you  attack 
them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find  their  reason  manage- 
able, you  attack  it  with  your  philosophy ;  if  you  find 
they  have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with  this.  Here  'a 
your  health,  my  philosopher.  (Drinks.) 

Hard.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you ;  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ? 
Your  generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince  Eugene> 
when  he  fought  the  Turks  at  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  You 
shall  hear. 

Marl.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  believe  it 's 
almost  time  to  talk  about  supper.  What  has  your 
philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper  ? 

Hard.  For  supper.  Sir ;  (Aside.)  Was  ever  such  a 
request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house  ! 

Marl.  Yes,  Sir,  supper.  Sir  ;  I  begin  to  feel  an  appetite. 
I  shall  make  dev'lish  work  to-night  in  the  larder,  I  promise 
you. 


112  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [actii 

Hard,  (Aside.)  Such  a  brazen  dog,  sure,  never  my  eyes 
beheld.  {To  him.)  Why,  really.  Sir,  as  for  supper  I  can't 
well  tell.  My  Dorothy,  and  the  cook-maid  settle  these 
things  between  them.  I  leave  these  kind  of  things  entirely 
to  them. 

Marl.  You  do,  do  you. 

Hard.  Entirely.  By  the  by,  I  believe  they  are  in 
actual  consultation  upon  what 's  for  supper  this  moment 
in  the  kitchen. 

Marl.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as  one  of  their  privy 
council.  It 's  a  way  I  have  got.  When  I  travel  I  always 
chuse  to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let  the  cook  be  caUed. 
No  offence,  I  hope.  Sir. 

Hard.  O  no,  Sir,  none  in  the  least ;  yet  I  don't  know 
how :  our  Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is  not  very  communica- 
tive upon  these  occasions.  Should  we  send  for  her,  she 
might  scold  us  all  out  of  the  house. 

Ha^t.  Let 's  see  your  list  of  the  larder  then.  I  ask  it 
as  a  favour.  I  always  match  my  appetite  to  my  bill  of 
fare. 

Marl.  {To  HardcasUe,  who  looks  ai  them  tvith  surprize.) 
Sir,  he 's  very  right,  and  it 's  my  way  too. 

Hard.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here.  Here, 
Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's  supper.  I 
believe  it 's  drawn  out.  Your  manner,  Mr.  Hastings, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  colonel  Wallop.  It  was  a 
saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure  of  his  supper  till  he  had 
eaten  it. 

Hast.  (Aside.)  All  upon  the  high  rope !  His  uncle  a 
coloi^l !  v^  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother  being  a  justice 
of  the  peace.     But  let 's  hear  the  biU  of  fare. 

Marl.  (Perusing.)  What 's  here  ?  For  the  first  course  ; 
for  the  second  course ;  for  the  dessert.  The  devil.  Sir,  do 
you  4hink  we  have  brought  down  the  whole  Joiners' 
Company,  or  the  corporation  of  Bedford,  to  eat  up  such 


/ 


ACT  II]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  113 

a  supper  ?    Two  or  three  little  things,  clean  and  com- 
fortable, will  do. 

Hast.  But  let 's  hear  it. 

Marl,  {Reading,)  For  the  first  course  at  the  top,  a  pig, 
and  pruin  sauce. 

Ha^U  Damn  your  pig,  I  say. 

Marl,  And  damn  your  pruin  sauce,  say  I. 

Hard,  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are  hungry, 
pig  with  pruin  sauce  is  very  good  eating. 

Marl,,  At  the  bottom  a  calf's  tongue  and  brains. 

Hast,  Let  your  brains  be  knock'd  out,  my  good  Sir,  I 
don't  like  them. 

Marl,  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by  themselves. 
I  do. 

Hard,  (Aside),  Their  impudence  confounds  me.  {To 
them,)  Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests,  make  what  altera- 
tions you  please.  Is  there  any  thing  else  you  wish  to 
retrench  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

^Marl,  Item.  A  pork  pye,  a  boiled  rabbit  and  sausages, 
a  Florentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a  dish  of  tiff — taff— 
t^ffety  cream. 

V  Hast,  Confound  your  made  dishes,  I  shall  be  as  much 
at  a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and  yellow  dinner  at 
the  French  ambassador's  table.     I'm  for  plain  eating. 

Hard.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  nothing  you 
like,  but  if  there  be  any  thing  you  have  a  particular  fancy 
to 

Marl,  Why,  really,  Sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so  exquisite, 
that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as  another,  gend 
us  what  you  please.  So  much  for  supper.  And  now  to 
see  that  our  beds  are  air'd,  and  properly  taken  care  of. 

Hard,  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me.  You  shall 
not  stir  a  step. 

Marl,  Leave  that  to  you !  I  protest.  Sir,  you  must 
excuse  me,  I  always  look  to  these  things  myself • 


114  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [actii 

Hard.  I  must  insist,  Sir,  you'll  make  yourself  easy  on 
that  head. 

Marl.  You  see  I'm  resolv'd  on  it.  (Aside.)  A  very 
troublesome  fellow  this,  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Hard.  Well,  Sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  lo  attend  you- 
{Aside.)  This  may  be  modem  modesty,  but  I  never  saw 
any  thing  look  so  like  old-fashion'd  impudence. 

[Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hast.  {Alone.)  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civilities  begin  to 
grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  at  those 
assiduities  which  are  meant  to  please  him  ?  Ha  !  what 
do  I  see  ?  Miss  Neville,  by  all  that 's  happy  ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Nev.  My  dear  Hastings  !  To  what  unexpected 
good  fortune !  to  what  accident,  am  I  to  ascribe  this 
happy  meeting  ? 

Hast.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question,  as  I  could 
never  have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest  Constance  at  an 
inn. 

Miss  Nev.  An  inn  !  sure,  you  mistake  !  my  aunt,  my 
y^uardian,  lives  here.  What  could  induce  you  to  think 
this  house  an  inn  ? 

Hast.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom  I  came  down, 
and  I  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an  inn,  I  assure  you. 
A  young  fellow  whom  we  accidentally  met  at  a  house  hard 
by  directed  us  hither. 

Miss  Nev.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my  hopeful 
cousin's  tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk  so  often, 
ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hast.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you  ?  he  of 
whom  I  have  such  just  apprehensions  ? 

Miss  Nev.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him,  I  assure 
you.  You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew  how  heartily,  he 
despises  me.    My  aunt  knows  it  too,  and  has  undertaken 


s^Bm^m^^^mmm^mmmam^mmmmmmmm^amammmmm^^imm^mmmmmmmmmg^gmmmm^mm^mmKmmmm^^^^^^^^ 


ACTU]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  115 

to  court  me  for  him,  and  actually  begins  to  think  she  has 
made  a  conquest. 

Hast.  Thou  dear  dissembler !  You  must  know,  my 
Constance,  I  have  just  seized  this  happy  opportunity  of 
my  friend's  visit  here  to  get  admittance  into  the  family. 
The  horses  that  carried  us  down  are  now  fatigued  with 
their  journey,  but  they'll  soon  be  refreshed ;  and  then,  if 
my  dearest  girl  will  trust  in  her  faithful  Hastings,  we  shall 
soon  be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among  slaves  the 
laws  of  marriage  are  respected. 

Miss  Nev,  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though  ready 
to  obey  you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  fortune  behind 
with  reluctance.  The  greatest  part  of  it  was  left  me  by 
my  uncle,  the  India  director,  and  chiefly  consists  in  jewels. 
I  have  been  for  some  time  persuading  my  aunt  to  let  me  J/*^ 
wear  them.  I  fancy  I'm  very  near  succeeding.  The 
instant  they  are  put  into  my  possession  you  shall  find  me 
ready  to  make  them  and  myself  yours.. 

Hetst  Perish  the  baubles  !  Your  person  is  all  I  desire. 
In  the  mean  time  my  friend  Marlow  must  not  be  let  into 
his  mistake.  I  know  the  strange  reserve  of  his  temper  is 
such,  that  if  abruptly  informed  of  it,  he  would  instantly 
quit  the  house  before  our  plan  was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Nev.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the  deception  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle  is  just  returned  from  walking  ;   what  if 

we  still  continue  to  deceive  him  ? ^This,  this  way 

[They  confer. 
Enter  Marlow. 

Marl.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people  teize  me 
beyond  bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think  it  ill  manners 
to  leave  me  alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only  himself  but 
his  old-fashioned  wife  on  my  back.  They  talk  of  coming 
to  sup  with  us  too;  and  then,  I  supjyose,  we  are  to  run 
the  gauntlet  through  all  the  rest  of  the  family. — ^What 
have  we  got  here  ! 


fc.. 


116  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [actii 

Hast,  My  dear  Charles  !  Let  me  congratulate  you  ! — 
The  most  fortunate  accident ! — Who  do  you  think  is  just 
alighted  ? 

Marl,  Cannot  guess. 

Ha^sL  Our  mistresses,  boy.  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Miss 
Neville.  Give  me  leave  to  introduce  Miss  Constance 
Neville  to  your  acquaintance.  Happening  to  dine  in  the 
neighbourhood,  they  called  on  their  return  to  take  fresh 
horses  here.  Miss  Hardcastle  has  just  stept  into  the  next 
room,  and  will  be  back  in  an  instant.  Wasn't  i^  lucky  ? 
eh! 

Marl.  (Aside,)  I  have  been  mortified  enough  of  all 
conscience,  and  here  comes  something  to  complete  my 
embarrassment. 

Hast.  Well,  but  wasn't  it  the  most  fortunate  thing  in 
the  world  ? 

Marl,  Oh  !  yes.  Very  fortunate — a  most  joyful 
encounter — But  pur  dresses,  George,  you  know  are  in 
disorder — ^What  if  we  should  postpone  the  happiness  'till 
to-morrow  ? — To-morrow  at  her  own  house — It  will  be 
every  bit  as  convenient — ^and  rather  more  respectful — 
To-morrow  let  it  be.  [Offering  to  go. 

Miss  Nev.  By  no  means,  Sir.  Your  ceremony  will 
displease  her.  The  disorder  of  your  dress  will  shew  the 
ardour  of  your  impatience.  Besides,  she  knows  you  are 
in  the  house,  and  will  permit  you  to  see  her. 

Marl.  O  !  the  devil !  how  shall  I  support  it  ?  hem  ! 
hem  !  Hastings,  you  niust  not  go.  You  are  to  assist  me, 
you  know.  I  shall  be  confoundedly  ridiculous.  Yet, 
hang  it !  I'll  take  courage.  Hem  ! 
y  Hast.  Pshaw,  man !  it 's  but  the  first  plunge,  and  all's 
over.     She 's  but  a  woman,  you  know. 

Marl.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread  most  to 
encounter. 


Acrn]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  117 

Enter  Miss  Hardcasthy  as  returned  from  ivaJking, 

Hast.  {Introducing  them.)  Miss  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow. 
I'm  proud  of  bringing  two  persons  of  such  merit  together, 
that  only  want  to  know  to  esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.)  Now,  for  meeting  my  modest 
gentleman  with  a  demure  face,  and  quite  in  his  own 
manner.  {After  a  pause,  in  which  he  appears  very  uneasy 
and  disconcerted.)  I'm  glad  of  your  safe  arrival,  Sir. — 
I'm  told  you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Marl.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had  some. '  Yes, 
madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but  should  be  sorry — 
madam — or  rather  glad  of  any  accidents — that  are  so 
agreeably  concluded.     Hem  ! 

Hast.  {To  him.)  You  never  spoke  better  in  your  whole 
life.     Keep  it  up,  and  I'll  insure  you  the  victory. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  afraid  vou  flatter.  Sir.  You  that  have 
seen  so  much  of  the  finest  company  can  find  little  enter- 
tainment in  an  obscure  comer  of  the  country. 

Marl.  {Gathering  courage.)  I  have  lived,  indeed,  in  the 
world,  madam  :  but  I  have  kept  very  little  company. 
T  iia,Y^been  but  an  observer  upon  lifft.  madam  ^  while 
others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Nev.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to  enjoy  it  at 
last. 

Hast.  {To  him.)  Cicero  never  spoke  better.  Once  more, 
and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance  for  ever. 

Marl.  {To  him.)  Hem  !  stand  by  me  then,  and  when 
I'm  down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me  up  again. 

Miss  Hard.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life  were,  I 
fear,  disagreeably  employed,  since  you  must  have  had 
much  more  to  censure  than  to  approve. 

Marl.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always  willing  to  be 
amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is  rather  an  object  of 
mirth  than  uneasiness. 


118  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [actii 

Hast.  (To  him,)  Bravo,  bravo.  Never  spoke  so  well  in 
your  whole  life.  Well !  Miss  Hardcastle,  I  see  that  you 
and  Mr.  Marlow  are  going  to  be  very  good  company. 
I  believe  our  being  here  will  but  embarrass  the  interview. 

Marl,  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We  like  your 
company  of  all  things.  (To  him.)  Zounds  !  -George,  sure 
you  won't  go  ?  how  can  you  leave  us  ? 

Hast.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversation,  so  we'll 
retire  to  the  next  room.  (To  him.)  You  don't  consider, 
man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a  little  tete-a-tete  of  our 
own.  [Exeunt. 

Miss  Hard.  (After  a  pause.)  But  you  have  not  been 
wholly  an  observer,  I  presume.  Sir  :  the  ladies,  I  should 
hope,  have  employed  some  part  of  your  addresses. 

Marl.  (Relapsing  into  timidity.)  Pardon  me,  madam, 
I — I — I — as  yet  have  studied — only — to — deserve  them. 

Miss  Hard.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the  very  worst  way 
to  obtain  them. 

Marl.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to  converse 
only  with  the  more  grave  and  sensible  part  of  the  sex. — 
But  I'm  afraid  I  grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  at  all.  Sir  ;  there  is  nothing  I  like  so 

much  as  grave  conversation  myself ;  I  could  hear  it  for 

j  ever.     Indeed  I  have  often  been  surprised  how  a  man  of 

/  sentiment  could  ever  admire  those  light  airy  pleasures, 

j  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

\      Marl.  It 's a  disease of  the  mind,  madam.     In 

the  variety  of  tastes  there  must  be  some  who  wanting  a 
relish ^for um — a — um. 

Miss  Hard.  I  understand  you,  Sir.  There  must  be 
some,  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined  pleasures,  pretend 
to  despise  what  they  are  incapable  of  tasting. 

Marl.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely  better  ex- 
pressed.   And  I  can't  help  observing a 

Miss  Hard.   (Aside.)  Who  could  ever  suppose   this 


Acrn]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  119 

fellow  impudent  upon  such  occasions.  (To  him^)  You  were 
going  to  observe,  Sir 

MarL  I  was  observing,  madam — I  protest,  madam, 
I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hard,  (Aside.)  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  (To  him.)  You 
were  observing,  Sir,  that  in  this  age  of  hypocrisy — some- 
thing about  hypocrisy.  Sir. 

Marl,  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy  there  are 
few  who  upon  strict  enquiry  do  not — a — a — a — 

Miss  Hard.  I  understand  you  perfectly,  Sir. 

MarL  (Aside.)  Egad  !  and  that 's  more  than  I  do  my- 
self. 

Miss  Hard.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypocritical  age 
there  are  few  that  do  not  condemn  in  public  what  they 
practise  in  private,  and  think  they  pay  every  debt  to 
virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Marl.  True,  madam  ;  those  who  have  most  virtue  in 
their  mouths,  have  least  of  it  in  their  bosoms.  But  I'm 
sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  in  the  least.  Sir ;  there 's  something  so 
agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  manner,  such  life  and 
force — ^pray.  Sir,  go  on. 

Marl.  Yes,  madam,  I  was  saying that  there  are 

some  occasions — ^when  a  total  want  of  courage,  madam, 
destroys  all  the and  puts  us upon  a — ^a — a — 

Miss  Hard.  I  agree  with  you  entirely,  a  want  of  courage 
upon  some  occasions  assumes  the  appearance  of  ignorance, 
and  betrays  us  when  we  most  want  to  excel.  I  beg  you'll 
proceed. 

Marl.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  madam — But 
I  see  Miss  Neville  expecting  us  in  the  next  room.  I 
would  not  intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  1  protest.  Sir,  I  never  was  more  agreeably 
entertained  in  all  my  life.     Pray  go  on. 

Marl.  Yes,  madam,  I  was — But  she  beckons  us  to  join 


120  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  ii 

her.   Madam,  shall  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  attend  you> 

Mt88  Hard.  Well  then,  I'll  foUow. 

MarL  {Aside,)  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue  has  done 
for  me.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  (Alone.)  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Was  there  ever 
such  a  sober  sentimental  interview  ?  I'm  certain  he 
scarce  look'd  in  my  face  the  whole  time.  Yet  the  fellow, 
but  for  his  unaccountable  bashfulness,  is  pretty  well  too. 
He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so  buried  in  his  fears,  that 
it  fatigues  one  more  than  ignorance.  If  I  could  teach 
him  a  little  confidence,  it  would  be  doing  somebody  that 
I  know  of  a  piece  of  service.  But  who  is  that  somebody! 
— That,  faith,  is  a  question  I  can  scarce  answer.        \EtU. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  Neville,  jcllowed  by  Mrs.  HardcasUe 

and  Hastings. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  Cousin  Con  ?  I 
wonder  you're  not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engaging. 

Miss  Nev.  1  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to  one's  own 
relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation  you  want 
to  make  me,  though ;  but  it  won't  do.  I  tell  you,  Cousin 
Con,  it  won't  do ;  so  I  beg  you'll  keep  your  distance, 
I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 

[She  follows,  coquetting  him,  to  the  back  scene. 

Mrs,  Hard.  Well !  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you  are  very 
entertaining.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  love  to  talk 
of  so  much  as  London,  and  the  fashions,  though  I  was 
never  there  myself. 

Hast.  Never  there  !  You  amaze  me  !  Prom  your  air 
and  manner,  I  concluded  you  had  been  bred  all  your  life 
either  at  Ranelagh,  St.  James's,  or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O  !  Sir,  you're  only  pleased  to  say  so.  We 
country  persons  can  have  no  manner  at  all.     I'm  in  love 


ACT  II]  SHE  STOOI«  TO  CONQUER  121 

with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to  raise  me  above  some  of 
our  neighbouring  rustics  ;  but  who  can  have  a  manner, 
that  has  never  seen  the  Pantheon,  the  Grotto  Gardens, 
the  Borough,  and  such  places  where  the  nobility  chiefly 
resort  ?  All  I  can  do  is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand. 
I  take  care  to  know  every  tete-a-tete  from  the  Scandalous 
Magazine,  and  have  all  the  fashions,  as  they  come  out  in 
a  letter  from  the  two  Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked-Lane. 
Pray  how  do  you  like  this  head,  Mr.  Hastings  ? 

Hast.  Extremely  elegant  and  degag^e,  upon  my  word, 
madam.     Your  friseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I  suppose  ? 

Mt8.  Hard.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  from  a  print 
in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  for  the  last  year. 

Hast.  Indeed  !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box  at  the  play- 
house would  draw  as  many  gazers  as  my  Lady  May'ress 
at  a  City  Ball. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began,  there  is  no 
such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman ;  so  one  must 
dress  a  little  particular,  .or  one  may  escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hast.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case,  madam,  in  any 
dress.  {Bowing.) 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dressing  when  I 
have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side  as  Mr.  Hard- 
castle  :  all  I  can  say  will  never  argue  down  a  single 
button  from  his  clothes.  I  have  often  wanted  him  to 
throw  off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was  bald,  to 
plaister  it  over,  like  my  Lord  Pately,  'with  powder. 

HaM.  You  are  right,  madam  ;  for,  as  among  the  ladies 
there  are  none  ugly,  so  among  the  men  there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hard.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer  was  ? 
Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he  said  I  only 
wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  wig  to  convert  it  into  a  tete 
for  my  own  wearing. 

HaM.  Intolerable  !  At  your  age  you  may  wear  what 
you  please,  and  it  must  become  you. 


122  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  u 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you  take  to 
be  the  most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Host.  Some  time  ago,  forty  was  all  the  mode  ;  but  I'm 
told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty  for  the  ensuing 
winter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Seriously?  Then  I  shall  be  too  young  for 
the  fashion. 

Hast.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels  'till  she's 
past  forty.  For  instance,  Miss  there,  in  a  polite  circle, 
would  be  considered  as  a  child,  as  a  mere  maker  of  sam- 
plers. 

Mrs.  Hard.  And  yet  Mrs.  Niece  thinks  herself  as  much 
a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels  as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 

Hast.  Your  niece,  is  she  ?  And  that  young  gentleman, 
a  brother  of  your's,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  son.  Sir.  They  are  contracted  to  each 
other.  Observe  their  little  sports.  They  fall  in  and  out 
ten  times  a  day,  as  if  they  were  man  and  wife  already. 
(To  them.)  Well,  Tony,  child,  what  soft  things  are  you 
saying  to  your  Cousin  Constance  this  evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things ;  but  that  it 's 
very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so.  Ecod !  I've  not  a 
place  in  the  house  now  that's  left  to  myself,  but  the 
stable. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear,  he  's  in 
another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Nev.  There's  something  generous  in  my  cousin's 
manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces  to  be  forgiven  in 
private. 

Tony.  That 's  a  damned  confounded — crack. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah !  he 's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you  think 
they're  like  each  other  about  the  mouth,  Mr.  Hastings  ? 
The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T.  They're  of  a  size  too. 
Back  to  back,  my  pretties,  that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see 
you.     Come  Tony. 


ACT  II]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  123 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you. 

{MeasuriTig,) 

Miaa  Nev.  0  lud !  he  has  almost  cracked  my 
head. 

Mrs.  Hard.  0,  the  monster  !  For  shame,  Tony.  You 
a  man,  and  behave  so  ! 

Tony.  K  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin.  Ecod ! 
I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that  I'm  to  get 
for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  your  education  ?  I  that 
have  rock'd  you  in  your  cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty 
mouth  with  a  spoon  !  Did  not  I  work  that  waistcoat  to 
make  you  genteel  ?  Did  not  I  prescribe  for  you  every  day, 
and  weep  while  the  receipt  was  operating  ? 

Tony.  Ecod !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you  have 
been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  have  gone 
through  every  receipt  in  the  '  Compleat  Housewife  '  ten 
times  over;  and  you  have  thoughts  of  coursing  me  through 
Quincey  next  spring.  But,  ecod  !  I  tell  you,  I'll  not  be 
made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good,  viper  ?  Wasn't 
it  all  for  your  good  ? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good  alone  then. 
Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits.  If  I'm  to  have 
any  good,  let  it  come  of  itself  ;  not  to  keep  dinging  it, 
dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  That 's  false ;  I  never  see  you  when  you're 
in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the  alehouse  or 
kennel.  I'm  never  to  be  delighted  with  your  agreeable 
wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster  ! 

Tony.  Ecod  !  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the  wildest 
of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  ever  the  like  ?  But  I  see  he  wants  to 
break  my  heart,  I  see  he  does. 

Hast.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture  the  young 


124  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  n 

gentleman  a  little.  Tm  certain  I  can  persuade  him  to 
his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well !  I  must  retire.  Come,  Constance, 
my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the  wretchedness  of 
my  situation  ;  was  ever  poor  woman  so  plagued  with  a 
dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provoking,  undutiful  boy. 

[Exeunt  Mrs,  HardcasUe  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings,  Tony. 

Tony.   (Singing.)  '  There  was  a  young  man  riding  by, 

and  fain  would  have  his  will.    Bang  do  didlo  dee.' 

Don't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It 's  the  comfort  of  her 
heart.  I  have  seen  her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book  for  an 
hour  together,  and  they  said,  they  liked  the  book  the 
better  the  more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hast.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies,  I  find,  my 
pretty  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  That 's  as  I  find  'um. 

Hast.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  chusing,  I  dare 
answer  ?  And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a  pretty,  well- 
tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That 's  b^ause  you  don't  know  her  sis  weU  as  I. 
Ecod  !  I  know  every  inch  about  her ;  and  there 's  not 
a  more  bitter  cantanckerous  toad  in  all  Christendom. 

Hast.  (Aside.)  Pretty  encouragement  this  for  a  lover  ! 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that.  She 
has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a  colt  the 
first  day's  breaking. 

Hast.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and  silent. 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she  's  with  her 
playmates  she  's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a  gate. 

Hast.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her  that 
charms  me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she  kicks  up, 
and  you're  fiung  in  a  ditch. 


ACT  n]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  125 

Hast,  Well,  but  you  must  aUow  her  a  little  beauty. — 
Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony,  Bandbox !  She's  all  a  made-up  thing,  mun.  Ah  ! 
could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you  might 
then  talk  of  beauty.  Ecod,  she  has  two  eyes  as  black  as 
sloes,  and  cheeks  as  broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit  cushion. 
She'd  make  two  of  she. 

Host.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that  would  take 
this  bitter  bargain  o£F  your  hands  ? 

Tony,  Anon. 

Hasi,  Would  you  thank  him  that  would  take  Miss 
Neville,  and  leave  you  to  happiness  and  your  dear  Betsy  ? 

Tony,  Ay  ;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend,  for  who 
would  take  her  ? 

Hast,  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll  engage  to 
whip  her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall  never  hear  more  of 
her 

Tony,  Assist  you  !  Ecod,  I  will,  to  the  last  drop  of  my 
blood.  I'll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your  chaise  that  shall 
trundle  you  off  in  a  twinkling,  and  may  be  get  you  a  part 
of  her  fortin  beside  in  jewels,  that  you  little  dream  of. 

Hast,  My  dear  'squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Tony.  Come  along,  then,  and  you  shall  see  more  of  my 
spirit  before  you  have  done  with  me.  (Singing,) 

We  are  the  boys 

That  fears  no  noise 

Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar. 

[Exeunt, 


126  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  ni 

ACT  III 

Enter  HardcasUe,  alone. 

Hard.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles  mean  by 
recommending  his  son  as  the  modestest  young  man  in 
town  ?  To  me  he  appears  the  most  impudent  piece  of 
brass  that  ever  spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has  taken  pos- 
session of  the  easy  chair  by  the  fire-side  already.  He  took 
off  his  boots  in  the  parlour  and  desired  me  to  see  them 
taken  care  of.  I'm  desirous  to  know  how  his  impudence 
affects  my  daughter. — She  will  certainly  be  shocked  at  it. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  plainly  dressed. 

Hard.  Well,  my  ICate,  I  see  you  have  changed  your 
dress,  as  I  bid  you ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there  was  no 
great  occasion. 

Miss  Hard.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  Sir,  in  obeying  your 
commands,  that  I  take  care  to  observe  them  without  ever 
debating  their  propriety. 

Hard.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you  some 
cause,  particularly  when  I  recommended  my  modest 
gentleman  to  you  as  a  lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hard.  You  taught  me  to  expect  something  extra- 
ordinary, and  I  find  the  original  exceeds  the  description. 

Hard.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life !  He  has 
quite  confounded  all  my  faculties  ! 

31iss  Hard.  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it :  and  a  man 
of  the  world  too  I 

Hard.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad — ^what  a  fool  was  I, 
to  think  a  young  man  could  learn  modesty  by  travelling. 
He  might  as  soon  learn  wit  at  a  masquerade. 

Miss  Hard.  It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hard.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company  and  a 
French  dancing-master. 

Miss   Hard.  Sure   you   mistake,    papa !     A    French 


ACT  III]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  127 

dancing-master  could  never  have  taught  him  that  timid 
look — that  aukward  address — that  bashful  manner — 

Hard.  Whose  look  ?  whose  manner,  child  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Mr.  Marlow's :  his  mauvaise  honte^  his 
timidity,  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hard.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you  ;  for  I  think 
him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that  ever 
astonished  my  senses. 

Miss  Hard.  Sure,  Sir,  you  rally  !  I  never  saw  any  one 
so  modest. 

Hard.  And  can  you  be  serious  !  I  never  saw  such  a 
bounding,  swaggering  puppy  since  I  was  born.  Bully 
Dawson  was  but  a  fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Surprising  !  He  met  me  with  a  respectful 
bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Hard.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly  air,  and 
a  familiarity  that  made  my  blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hard.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and  respect ; 
censured  the  manners  of  the  age  ;  admired  the  prudence 
of  girls  that  never  laughed  ;  tired  me  with  apologies  for 
being  tiresome ;  then  left  the  room  with  a  bow,  and 
'  Madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world  detain  you.' 

Hard.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his  life 
before ;  asked  twenty  questions,  and  never  waited  for 
an  answer  ;  interrupted  my  best  remarks  with  some  silly 
pun  ;  and  when  I  was  in  my  best  story  of  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he  asked  if  I  had  not 
a  good  hand  at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he  asked 
your  father  if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch. 

Miss  Hard.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mistaken. 

Hard.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shewn  himself,  I'm 
determined  he  shall  never  have  my  consent. 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I  take  him, 
he  shall  never  have  mine. 

Hard.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed — to  reject  him. 


J 


128  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  hi 

Miss  Hard.  Yes.  But  upon  conditions.  For  if  you 
should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  I  more  presuming  ;  if 
you  find  him  more  respectful,  and  I  more  importunate— — 

I  don't  know the  fellow  is  well  enough  for  a  man — 

Certainly  we  don't  meet  many  such  at  a  horse-race  in  the 
country. 

Hard,  If  we  should  find  him  so But  that 's  impos- 
sible. The  first  appearance  has  done  my  business.  I'm 
seldom  deceived  in  that. 

Miss  Hard.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good  qualities 
under  that  first  appearance. 

Hard,  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  outside  to  her 
taste,  she  then  sets  about  gue^ing  the  rest  of  his  furniture. 
With  her  a  smooth  face  stands  for  good  sense,  and  a  gen- 
teel figure  for  every  virtue. 

Miss  Hard,  I  hope,  Sir,  a  conversation  begun  with  a 
compliment  to  my  good  sense,  won't  end  with  a  sneer  at 
my  understanding  ? 

Hard,  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr.  Brazen 
can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  contradictions,  he  may 
please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hard.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mistaken,  what 
if  we  go  to  make  farther  discoveries  1 

Hard.  Agreed.     But  depend  on 't  I'm  in  the  right. 

Miss  Hard.  And  depend  on  't  I'm  not  much  in  the 
wrong.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Tony,  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod  !  I  have  got, them.  Here  they  are.  My 
cousin  Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My  mother  shan't 
cheat  the  poor  souls  out  of  their  fortin  neither.  O  I  my 
genus,  is  that  you. 

Enter  Hastings, 

Hast.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed  with 
your  mother  ?    I  hope  you  have  amused  her  with  pre- 


ACT  m]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  129 

tending  love  for  your  cousin,  and  that  you  are  willing  to 
be  reconciled  at  last  ?  Our  horses  will  be  refreshed  in  a 
short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready  to  set  off. 

Tony,  And  here 's  something  to  bear  your  charges  by 
the  way  {giving  the  casket),  your  sweetheart's  jewels. 
Keep  them,  and  hang  those,  I  say,  that  would  rob  you 
of  one  of  them. 

Hast.  But  how  have  you  procured  them  from  your 
mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  fibs. 
I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I  had  not 
a  key  to  every  drawer  in  mother's  bureau,  how  could  I 
go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I  do  ?  An  honest  man 
may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hast,  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But  to  be  plain 
with  you.  Miss  Neville  is  endeavouring  to  procure  them 
from  her  aunt  this  very  instant.  If  she  succeeds,  it  will 
be  the  most  delicate  way  at  least  of  obtaining  them. 

Tony,  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it  will  be. 
But  I  know  how  it  will  be  well  enough,  she'd  as  soon  part 
with  the  only  sound  tooth  in  her  head. 

Hast,  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resentment,  when 
she  finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment,  leave  me  to 
manage  that.  I  don't  value  her  resentment  the  bounce 
of  a  cracker.    Zounds  !  here  they  are.    Morice  !  Prance  ! 

[Exit  Hastings, 

Tony,  Mrs,  Hardcastle,  and  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs,  Hard,  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze  me.  Such 
a  girl  as  you  want  jewels !  It  will  be  time  enough  for 
jewels,  my  dear,  twenty  years  hence,  when  your  beauty 
begins  to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Nev.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at  forty,  will 
certainly  improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 


OOLDSMITU.      II 


F 


130  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  m 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none.  That 
natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  ornaments.  Besides, 
child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at  present.  Don't  you  see 
half  the  ladies  of  our  acquaintance,  my  lady  Kill-day-light, 
and  Mrs.  Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them  carry  their  jewels  to 
town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste  and  marcasites  back. 

Miss  Nev.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but  somebody 
that  shall  be  nameless  would  like  me  best  with  all  my 
little  finery  about  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and  then  see 
if,  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  want  any  better  sparklers. 
What  do  you  think,  Tony,  my  dear  ?  does  your  cousin 
Con  want  any  jewels  in  your  eyes  to  set  ofiF  her  beauty  ? 

Tony.  That's  as  thereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Nev.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how  it  would 
oblige  me  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose  and  table 
cut  things.  They  would  make  you  look  like  the  court  of 
King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-shew»  Besides,  I  believe, 
I  can't  readily  come  at  them.  They  may  be  missing,  for 
aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

Tony.  (Apart  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle.)  Then  why  don't  you 
tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she 's  so  longing  for  them  ?  Tell  her 
they're  lost.  It 's  the  only  way  to  quiet  her.  Say  they're 
lost,  and  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  {Apart  to  Ton%.)  You  know,  my  dear,  I'm 
only  keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say  they're  gone, 
you'll  bear  me  witness,  will  you  ?  He  !  he  !  he  ! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod1  I'll  say  I  saw  them 
t-aken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Nev.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day,  madam.  Just 
to  be  permitted  to  shew  them  a^  relics,  and  then  they 
may  be  locked  up  again. 

Mrs.  Hard.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear  Constance  ! 
if  I  could  find  them  you  should  have  them.     They're 


^^m 


ACT  III]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  131 

missing,  I  assure  you.     Lost  for  aught  I  know  ;   but  we 
must  have  patience,  wherever  they  are. 

Miss  Nev,  I'll  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a  shallow  pre- 
tence to  deny  me.  I  know  they  are  too  valuable  to  be  so 
slightly  kept,  and  as  yoU  are  to  answer  for  the  loss — 

Mrs,  Hard.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If  they  be 
lost  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.  But  my  son  knows 
they  are  missing,  and  not  to  be  found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are  missing, 
and  not  to  be  found,  I'll  take  my  oath  on 't. 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my  dear  ;  for 
though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we  should  not  lose  our 
patience.     See  me,  how  calm  I  am. 

Miss  Nev.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at  the  mis- 
fortunes of  others.  \ 

Mrs.  Hard.  Now  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good  sense 
should  waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumper3^  We  shall 
soon  find  them  :  and  in  the  mean  time  you  shall  make  use 
of  my  garnets  till  your  jewels  be  found. 

Miss  Nev.  I  detest  garnets. 

Mrs.  Hard.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the  world  to 
set  off  a  clear  complexion.  You  have  often  seen  how 
well  they  look  upon  me.     You  shall  have  them.     [Exit. 

Miss  Nev.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You  shan't 
stir. — ^Was  ever  any  thing  so  provoking — to  mislay  my 
own  jewels,  and  force  me  to  wear  her  trumpery. 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the  garnets, 
take  what  you  can  get.  The  jewels  are  your  own  already. 
I  have  stolen  them  out  of  her  bureau,  and  she  does  not 
know  it.  Fly  to  your  spark,  he'll  tell  you  more  of  the 
matter.     Le^ve  me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Nev.  My  dear  cousin  ! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here  and  has  missed  them  al- 
ready. [Exit  Miss  Neville.']  Zounds  !  how  she  fidgets  and 
spits  about  like  a  Catherine- wheel. 


132  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  hi 

Enter  Mrs.  HardcasUe, 

Mrs,  Hard.  Confusion !  thieves !  robbers !  we  are 
cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone. 

Tony.  What 's  the  matter,  what 's  the  matter,  mamma  ? 
I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  any  of  the  good  family  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has  been 
broken  open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I'm  undone. 

Tony.  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  By  the  laws,  I 
never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod,  I  thought 
you  was  ruined  in  earnest,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Why,  boy,  I'm  ruined  in  earnest.  My 
bureau  has  been  broken  open,  and  all  taken  away. 

Tony.  Stick  to  that ;  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  stick  to  that.  I'll 
bear  witness  you  know,  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that 's  precious,  the 
jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined  for  ever. 

/Tony.  Sure  I  know  they  are  gone,  and  I'm  to  say  so. 
Mrs.  Hard.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me.     They're 
g,one,  I  say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for  to  laugh, 
ha !  ha !  I  know  who  took  them  well  enough,  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead,  that 
can't  tell  the  difference  between  jest  and  earnest  ?  I  tell 
you  I'm  not  in  jest,  booby. 

Tony.  That 's  right,  that 's  right :  you  must  be  in  a 
bitter  passion,  and  then  nobody  will  suspect  either  of  us. 
I'll  bear  witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross-grain'd  brute, 
that  won't  hear  me  ?  Can  you  bear  witness  that  you're 
no  better  than  a  fool  ?  Was  ever  poor  woman  so  beset 
with  fools  on  one  hand,  and  thieves  on  the  other. 

Tony.  1  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Bear  witness  again,  you  blockhead  you, 
and  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly.     My  poor 


Acrm]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  133 

niece,  what  will  become  of  her  !  Do  you  laugh,  you  un- 
feeling brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed  my  distress  ? 

Tony,  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hard,  Do  you  insult  me,  monster  ?  I'll  teach 
you  to  vex  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony,  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

[He  runs  off,  she  follows  him. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle  and  Maid. 

Miss  Hard,  What  an  unaccountable  creature  is  that     / 
brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house  as  an  inn,  ha  !   '' 
ha  !  I  don't  wonder  at  his  impudence. 

Maid,  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young  gentle- 
man, as  you  passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  ask'd  me  if 
you  were  the  bar-maid  ?  He  mistook  you  for  the  bar- 
maid, madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  he  ?  Then  as  I  live  I'm  resolved  to 
keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me.  Pimple,  how  do  you  like 
my  present  dress  ?  Don't  you  think  I  look  something  like 
Cherry  in  the  '  Beaux'  Stratagem '  ? 

Maid.  It 's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady  wears 
in  the  country,  but  when  she  visits  or  receives  company. 

Miss  Hard.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not  remember 
my  face  or  person  ? 

Maid.  Certain  of  it. 

Miss  Hard.  I  vow,  I  thought  so  ;  for  though  we  spoke 
for  some  time  together,  yet  his  fears  were  such  that  he 
never  once  looked  up  during  the  interview.  Indeed,  if 
he  had,  my  bonnet  would  have  kept  him  from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him  in  his 
mistake. 

Miss  Hard,  In  the  first  place  I  shall  be  seen,  and  that       y 
is  no  small  advantage  to  a  girl  who  brings  her  face  to      '^ 
market.     Then  I  shall  perhaps  make  an  acquaintance, 
and  that 's  no  small  victory  gained  over  one  who  never 


134  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [Acrni 

addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of  her  sex.  But  my  chief 
aim  is  to  take  my  gentleman  off  his  guard,  and  like  an 
invisible  champion  of  romance,  examine  the  giant's  force 
before  I  offer  to  combat. 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part,  and 
disguise  youi;  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake  that,  as  he 
has  already  mistaken  your  person  ? 

Miss  Hard,  Never  fear  me.     I  think  I  have  got  the  true 

bar  cant — Did  your  honour  call  ? ^Attend  the  Lion 

there. — Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Angel. — The  Lamb  has 
been  outrageous  this  half  hour. 

Maid,  It  will  do,  madam.    But  he 's  here.    [Eocit  Maid. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marl.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the  house. 
I  have  scarce  a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go  to  the  best 
room,  there  I  find  my  host  and  his  story.  If  I  fly  to  the 
gallery,  there  we  have  my  hostess  with  her  curtesy  down 
to  the  ground.  I  have  at  last  got  a  moment  to  myself, 
and  now  for  recollection.  [  Walks  and  tnvses. 

Miss  Hard,  Did  you  call.  Sir  ?  Did  your  honour  call  ? 

Marl.  {Mtisifig.)  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she 's  too  grave 
and  tenemental  for  me. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  your  honour  call  ? 

[She  still  places  herself  before  Aim,  he  turning  atvay. 

Marl,  No,  child,  (itmsing.)  Besides,  from  the  glimpse 
I  had  of  her/ 1  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure,  Sir,  I  heard  the  bell  ring. 

Marl.  No,  no.  (musing,)  I  have  pleased  my  father, 
however,  by  coming  down,  and  I'll  to-morrow  please 
myself  by  returning.    \Takivg  out  his  tablets, arid  'perusing. 

Miss  Hard.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman  called.  Sir  ? 

Marl,  I  tell  you,  no. 

Miss  Hard.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  Sir.  We  have 
such  a  parcel  of  servants. 


ACT  m]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  135 

Marl.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  {Looks  fuU  in  her  face,)  Yes, 
child,  I  think  I  did  call.  I  wanted — I  wanted — I  vow, 
child,  you  are  vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  0  la.  Sir,  you'll  make  one  asham'd. 

Marl,  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly  malicious  eye.  Yes, 
yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you  got  any  of  your — a — 
what  d'ye  call  it,  in  the  house  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No,  Sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that  these  ten 
days. 

Marl.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to  very  little 
purpose.  Suppose  I  should  call  for  a  taste,  just  by  way 
of  trial,  of  the  nectar  of  your  lips ;  perhaps,  I  might  be 
disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hard.  Nectar  !  nectar  !  That 's  a  liquor  there 's 
no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French,  I  suppose.  We  keep 
no  French  wines  here.  Sir. 

Marl.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it 's  odd  I  should  not  know  it.  We 
brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I  have  lived  here 
these  eighteen  years. 

Marl.  Eighteen  years  !  Why  one  wouW  think,-  child, 
you  kept  the  bar  before  you  was  bom.  How  old  are  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.  0  !  Sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age.  They  say 
women  and  music  should  never  be  dated. 

Marl.  To  guess  at  this  distance  you  can't  be  much 
above  forty  (approachin/g.)  Yet  nearer  I  don't  think  so 
much  (apjnroaching.)  By  coming  close  to  some  women, 
they  look  younger  still ;  but  when  we  come  very  close 
indeed — (atUmytirug  to  kiss  her.) 

Miss  Hard.  Pray,  Sir,  keep  your  distance.  One  would 
think  you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they  do  horses,  by 
mark  of  mouth. 

Marl.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely  ill.  If 
you  keep  nie  at  this  distance,  how  is  it  possible  you  and 
I  can  ever  be  acquainted. 


136     '^         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  m 

M%88  Hard.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted  with  you  ? 
I  want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I.  I'm  sure  you  did 
not  treat  Miss  Hardcastle  that  was  here  awhile  ago  in 
this  obstropalous  manner.  I'll  warrant  me,  before  her 
you  look'd  dash'd  and  kept  bowing  to  the  ground,  and 
talk'd,  for  all  the  world,  as  if  you  was  before  a  Justice  of 
Peace. 

Marl.  (Aside.)  Egad  !  She  has  hit  it,  sure  enough.  (To 
her.)  In  awe  of  her,  child  ?  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  A  mere  aukward 
squinting  thing,  no,  no.  I  find  you  don't  know  me. 
I  laughed  and  rallied  her  a  little  ;  but  I  was  unwilling  to 
be  too  severe.    No,  I  could  not  be  too  severe,  curse  me  ! 

Miss  Hard.  0  I  then.  Sir,  you  are  a  favourite,  I  find, 
among  the  ladies  ? 

Marl.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favourite.  And  yet,  hang 
me,  I  don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to  follow.  At  the 
Ladies'  Club  in  town  I'm  called  their  agreeable  Battle. 
Rattle,  child,  is  not  my  real  name,  but  one  I'm  known  by. 
My  name  is  Solomons,  Mr.  Solomons,  my  dear,  at  your 
service.  [Offering  to  salute,  her. 

Miss  Hard.  Hold,  Sir,  you  are  introducing  me  to  your 
Club,  not  to  yourself.  And  you're  so  great  a  favourite 
there,  you  say  ? 

'Marl.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Mantrap,  lady 
Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs.  Langhoms, 
old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  and  your  humble  servant,  keep 
up  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it  is  a  very  merry  place,  I  suppose  ? 

Marl.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  supper,  wine,  and  old 
women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Hard.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Marl.  (Aside.)  Egad  !  I  don't  quite  like  this  chit.  She 
seems  knowing,  methinks.     You  laugh,  child  ? 

Miss  Hard.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what  time  they 
all  have  for  minding  their  work  or  their  family. 


ACT  m]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  137 

Marl,  (Aside)  All 's  well ;  she  don't  laugh  at  me.  {To 
her.)  Do  you  ever  work,  child  ? 

M%9S  Hard,  Ay,  sure.  There 's  not  a  screen  or  a  quilt 
in  the  whole  house  but  what  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Marl,  Odso!  then  you  must  shew  me  your  embroidery. 
I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a  little.  If  you 
want  a  judge  of  your  work  you  must  apply  to  me. 

[Seizing  her  hand. 

Miss  Hard,  Ay,  but  the  colours  do  not  look  well  by 
candle-light.     You  shall  see  all  in  the  morning. 

[Struggling, 

Marl,  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?  Such  beauty  fires 

beyond  the  pow«r  of  resistance. Pshaw  !    the  father 

here  !  My  old  luck  :  I  never  nick'd  seven  that  I  did  not 
throw  ames  ace  three  times  following.         [Exit  Marlow. 

Enter  HardcasUe,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hard,  So.  madam.  So  I  find  this  is  your  modest 
lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer  that  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  and  only  ador'd  at  humble  distance. 
Kate,  Elate,  art  thou  not  ashamed  to  deceive  your  father 
so. 

Miss  Hard,  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but  he 's  still 
the  modest  man  I  first  took  him  for,  you'll  be  convinced 
of  it  as  well  as  I.  ^ 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  his  impudence 
is  infectious  !  Didn't  I  see  him  seke  your  hand  ?  Didn't' 
I  see  him  hawl  you  about  like  a  milk-maid  ?    and  now 
you  talk  of  his  respect  and  his  modesty,  forsooth  ! 

Miss  Hard.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of  his 
modesty,'  th&t  he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass  off 
with  time,  and  the  virtues  that  will  improve  with  age, 
I  hope  you'll  forgive  him. 

Hard.  The  gjvl  would  actually  make  one  run  mad  ! 
I  tell  you  I'll  not  be  convinced.     I  am  convinced.    He 

F3 


138  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  m 

has  scarce  been  three  hours  in  the  house,  and  he  has 
ah-eady  encroached  on  all  my  prerogatives.  You  may 
like  his  impudence,  and  call  it  modesty.  But  my  son-in- 
law,  madam,  must  have  very  different  qualifications. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  convince  you. 

Hard.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for  I  have 
thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

Miss  Hard,  Give  me  that  hour  then,  and  I  hope  to 
satisfy  you. 

Hard.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be,  then.  But  I'll  have  no 
trifling  with  your  father.  All  fair  and  open,  do  you 
mind  me. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope.  Sir,  you  have  ever  found  that  I 
considered  your  commands  as  my  pride ;  for  your  kind- 
ness is  such,  that  my  duty  as  yet  has  been  inclination. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hast,  You  surprise  me  !  Sir  Charles  Marlow  expected 
here  this  night  ?  Where  have  you  had  your  informa- 
tion ! 

Miss  Nev,  You  may  depend  upon  it.  I  just  saw  his 
letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells  him  he  intends 
setting  out  a  few  hours  after  his  son. 

Hast,  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be  completed 
before  he  arrives.  He  knows  me ;  and  should  he  find 
me  here,  would  discover  my  name,  and  perhaps  my 
designs,  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Nev,  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe. 
I  Hast.  Yes,  yes.     I  have  sent  them  to  Marlow,  who 


ACTiv]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  139 

keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the  mean  time  I'll  go 
to  prepare  matters  for  our  elopement.  I  have  had  the 
'squire's  promise  of  a  fresh  pair  of  horses  ;  and  if  I  should 
not  see  him  again,  will  write  him  farther  directions. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Nev»  Well !    success  attend  you.     In  the  mean 

time  I'll  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old  pretence  of  a 

violent  passion  for  my  cousin.  [Exit 

Enter  Marlow,  followed  by  a  Servant. 

Marl.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean  by  sending 
me  so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to  keep  for  him,  when 
he  knows  the  only  place  I  have  is  the  seat  of  a  post-coach 
at  an  inn-door.  Have  you  deposited  the  casket  with  the 
landlady,  as  I  ordered  you.  Have  you  put  it  into  her 
own  hands  ? 

Serv.  Yes,  your  honour. 

Marl.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she  ? 

Serv.  Yes,  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe  enough ;  she  ask'd 
me  how  I  came  by  it  ?  and  she  said  she  had  a  great  mind 
to  make  me  give  an  a^ccount  of  myself.  [Exit  Servant. 

Marl.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  They're  safe,  however.  What  an 
unaccountable  set  of  beings  have  we  got  amongst !  This 
little  bar-maid  though  runs  in  my  head  most  strangely, 
and  drives  out  the  absurdities  of  all  the  rest  of  the  family. 
She 's  mine,  she  must  be  mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken. 

ErUer  Hastings. 

Hast.  Bless  me !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her  that  I  in- 
tended to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  Marlow 
here,  and  in  spirits  too. 

Marl.  Give  me  joy,  George !  Crown  me,  shadow  me 
with  laurels  !  Well,  George,  after  all,  we  modest  fellows 
don't  want  for  success  among  the  women. 

Hast.  Some  women,  you  mean.     But  what  success  has 


/^ 


140  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  iv 

your  honour's  modesty  been  crowned  with  now  that  it 
grows  so  insolent  upon  us  ? 

Marl.  Didn't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk,  lovely,  little 
thing,  that  runs  about  the  house  with  a  bunch  of  keys  to 
its  girdle. 

Hast.  Well,  and  what  then  ? 

Marl.  She  's  mine,  you  rogue  you.  Such  fire,  such 
motion,  such  eyes,  such  lips — but,  egad  !  she  would  not 
let  me  kiss  them  though. 

Hast.  But  are  you  sure,  so  very  sure  of  her  ? 

Marl.  Why,  man,  she  talk'd  of  shewing  me  her  work 
above  stairs,  and  I  am  to  approve  the  pattern. 

Hc^t.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about  to  rob  a 
woman  of  her  honour  ? 

MarL  Pshaw  !  pshaw  !  We  all  know  the  honour  of  the 
bar-maid  of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend  to  rob  her,  take  my 
word  for  it ;  there 's  nothing  in  this  house  I  shan't  honestly 
pay  for. 

HaM.  I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marl.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last  man  in  the 
world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 

Ha^t.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the  casket  I  sent 
you  to  lock  up  ?  It 's  in  safety  ? 

Marl.  Yes,  yes.  It's  safe  enough.  I  have  taken 
care  of  it*  But  how  could  you  think  the  seat  of  a  post- 
coach  at  an  inn  door  a  place  of  safety  I  Ah  !  numbskull ! 
I  have  taken  better  precautions  for  you  than  you  did  for 
yourself 1  have 

Hast.  What! 

Marl.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep  for  you. 

Hast.  To  the  landlady  ! 

Marl.  The  landlady ! 

Ha^.  You  did? 

Marl.  I  did.  She  's  to  be  answerable  for  its  forth- 
coming, you  know. 


ACT  IV]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  141 

Hast,  Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth,  with  a  witness. 

Marl,  Wasn't  I  right  ?  I  believe  you'll  allow  that  I 
acted  prudently  upon  this  occasion  ? 

Hast,  {Aside,)  He  must  not  see  my  uneasiness. 

Marl,  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted  though,  me- 
thinks.     Sure  nothing  has  happened  ? 

Hast,  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better  spirits  in  all 
my  life.  And  so  you  left  it  with  the  landlady,  who,  no 
doubt,  very  readily  undertook  the  charge. 

Marl,  Rathei'  too  readily.  For  she  not  only  kept  the 
casket ;  but,  through  her  great  precaution,  was  going  to 
keep  the  messenger  too.     Ha  !  ha !  ha  ! 

Ha^t,  He  !  he  !  he  !   They're  safe,  however. 

Marl,  As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 

Hast,  (Aside.)  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune  are  at  an  end, 
and  we  must  set  off  without  it.  {To  him,)  Well,  Charles, 
I'll  leave  you  to  your  meditations  on  the  pretty  bar-maid, 
and,  he  !  he  !  he  !  may  you  be  as  successful  for  yourself, 
as  you  have  been  for  me.  [Exit, 

Marl,  Thank  ye,  George !  I  ask  no  more.    Ha !  ha !  ha  I 

Enter  Hardcastle, 

Hard,  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.  It 's  turned  all 
topsey-turvey.  His  servants  have  got  drunk  already. 
I'll  bear  it  no  longer,  and  yet  from  my  respect  for  his 
father,  I'll  be  calm.  {To  him.)  Mr.  Marlow,  your  servant. 
I'm  your  very  humble  servant.  [Boioing  low. 

Marl.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  {Aside,)  What 's  to 
be  the  wonder  now  ? 

Hard.  I  believe.  Sir,  you  must  be  sensible.  Sir,  that  no 
man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome  than  your  father's 
son.  Sir.     I  hope  you  think  so  ? 

Marl.  I  do  from  my  soul.  Sir.  I  don't  want  much 
intreaty.  I  generally  make  my  father's  son  welcome 
wherever  he  goes. 


142  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  iv 

Hard,  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  Sir,  But 
though  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct,  that  of  your 
servants  'is  insufferable.  Their  manner  of  drinking  is 
setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this  house,  I  assure  you. 

Marl.  I  protest,  my  very  good  Sir.  that  is  no  fault  of 
mine.  If  they  don't  drink  as  they  ought,  they  are  to 
blame.  I  ordered  them  not  to  spare  the  cellar.  I  did,  I 
assure  you.  {To  the  side  scene,)  Here,  let  one  of  my  servants 
come  up.  {To  him.)  My  positive  directions  were,  that  as 
I  did  not  drink  myself,  they  should  make  up  for  my 
deficiencies  below. 

Hard.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what  they  do  ! 
I'm  satisfied ! 

Marl.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall  hear  from 
one  of  themselves. 

Enter  Servant,  drunk. 

Marl.  You,  Jeremy !  Come  forward,  sirrah !  What 
were  my  orders  ?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink  freely,  and 
call  for  what  you  thought  fit,  for  the  good  of  the  house  ? 

Hard.  {Aside.)  I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jer.  Please  your  honour,  Liberty  and  Fleet-street  for 
ever  !  Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm  as  good  as  another 
man.  I'll  drink  for  no  man  before  supper.  Sir,  dammy  ! 
Good  liquor  will  sit  upon  a  good  supjier,  but  a  good  supper 
will  not  sit  upon hiccup upon  my  conscience,  Sir. 

Marl.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is  as  drunk  as 
he  can  possibly  be.  I  don't  know  what  you'd  have  more, 
unless  you'd  have  the  poor  devil  soused  in  a  beer-barrel. 

Hard.  Zounds  !  he'll  drive  me  distracted,  if  I  pontain 
myself  any  longer.  Mr.  Marlow.  Sir  ;  I  have  submitted 
to  your  insolence  for  more  than  four  hours,  and  I  see  no 
likeHhood  of  its  coming  to  an  end.  I'm  now  resolved  to 
be  master  here.  Sir,  and  I  desire  that  you  and  your 
drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house  directly. 


ACT  IV]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  143 

Marl.    Leave    your   house ! Sure    you    jest,    my 

good*  friend  ?  What,  when  I'm  doing  what  I  can  to 
please  you. 

Hard.  I  tell  you.  Sir,  you  don't  please  me  ;  so  I  desire 
you'll  leave  my  house. 

Marl.  Sure  you  cannot  be  serious  ?  at  this  time  o' 
night,  and  such  a  night.     You  only  mean  to  banter  me  ? 

Hard,  I  tell  you,  Sir,  I'm  serious !  and  now  that  my 
passions  are  rouzed,  I  say  this  house  is  mine.  Sir ;  this 
house  is  mine,  and  I  command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Marl.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I  shan't  stir 
a  step,  I  assure  you.  {In  a  serious  tone.)  This  your  house, 
fellow  !  It 's  my  house.  This  is  my  house.  Mine,  while 
I  chuse  to  stay.  What  right  have  you  to  bid  me  leave 
this  house.  Sir  ?  I  never  met  with  such  impudence,  curse 
me,  never  in  my  whole  life  before. 

Hard.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did.  To  come  to 
my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to  turn  me  out  of  my 
own  chair,  to  insult  the  family,  to  order  his  servants  to 
get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me,  '  This  house  is  mine.  Sir.' 
By  all  that 's  impudent,  it  makes  me  laugh.  Ha  !  ha ! 
ha !  Pray,  Sir,  {bantering)  as  you  take  the  house,  what 
think  you  of  taking  the  rest  of  the  furniture  ?  There's 
a  pair  of  silver  candlesticks,  and  there  's  a  fire-screen,  and 
here 's  a  pair  of  brazen-nosed  bellows,  perhaps  you  may 
take  a  fancy  to  them. 

Marl.  Bring  me  your  bill.  Sir  ;  bring  me  your  bill,  and 
let 's  make  no  more  words  about  it. 

Hard.  There  are  a  set  of  prints  too.  What  think  you 
of  the  Rake's  Progress  for  your  own  apartment  ? 

Marl.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say ;  and  I'll  leave  you 
and  your  infernal  house  directly. 

Hard*  Then  there 's  a  mahogany  table  that  you  may 
see  your  own  face  in. 

Marl.  My  bill,  I  say. 


144  SHE  STOOPS  TO  (X)NQUER         [act  iv 

Heard,  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your  own 
particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

MarL  Zounds  !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and  let 's  hear 
no  more  on  't. 

Hard.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your  father's 
letter  to  me,  I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well-bred  modest 
man,  as  a  visitor  here,  but  now  I  find  him  no  better  than 
a  coxcomb  and  a  bully ;  but  he  will  be  downhere presently , 
and  shall  hear  more  of  it.  [Exit, 

Marl,  How 's  this !  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken  the 
house.  Every  thing  looks  like  an  inn.  Tlie  servants  cry 
*  Coming  ! '  The  attendance  is  aukward  ^  the  bar-maid, 
too,  to  attend  us.  But  she 's  here,  and  will  farther  inform 
me.     Whither  so  fast,  child  ?  A  word  with  voii. 

j  Enter  Miss  Hardcastle, 

^  Miss  Hard,  Let  it  be  short  then.  I'm  in  a  hurry. 
(Aside,)  I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his  mistake.  But 
it 's  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive  him. 

Marl,  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question.  What  are 
you,  and  what  may  your  business  in  this  house  be  ? 

Miss  Hard,  A  relation  of  the  family,  Sir. 

Marl,  What,  a  poor  relation  ? 

Miss  Hard,  Yes,  Sir,  a  poor  relation  apx)ointed  to  keep 
the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want  nothing  in  my 
power  to  give  them. 

Marl,  That  is,  you  act  as  the  bar-maid  of  this  inn. 

Miss  Hard.  Inn.  Olaw ^what  brought  that  in  your 

head  ?  One  pf  the  best  families  in  the  county  keep  an 
inn  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  old  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  an  inn  ! 

Marl.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house.  Is  this  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's house,  child  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.     Whose  else  should  it  be  1 

Marl.  So  then  all 's  out,  and  I  have  been  damnably 
imposed  on.     0,  confound  my  stupid  head,  I  shall  be 


ACT  IV]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  145 

laugh'd  at  over  the  whole  town.  I  shall  be  stuck  up  in 
cajicatura  in.  all  the  print-shops — The  IhdliasimO' 
Maccaroni,  To  mistake  this  house  of  all  others  for  an 
inn,  and  my  father's  old  friend  for  an  inn-keeper  !  What 
a  swaggering  puppy  must  he  take  me  for !  What  a  silly 
puppy  do  I  find  myself !  There  again,  may  I  be  hanged, 
my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you  for  the  bar-maid. 

Miss  Hard.  Dear  me!  dear  me!  I'm  sure  there's 
nothing  in  my  behaviour  to  put  me  upon  a  level  with  one 
of  that  stamp. 

Marl.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I  was  in  for 
a  list  of  blunders,  and  could  not  help  making  you  a  sub- 
scriber. My  stupidity  saw  every  thing  the  wrong  way. 
I  mistook  your  assiduity  for  assurance,  and  your  sim- 
plicity for  allurement.  But  it 's  over — ^This  house  I  no 
more  show  my  face  in. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope.  Sir,  I  have  done  nothing  to  dis- 
oblige you.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to  affront  any 
gentleman  who  has  been  so  polite,  and  said  so  many  civil 
things  to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  (pretending  to 
cry)  if  he  left  the  family  upon  my  account.  I'm  sure  I 
should  be  sorry,  people  said  any  thing  amiss,  since  I  have 
no  fortune  but  my  chiaracter. 

Marl.  (Aside.)  By  heaven,  she  weeps.  This  is  the  y 
first  mark  of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a  modest  woman, 
and  it  touches  me.  (To  her.)  Excuse  me,  my  lovely  girl, 
you  are  the  only  part  of  the  family  I  leave  with  reluctance. 
But  to  be  plain  with  you,  the  difference  of  our  birth,  for- 
tune and  education  makes  an  honourable  connexion  im- 
possible ;  and  I  can  never  harbour  a  thought  of  seducing 
simplicity  that  trusted  in  my  honour,  of  bringing  ruin 
upon  one,  whose  only  fault  was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hard.  (Aside.)  Generous  man !  I  now  begin  to 
admire  him.  (To  him.)  But  I  am  sure  my  family  is  as  good 
as  Miss  Hardcastle's,  and  though  I'm  poor,  that 's  no 


146  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER         [act  iv 

great  misfortune  to  a  contented  mind,  and,  until  this 
moment,  I  never  thought  that  it  was  bad  to  want  fortune. 

Marl.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 

Mi88  Hard,  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance  froin  one, 
that  if  I  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I  would  give  it  all  to. 

Marl.  (Aside.)  This  simplicity  bewitches  me,  so  that  if 
I  stay  I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one  bold  effort  and  leave 
her.  (To  her.)  Your  partiality  in  my  favour,  my  dear, 
touches  me  most  sensibly,  and  were  I  to  live  for  myself 
alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my  choice.  But  I  owe  too  much 
to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too  much  to  the  authority  of 
a  father,  so  that — I  can  scarcely  speak  it— it  affects  me. 
Farewell.  [Exit. 

Miss  JIard.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till  now. 
He  shall  not  go^  if  I  have  power  or  art  to  detain  him. 
I'll  stiU  pres^^e  the  character  in  which  I  stooped  to 
lumgu&r,  b«t  will  undeceive  my  papa,  who,  perhaps,  may 
laugh  him  out  of  his  resolution.  [Exit. 

Enter  Tony,  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next  time. 
I  have  done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the  jewels  again,  that's 
a  sure  thing  ;  but  she  believes  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the 
servants. 

Miss  Nev.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you  won't  for- 
sake us  in  this  distress.  If  she  in  the  least  suspects  that 
I  am  going  off,  I  shall  certainly  be  locked  up,  or  sent  to 
my  aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten  times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  damned  bad 
things.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  got  you  a  pair  of 
horses  that  will  fly  like  Whistle-jacket,  and  I'm  sure  you 
can't  say  but  I  have  courted  you  nicely  before  her  face. 
Here  she  comes,  we  must  court  a  bit  or  two  more,  for 
fear  she  should  suspect  us. 

[They  retire  and  seem  to  fondle. 


ACT  IV]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  147 

Enter  Mrs,  Hardcastle, 

Mrs,  Hard,  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered  to  be  sure. 
But  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants. 
I  shan't  be  easy,  however,  till  they  are  fairly  married,  and 
then  let  her  keep  her  own  fortune.  But  what  do  I  see  ! 
fondling  together,  as  I'm  alive.  I  never  saw  Tony  so 
sprightly  before.  Ah  !  have  I  caught  you,  my  pretty 
doves  !  What,  billing,  exchanging  stolen  glances  and 
broken  murmurs.     Ah ! 

Tony,  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a  little 
now  and  then,  to  be  sure.  But  there  's  no  love  lost 
between  us. 

Mrs,  Hard,  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon  the  flame, 
only  to  make  it  bum  brighter. 

Miss  Nev,  Cousin  Tony  promises  to  give  us  more  of  his 
company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't  leave  us  any  more. 
It  won't  leave  us,  cousin  Tony,  will  it  ? 

Tony,  0 !  it 's  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I'd  sooner  leave 
my  horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you  smile  upon 
one  so.     Your  laugh  makes  you  so  becoming. 

Miss  Nev.  Agreeable  cousin  ?  Who  can  help  admiring 
that  natural  humour,  that  pleasant,  broad,  red,  thought- 
less, {patting  his  cheek)  ah  !  it 's  a  bold  face. 

Mrs,  Hard,  Pretty  innocence  ! 

Tony,  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con's  hazel  eyes, 
and  her  pretty  long  fingers,  that  she  twists  this  way  and 
that  over  the  haspicols,  like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs,  Hard,  Ah,  he  would  charm  the  bird  from  the 
tree.  I  never  was  so  happy  belere.  My  boy  takes  after 
his  father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  exactly.  The  jewels,  my 
dear  Con,  shall  be  yours  incontinently.  You  shall  have 
them.  Isn't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear  ?  You  shall  be 
married  to-morrow,  and  we'll  put  off  the  rest  of  his  educa- 
tion, like  Dr.  Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportunity. 


148  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CX)NQUER         [act  iv 

Enter  Diggory, 

Dig,  Where 's  the  'squire?  I  have  got  a  letter  for  your 
worship. 

Tony,  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads  all  my  letters 
first. 

Dig,  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your  own  hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from  ? 

Dig,  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  o'  the  letter  itself. 

Tony,  I  could  wish  to  know,  though  (turning  the  letter^ 
and  gazing  on  it). 

Miss  Nev.  (Aside,)  Undone,  undone  !  A  letter  to  him 
from  Hastings.  I  know  the  hand.  If  my  aunt  sees  it 
we  are  ruined  for  ever.  I'll  keep  her  employed  a  little  if 
I  can.  (To  Mrs,  Hardcastle.)  But  I  have  not  told  you, 
madam,  of  my  cousin's  smart  answer  just  now  to  Mr.  Mar- 
low.  We  so  laugh'd — You  must  know,  madam. — This 
way  a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us.  [They  confer. 

Tony,  (Still  gazing.)  A  damn'd  cramp  piece  of  penman- 
ship, as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read  your  print  hand 
very  well.  But  here  there  are  such  handles,  and  shanks, 
and  dashes,  that  one  can  scarce  tell  the  head  from  the  tail. 
'  To  Anthony  Lumpkin,  Esquire.'  It's, very  odd,  I  can 
read  the  outside  of  my  letters,  where  my  own  name  is, 

well  enough.     But  when  I  come  to  open  it,  it's  all 

buzz.  That's  hard,  very  hard;  for  the  inside  of  the 
letter  is  always  the  cream  of  the  correspondence. 

Mrs,  Hard,  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Very  well,  very  well.  And 
so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  philosopher. 

Miss  Nev,  Yes,  madam  ;  but  you  must  hear  the  rest, 
madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he  may  hear  us.  You'll 
hear  how  he  puzzled  him  again. 

Mrs.  Hard,  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now  himself, 
methinks. 

Tony.  (Still  gazing.)  A  damn'd  up  and  down  hand,  as 


ACT  IV]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  149 

if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor.  (Beading.)  Dear  Sir,  Ay,  that 's 
that.  Then  there 's  an  M,  and  a  T,  and  an  S,  but  whether 
the  next  be  an  izzard,  or  an  R,  confound  me,  I  cannot 
t«U. 

Mrs.  Hard,  What's  that,  my  dear.  Can  I  give  you 
any  assistance  ?  * 

Miss  Nev.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  Nobody  reads 
a  cramp  hand  better  than  I.  (Twitching  the  letter  from  him,) 
Do  you  know  who  it  is  from  ? 

Tony,  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger  the  feeder.      ^ 

Miss  Nev,  Ay,  so  it  is,  (pretending  to  read)  Dear  'squire, 
hoping  that  you're  in  health,  as  I  am  at  this  present.  The 
gentlemen  of  the  Shake-bag  club  has  cut  the  gentlemen 

of  the  Goose-green  quite  out  of  feather.     The  odds 

um — odd  battle um — long  fighting — um — here,  here, 

it 's  all  about  cocks  and  fighting ;  it 's  of  no  consequence, 
here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up. 

[Thrusting  the  crumjded  letter  upon  him. 

Tony,  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it 's  of  all  the  consequence  in 
the  world.  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of  it  for  a  guinea. 
Here,  mother,  do  you  make  it  out.     Of  no  consequence ! 

[Giving  Mrs,  HardcaMle  ike  letter,     / 

Mrs,  Hard,  How  's  this !  (reads)  '  Dear  'squire,  I'm  j 
now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  post-chaise  and  pair, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  but  I  find  my  horses  yet 
unable  to  perform  the  journey.  I  expect  you'll  assist  us 
with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you  promised.  Dispatch  is 
necessary,  as  the  hag  (ay  the  hag)  your  mother,  will 
otherwise  suspect  us.  Yours,  Hastings.'  Grant  me 
patience.     I  shall  run  distracted.     My  rage  choaks  me. 

Miss  Nev.  I  hope,  madam,  you'll  suspend  your  resent- 
ment for  a  few  moments,  and  not  impute  to  me  any 
impertinence,  or  sinister  design,  that  belongs  to  another. 

Jdra.Hard,  (Curtesying  very  low,)  Fine-spc^en  madam, 
you  are  most  miraculously  polite  and  engaging,  and  quite 


150  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  iv 

the  very  pink  of  courtesy  and  circumspection,  madam. 
{Changing  her  tone.)  And  you,  you  great  ill-fashioned  oaf, 
with  scarce  sense  enough  to  keep  your  mouth  shut.  Were 
you,  too,  joined  against  me  ?  But  I'll  defeat  all  your 
plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam,  since  you  have 
got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it  would  be  cruel  to  dis- 
appoint them.  So,  if  you  please,  instead  of  running  away 
with  your  spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment,  to  run  off 
with  me.  Your  old  aunt  Pedigree  will  keep  you  secure, 
I'll  warrant  me.  You  too.  Sir,  may  mount  your  horse, 
and  guard  us  upon  the  way.  Here,  Thomas,  Roger, 
Diggory,  I'll  show  you,  that  I  wish  you  better  than  you 
do  yourselves.  [Exit. 

Miss  Nev.  So  now  I'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.  Ay,  that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Nev.  What  better  could  be  expected  from  being 
connected  with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and  after  all  the  nods 
and  signs  I  made  him  ? 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own  cleverness, 
and  not  my  stupidity,  that  did  your  business.  You  were 
so  nice  and  so  busy  with  your  Shake-bags  and  Goose- 
greens,  that  I  thought  you  could  never  be  making  believe. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hast.  So,  Sir,  I  find  by  my  servant,  that  you  have 
shown  my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was  this  well  done, 
young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  Here's  another.  Ask  miss  there,  who  betray'd 
you  ?  Ecod,  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marl.  So  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among  you. 
Rendered  contemptible,  driven  into  ill  manners,  despis^, 
insulted,  laughed  at. 


ACT  IV]         SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  151 

Tony,  Here's  another.  We  shall  have  old  Bedlam 
broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Nev.  And  there,  Sir,  is  the  gentleman  to  whom 
we  all  owe  every  obligation. 

MarL  What  can  I  say  to  him,  a  mere  boy,  an  ideot, 
whose  ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hast,  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that  would  but 
disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Nev.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice  enough  to 
make  himself  merry  with  all  our  embarrassments. 

UasL  An  insensible  cub. 

MarL  Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Baw !  dam'me,  but  I'll  fight  you  both  one  after 
the  other with  baskets. 

MarL  As  for  him,  he's  below  resentment.  But  your 
conduct,  Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  explanation.  You 
knew  of  my  mistakes,  yet  would  not  imdeceive  me. 

Hast*  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  disappointmients, 
is  this  a  time  for  explcuiations.  It  is  not  friendly,  Mr. 
Marlow. 

MarL  But,  Sir — 

Miss  Nev.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on  your  mistake, 
tUl  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you. 

Enter  Servant, 

Serv,  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get  ready  immediately, 
madam.  The  horses  are  putting  to.  Your  hat  and  things 
are  in  the  next  room.  We  are  to  go  thirty  miles  before 
morning.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Nev.  Well,  well :   I'll  come  presently. 

MarL  (To  Hastings.)  Was  it  well  done.  Sir,  to  assist  in 
rendering  me  ridiculous.  To  hang  me  out  for  the  scorn 
of  all  my  acquaintance.  Depend  upon  it.  Sir,  I  shall 
expect  an  explanatiki. 

Ha^.  Was  it  well  done,  Sir,  if  you're  upon  that  subject, 


162  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  iv 

to  deliver  what  I  entrusted  to  yourself,  to  the  care  of 
another,  Sir. 

Miss  Nev,  Mr.  Hastings.  Mr.  Marlow.  Why  will  you 
increase  my  distress  by  this  groundless  dispute  ?  1  im< 
plore,  I  intreat  you 

Enter  Servant, 

Serv,  Your  cloak,  madam.    My  mistress  is  impatient. 

[Eant  Servant. 
Miss  Nev,  I  come.     Pray  be  pacified.     K I  leave  you 
thus,  I  shall  die  with  apprehension. 

Enter  Servant, 

Serv.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam.  The  horses 
are  waiting. 

Miss  NetK  O,  Mr.  Marlow  !  if  you  knew  what  a  scene 
of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies  before  me,  Fm  sure  it 
would  convert  your  resentment  into  pity. 

3Iarl,  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  passions,  that 
I  don't  know  what  I  do.  Forgive  me,  madam.  George, 
forgive  me.  You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and  should  not 
exasperate  it. 

Hast,  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my  only  excuse. 

Miss  Nev,  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you  have  that 
esteem  for  me  that  I  think,  that  I  am  sure  you  have,  your 
constancy  for  three  years  will  but  increase  the  happiness 
of  our  future  connexion.     If — 

Mrs.  Hard,  (Within,)  Miss  NeviDe.  Constance,  why 
Constance,  J  say. 

Miss  Nev,  I'm  coming.  Well,  constancy,  remember, 
constancy  is  the  word.  [Exit, 

Hast,  My  heart !  how  can  I  support  this.  To  be  so 
near  happiness,  and  such  happiness  ! 

Marl,  {To  Tony,)  You  see  now,  young  gentleman,  the 


■"^ 


ACT  IV]        SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  153 

eflFects  of  your  foUy.     What  might  be  amusement  to  you, 
is  here  disappointment,  and  even  distress. 

Tony.  {From  a  reverie.)  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it.  It's  here. 
Your  hands.  Yours  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky.  My 
boots  there,  oh.  Meet  me  two  hours  hence  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden ;  and  if  you  don't  find  Tony  Lumpkin  a 
more  good-natur'd  fellow  than  you  thought  for,  I'll  give 
you  leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bett  Bouncer  into 
the  bargain.     Come  along.    My  boots,  ho  !,       [Exeunt. 


ACT  V 

Enter  Hastings  and  8ertxi7it, 

Hast.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville  drive  off, 
you  say. 

Serv.  Yes,  your  honour.  They  went  off  in  a  post- 
coach,  and  the  young  'squire  went  on  horseback.  They're 
thirty  miles  off  by  this  time. 

Ha^t.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 

Serv.  Yes,  Sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived.  He  and 
the  old  gentleman' of  the  house  have  been  laughing  at 
Mr.  Marlow's  mistake  this  half  hour.  They  are  coming 
this  way. 

Hast.  Tlien  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now  to  my  fruit- 
less appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  This  is 
about  the  time.  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  and  HardcasUe. 

Hard.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  The  peremptory  tone  in  which  he 
sent  forth  his  sublime  commands. 

Sir  Chart.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  suppose  he 
treated  all  your  advances. 

Hard.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something  in  me 
above  a  common  inn-keeper,  too. 


mm 


154  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  v 

Sir  Chart,  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for  an  uncom- 
mon inn-keeper,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think  of  any 
thing  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union  of  our 
families  will  make  our  personal  friendships  hereditary, 
and  though  my  daughter's  fortune  is  but  small 

Sir  CharL  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune  to  me  ? 
My  son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  competence  already, 
and  can  want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous  girl  to 
share  his  happiness  and  increase  it.  If  they  like  each 
other,  as  you  say  they  do 

Hard.  If,  man!  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each  other.  My 
daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  CharL  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  themselves,  you 
know. 

Hard,  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest  manner 
myself  ;  and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out  of  your  ifs,  I 
warrant  him. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marl.  I  come.  Sir,  once  more,  to  ask  pardon  for  my 
strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on  my  insolence 
without  confusion. 

Hard.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too  gravely. 
An  hour  or  two's  laughing  with  my  daughter  will  set  all 
to  rights  again.     She'll  never  like  you  the  worse  for  it. 

Marl.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  approbation. 

Hard.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr.  Marlow  ;  if 
I  am  not  deceived,  you  have  something  more  than  appro- 
bation thereabouts.     You  take  me'. 

Marl.  Really,  Sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness. 
.  Hard.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  feUow,  and  know  what 's 
what  as  well  as  you  that  are  younger.    I  know  what  has 
past  between  you  ;  but  mum. 

Marl.  Sure,  Sir,  nothing  has  past  between  us  but  the 


ACT  V]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  155 

most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and  the  most  distant 
reserve  on  her's.  You  don't  think,  Sir,  that  my  impudence 
has  been  past  upon  all  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Hard,  Impudence  !  No,  I  don't  say  that — not  quite 
impudence — though  girls  like  to  be  play'd  with,  and 
rumpled  a  little  too  sometimes.  But  she  has  told  no 
tales,  I  assure  you. 

MarL  I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hard.  Well,  weU,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place  well 
enough.  But  this  is  over-acting,  yoimg  gentleman.  You 
may  be  open.  Your  father  and  I  will  like  you  the  better 
for  it. 

Marl.  May  I  die.  Sir,  if  I  ever 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you ;  and  as  I'm 
sure  you  like  her 

Marl.  Dear,  Sir — I  protest.  Sir 

Hard.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  joined  as 
fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marl.  But  hear  me.  Sir 

Hard.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  admire  it, 
every  moment's  delay  will  be  doing  mischief,  so — 

Marl.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me  ?  By  all  that 's  just 
and  true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle  the  slightest  mark 
of  my  attachment,  or  even  the  most  distant  hint  to  sus- 
pect me  of  affection.  We  had  but  one  interview,  and 
that  was  formal,  modest,  and  uninteresting. 

Hard.  {Aside.)  This  fellow's  formal  modest  impudence 
is  beyond  bearing. 

8ir  CharL  And  you  never  grasp'd  her  hand,  or  made 
any  protestations. 

Marl.  As  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down  in  obedi- 
ence to  your  commands.  I  saw  the  lady  without  emotion, 
and  parted  without  reluctance.  I  hope  you'll  exact  no 
farther  proofs  of  my  duty,  nor  prevent  me  from  leaving 
a  house  in  which  I  suffer  so  many  mortifications.    [Exit. 


166  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  v 

Sir  CharL  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sincerity  with 
which  he  parted. 

Hard,  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate  intrepidity 
of  his  assurance. 

Sir  CharL  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honour  upon  his 
truth. 

Hard,  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would  stake  my 
happiness  upon  her  veracity. 


f 


Enter  Miss  HardcasUe,  ♦ 

Hard,  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us  sincerely 
and  without  reserve  :  has  Mr.  Marlow  made  you  any 
professions  of  love  and  affection  ? 

Miss  Hard,  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  Sir !  But  since 
3'ou  require  unreserved  sincerity,  I  think  he  has. 

Hard,  (To  Sir  Charles,)  You  see. 

Sir  Chart.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and  my  son 
had  more  than  one  interview  ? 

Miss  Hard,  Yes,  Sir,  several. 

Hard,  (To  Sir  Charles,)  You  see. 

Sir  Charl,  But  did  he  profess  any  attachment  ? 

Miss  Hard,  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  CharL  Did  he  talk  of  love  i 

Miss  Hard,  Much,  Sir. 

Sir  CharL  Amazing  !  And  all  this  formally  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Formally. 

Hard.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 

Sir  CharL  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam  ? 

Miss  Hard.  As  most  profest  admirers  do.  Said  some 
civil  things  of  my  face,  talked  much  of  his  want  of  merit, 
and  the  greatness  of  mine ;  mentioned  his  heart,  gave  a 
short  tragedy  speech,  and  ended  with  pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charl.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced  indeed.  I 
know  his  conversation  among  women  to  be  modest  and 
submissive.    This  forward  canting  ranting  manner  by 


ACT  V]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  157 

no  means  describes  him,  aiid,  I  am  confident,  he  never 
sate  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hard,  Then,  what.  Sir,  if  I  should  convince  you 
to  your  face  of  my  sincerity  ?  if  you  and  my  papa,  in 
about  half  an  hour,  will  place  yourselves  behind  that 
screen,  you  shall  hear  him  declare  his  passion  to  me  in 
person. 

Sir  CharL  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what  you  describe, 
all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have  an  end.  [Exit, 

Miss  Hard,  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what  I  describe 

1  fear  my  happiness  must  never  have  a  beginning. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  CHANGES  TO  THE  BACK  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

ErUer  Hastings, 

Hast,  What  an  ideot  am  I,  to  wait  here  for  a  fellow,  who 
probably  takes  a  delight  in  mortifying  me.  He  never 
intended  t/O  be  punctual,  and  I'll  wait  no  longer.  What 
do  I  see  !  It  is  he  !  and  perhaps  with  news  of  my  Con- 
stance. 

Erder  Tony,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hast.  My  honest  'squire !  I  now  find  you  a  man  of 
your  word.    This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony*  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend  yoa 
have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This  riding,  by 
night,  by  the  by,  is  cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook  me^ 
worse  than  the  basket  of  a  stage-coach. 

Hast,  But  how  ?  where  did  you  leave  your  fellow 
travellers  ?   Are  they  in  safety  ?   Are  they  housed  ? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and  a  half 
is  no  such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts  have  smoaked 
for  it :  rabbit  me,  but  I'd  rather  ride  forty  miles  after 
a  fox  than  ten  with  such  varment. 


158  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  v 

HdsL  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the  ladies  ?  I  die 
with  impatience. 

Tony.  Left  them  !  Why  where  should  I  loave  them  but 
where  I  found  them. 

Hast  This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this  then.  What 's  that  goes  round 
the  house,  and  round  the  house,  and  never  touches  the 
house  ? 

HasL  I'm  still  astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that 's  it,  mon.  I  have  led  them  adtray . 
By  jingo,  there 's  not  a  pond  or  a  slough  within  five  miles 
of  the  place  but  they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hdst,  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  I  understand  ;  you  took  them  in 
a  round,  while  they  supposed  themselves  going  forward, 
and  so  you  have  at  last  brought  them  home  again. 

Tony,  You  shall  •  hear.  I  first  took  them  down 
Feather-bed-lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud.  I 
then  rattled  them  crack  over  the  stones  of  Up-and-down 
Hill— 1  tlxen  introduced  them  to  the  gibbet  on  Heavy-tree 
Heath,  and  from  that,  with  a  circumbendibus^  I  fairly 
lodged  them  in  the  horse-pond  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden. 

Hast.  But  no  accident,  I  hope. 

Tony.  No,  no.  Only  mother  is  confoundedly  frightened. 
She  thinks  herself  forty  miles  oiff.  She  's  sick  of  the  jour- 
ney, and  the  cattle  can  scarce  crawl.  So  if  your  own 
horses  be  ready,  you  may  whip  off  with  cousin,  and  I'll  be 
bound  that  no  soul  here  can  budge  a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hast.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grateful ! 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it 's  dear  friend,  noble  'squire.  Just 
now,  it  was  all  ideot,  cub,  and  run  me  through  the  guts. 
Damn  your  way  of  fighting,  I  say.  After  we  take  a  knock 
in  this  ^art  of  the  country,  we  kiss  and  be  friends.  But 
if  you  had  run  me  through  the  guts,  then  I  should  be  dead, 
and  you  might  go  kiss  the  hangman. 


.    QUICK    IN    THE   CHARACTER    OF   TONY    LUMPKIN 


ACT  V]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  159 

HasU  The  rebuke  is  jiist.  But  I  must  hasten  to  relieve 
Miss  Neville ;  if  you  keep  the  old  lady  employed,  1 
promise  to  take  care  of  the  young  one.         [Exit  Hastings, 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes.  Vanish  ! 
She's  got  from  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist  like 
a  mermaid. 

Enter  Mrs.  HardcdsUe, 

■ 

Mrs,  Hard,  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed.  Shook.  Battered 
to  death.  I  shall  never  survive  it.  That  last  jolt  that 
laid  us  against  the  quickset  hedge  has  done  my  business. 

Tony,  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  aU  your  own  fault.  You 
would  be  for  running  away  by  night,  without  knowing  one 
inch  of  the  wav. 

Mrs,  Hard.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again.  I  never 
met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey.  Drench'd 
in  the  mud,  overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast  in  a  slough, 
jolted  to  a  jelly,  and  at  last  to  lose  our  way.  Whereabouts 
do  you  think  we  are,  Tony  ? 

Tony,  By  my  guess  we  should  come  upon  CrackskuU 
common,  about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs,  Hard.  0  lud  !  O  lud  !  The  most  notorious  spot 
in  all  the  country.  We  only  want  a  robbery  to  ma>ke  a 
complete  night  on' t. 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma,  don't  be  afraid.  Two 
of  the  five  that  kept  here  are  hanged,  and  the  other  three 
may  not  find  us.  Don't  be  afraid.  Is  that  a  man  that 's 
galloping  behind  us  ?  No  ;  it's  only  a  tree.  Don't  be 
afraid. 

Mrs,  Hard,  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  any  thing  like  a  black  hat  moving 
behind  the  thicket  ? 

Mrs.  Hard,  O  death  ! 

Tony,  No,  it 's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma ; 
don't  be  afraid. 


160  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  v 

Mrs,  Hard,  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man  coming 
towards  us.  Ah !  I'm  sure  on't.  If  he  perceives  us 
we  are  undone. 

Tony,  (Aside,)  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  unlucky, 
come  to  take  one  of  his  night  walks.  (To her,)  Ah,  it's  a 
highwayman  with  pistols  as  long  as  my  arm.  A  damn'd 
ill-looking  fellow. 

Mrs,  Hard,  Good  Heaven  defend  us  ?  He  approaches. 

Tony,  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and  leave 
me  to  manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger  I'll  cough  and 
cry  hem.    When  I  cough  be  sure  to  keep  close. 

[Mrs,  Hardcastle  hides  behind  a  tree  in  the  back  Scene. 

ErUer  Hardcastle. 

Hard,  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of  people  in 
want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you  !  I  did  not  expect 
you  so  soon  back.  Are  your  mother  and  her  charge  in 
safety  ? 

Tony,  Very  safe.  Sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedigree's.     Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard,  (From  behind,)  Ah  death  !  I  find  there 's 
danger. 

Hard,  Forty  miles  in  three  hours ;  sure  that 's  too 
much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  wilhng  minds  make  short 
journeys,  as  they  say.    Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard,  (From  behind,)  Sure  he'll  do  the  dear  boy 
no  harm. 

Hard.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here  ;  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  Sir,  talking  to  myself.  Sir.  I  was 
saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good  going. 
Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem.  I  have  got  a  sort 
of  cold  by  being  out  in  the  air.  We'll  go  in,  if  you  please. 
Hem. 

Hard,  But  if  you  talk'd  to  yourself,  you  did  not  answer 


ACTV]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  161 

youraelf .     I'm  certain  I  heard  two  voices,  and  am  resolved 
(Raising  his  voice)  to  find  the  other  out. 

Mrs.  Hard,  (From  behind.)  Oh  !  he  's  coming  to  find 
me  out.     Oh  ! 

Tony,  What  need  you  go,  Sir,  if  I  tell  you.  Hem. 
I*U  lay  down  my  life  for  the  truth — hem — I'll  tell  you 
all,  Sir. 

[Detaining  him. 

Hard.  1  tell  you,  I  wfll  not  be  detained.  I  insist  on 
seeing.     It 's  in  vain  to  expect  I'll  beheve  you. 

Mrs,  Hard.  (Running  forward  from  behind.)  O  lud  I 
he'll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling.  Here,  good 
gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon  me.  Take  my  money, 
my  life,  but  spare  that  young  gentleman,  spare  my  child, 
if  you  have  any  mercy. 

Hard,  My  wife !  as  I'm  a  christian.  From  whence  can 
she  come  ?  or  what  does  she  mean. 

Mrs,  Hard.  (Kneeling,)  Take  compassion  on  us,  good 
Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our  money,  oui' watches,  all  we 
have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We  will  never  bring  you  to 
justice,  indeed  we  won't,  good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hard.  I  beheve  the  woman 's  out  of  her  senses.  What, 
Dorothy,  don't  you  know  me  ? 

Mrs,  Hard,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive !  My  fears 
blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have  expected  to 
meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful  place,  so  far  from  home  ? 
What  has  brought  you  to  follow  us  ? 

Hard,  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost  your  wits  ?  So 
far  from  home,  when  you  are  within  forty  yards  of  your 
own  doov.  {To  him.)  This  is  one  of  your  old  tricks,  you 
graceless  rogue,  you.  (To  her.)  Don't  you  know  the  gate, 
and  the  mulberry- tree ;  and  don't  you  remember  the 
horse-pond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse-pond  as 
long  as  I  live  ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in  it.  (To  Tony.) 

OOLDSMITU.      II  G 


162  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  v 

And  is  it  to  you,  you  graceless  varlet,  I  owe  all  this  ?  I'll 
teach  you  to  abuse  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony,  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have 
spoird  me,  and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on  't. 

Mrs.  Hard,  Fll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage.     Exit, 

Hard.  There 's  morality,  however,  in  his  reply.    [Exit. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville, 

Hast.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you  deliberate  thus. 
If  we  delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  for  ever.  Pluck  up  a 
little  resolution,  and  we  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  reach  of 
her  malignity. 

Miss  Nev.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are  so  sunk 
with  the  agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am  unable  to 
face  any  new  danger.  Two  or  three  years'  patience  will 
at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hast.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  inconstancy. 
Let  us  fly,  my  charmer.  Let  us  date  our  happiness  from 
this  very  moment.  Perish  fortune  !  Love  and  content 
will  encrease  what  we  possess  beyond  a  monarch's 
revenue.    Let  me  prevail ! 

Miss  Nev.  No,  Mr.  Hastings ;  no.  Prudence  onqe  more 
comes  to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its  dictates.  In  the 
moment  of  passion  fortune  may  be  despised,  but  it  ever 
produces  a  lasting  repentance.  I'm  resolved  to  apply  to 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion  and  justice  for  redress. 

Hast.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  has  not  the  power 
to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Nev,  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon  that  I  am 
resolved  to  rely. 

Ha^t,  I  have  no  hopes.  But  since  you  persist,  I  must 
reluctantly  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 


ACTV]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  163 


SCENE   CHANGES. 

ErUer  Sir  Charles  and  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Sir  Gkarl.  What  a  situation  am  I  in  !  If  what  you  say 
appears,  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If  what  he  says  be 
true,  I  shall  then  lose  one,  that,  of  all  others,  I  most  wish'd 
for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hard.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation,  and  to 
shew  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as  I  directed,  you 
shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration.     But  he  comes. 

Sir  CharL  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him  to  the 
appointment.  [Exit  Sir  Charles, 

Enter  Marlow, 

Marl.  Though  preparM  for  setting  out,  I  come  once 
more  to  take  leave,  nor  did  I,  till  this  moment,  know  the 
pain  I  feel  in  the  separation. 

Miss  Hard.  (In  her  own  natural  manner.)  I  believe 
these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  great.  Sir,  which  you  can 
so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two  longer,  perhaps,  might 
lessen  your  uneasiness,  by  shewing  the  little  value  of 
what  you  now  think  proper  to  regret. 

Marl.  (Aside.)  This  girl  every  moment  improves  upon 
me.  (To  her.)  It  must  not  be,  madam.  I  have  already 
trifled  too  long  with  my  heart.  My  very  pride  begins  to 
submit  to  my  passion.  The  disparity  of  education  and 
fortune,  the  anger  of  a  parent,  and  the  contempt  of  my 
equals,  begin  to  lose  their  weight ;  and  nothing  can 
restore  me  to  myself,  but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  go.  Sir.  I'll  urge  nothing  more  to 
detain  you.  Though  my  family  be  as  good  as  hers  you 
came  down  to  visit,  and  my  education,  I  hope,  not  inferior, 
what  are  these  advantages  without  equal  affluence  ?    I 


164  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [actv 

must  remain  contented  with  the  slight  approbation  of 
imputed  merit ;  I  must  have  only  the  mockery  of  your 
addresses,  while  all  your  serious  aims  are  fixed  on  fortune. 

Snter  Hardcastle  and  Sir  Charles  from  behind. 

Sir  Charl.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hard.  Ay,  ay,  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage  my  Kate 
covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marl,  By  heavens,  madam,  fortune  was  ever  my 
smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first  caught  my 
eye  ;  for  who  could  see  that  without  emotion.  But  every 
moment  that  I  converse  with  you,  steals  in  some  new  grace, 
heightens  the  picture,  and  gives  it  stronger  expression. 
What  at  first  seemed  rustic  plainness,  now  appears  refined 
simplicity.  What  seem'd  forward  assurance,  now  strikes 
me  as  the  result  of  courageous  innocence  and  conscious 
virtue. 

Sir  Charl.  What  can  he  mean  ?     He  amazes  me  ! 

Hard,  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.     Hush  ! 

Marl,  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam,  and  I 
have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  discernment, 
when  he  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miaa  Hard,  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  cannot  detain 
you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a  connexion,  in  which 
there  is  the  smallest  room  for  repentance  ?  Do  you  think 
I  would  take  the  mean  advantage  of  a  transient  passion, 
to  load  you  with  confusion  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever 
relish  that  happiness,  which  was  acquired  by  lessening 
yours  ? 

Marl,  By  all  that 's  good,  I  can  have  no  happiness  but 
what 's  in  your  power  to  grant  me.  Nor  shall  I  ever  feel 
repentance,  but  in  not  having  seen  your  merits  before. 
I  will  stay,  even  contrary  to  your  wishes ;  and  though 
you  should  persist  to  shun  me,  I  will  make  my  respectful 
assiduities  atone  for  the  levity  of  my  past  conduct. 


ACT  V]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  165 

Miss  Hard,  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  desist.  As  our 
acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  indifference.  I  might 
have  given  an  hour  or  two  to  levity ;  but  seriously, 
Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think  I  could  ever  submit  to  a  con- 
nexion, where  I  must  appear  mercenary  and  you  impru- 
dent ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  confident 
addresses  of  a  secure  admirer  ? 

Marl,  (Kneeling,)  Does  this  look  like  security  ?  Does 
this  look  like  confidence  ?  No,  madam,  every  moment 
that  shews  me  your  merit,  only  serves  to  encrease  my 
diffidence  and  confusion.     Here  let  me  continue 

Sir  CharL  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles,  Cliarles, 
how  hast  thou  deceived  me  !  Is  this  your  indifference, 
your  uninteresting  conversation  ? 

Hard.  Your  cold  contempt ;  your  formal  interview  ? 
What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Marl,  That  I'm  all  amazement  ?  What  can  it  mean  ? 

Hard.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay  things  at 
pleasure.  That  you  can  address  a  lady  in  private,  and 
deny  it  in  public  ;  that  you  have  one  story  for  us,  and 
another  for  my  daughter  ! 

Marl.  Daughter ', — This  lady  your  daughter  ! 

Hard,  Yes,  Sir,  my  only  daughter.  My  Kate,  whose 
else  should  she  be  2 

Marl,  Oh,  the  devil ! 

Miss  Hard*  Yes,  Sir,  that  very  identical  tall,  squinting 
lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for,  {Curtseying)  she 
that  you  addressed  as  the  mild,  modest,  sentimental  man 
of  gravity,  and  the  bold  forward  agreeable  Rattle  of  the 
ladies'  club.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Marl.  Zounds,  there 's  no  bearing  this ;  it 's  worse  than 
death. 

Miss  Hard.  In  which  of  your  characters.  Sir,  will  you 
give  us  leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the  f  aultering  gentleman, 
with  looks  on  the  ground,  that  speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and 


166  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [actv 

hates  hypocrisy  ;  or  the  loud  confident  creature,  that 
keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap,  and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buck- 
skin, till  three  in  the  morning.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Marl.  O,  curse  on  my  noisy  head.  I  never  attempted 
to  be  impudent  yet,  that  I  was  not  taken  down.  I  must 
be  gone. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall  not.  I 
see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced  to  find  it.  You 
shall  not.  Sir,  I  tell  you.  I  know  she'll  forgive  you.  Won't 
you  forgive  him,  Kate  ?  We'll  all  forgive  you.  Take 
courage,  man.  [They  retire,  she  tormenting  him,  to  the 

back  scene. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle,  Tony. 

Mrs.  Hard.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.  Let  them  go, 
I  care  not. 

Hard.  Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentleman, 
Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came  down  with  our 
modest  visitor  here. 

Sir  Chart.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings  ?  As 
worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not  have  made 
a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hard.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm  proud  of 
the  connexion. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the  lady,  he  has 
not  taken  her  fortune ;  that  remains  in  this  family  to 
console  us  for  her  loss. 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so  mercenary? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  that 's  my  affair,  not  yourg. 

Hard.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of  age,  refuses 
to  marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is  then  at  her  own 
disposal. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,tand  she  has  not 
thought  proper  to  wait  for  Jiis  refusal. 


ACT  V]  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  167 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville, 

Mrs,  Hard.  (Aside,)  What,  returned  so  soon  !  I  begin 
not  to  like  it. 

Hast,  (To  Hardcastle,)  For  my  late  attempt  to  fly  off 
with  your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion  be  my  punish- 
ment. We  are  now  come  back,  to  appeal  from  your  justice 
to  your  humanity.  By  her  father's  consent  I  first  paid 
her  my  addresses,  and  our  passions  were  first  founded  in 
duty. 

Miss  Nev,  Since  his  death,  I  have  been  obliged  to 
stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppression.  In  an  hour 
of  levity,  I  was  ready  even  to  give  up  my  fortune  to 
secure  my  choice.  But  I'm  now  recover'd  from  the 
delusion,  and  hope  from  your  tenderness  what  is  denied 
me  from  a  nearer  connexion. 

Mrs.  Hard,  Pshaw,  pshaw,  this  is  all  but  the  whining 
end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hard,  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're  come  back 
to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither,  Tony,  boy.  Do  you 
refuse  this  lady's  hand  whom  I  now  offer  you. 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing.  You  know  I  can't 
refuse  her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hard,  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age,  boy,  was 
likely  to  conduce  to  your  improvement,  I  concurred  with 
your  mother's  desire  to  keep  it  secret.  But  since  I  find 
she  turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must  now  declare  you  have 
been  of  age  these  three  months. 

Tony.  Of  age  !  Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 

Hard.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of  my 
liberty.  (Taking  Miss  Neville^ s  hand.)  Witness  all  men  by 
these  presents,  that  I  Anthony  Lumpkin,  esquire,  of 
BLANK  place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Neville,  spinster,  of 
no  place  at  all,  for  my  true  and  lawful  wife.    So  Constance 


168  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  [act  v 

Neville  may  marry  whom  she  pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin 
is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  CharL  O  brave  'squire. 

Hast,  My  worthy  friend  ! 

Mrs.  Hard,  My  undutiful  offspritig  ! 

Marl.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy  sincerely. 
And  could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  tyrant  here  to  be  Jess 
arbitrary,  I  should  be  the  happiest  man  alive,  if  you 
would  return  me  the  favour. 

Hast,  (To  Miss  HardcasUe,)  Come,  madam,  you  are 
now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all  your  contrivances. 
I  know  you  like  him,  I'm  sure  he  loves  you,  and  you  must 
and  shall  have  him. 

Hard.  (Joining  their  hands.)  And  I  say  so  too.  And, 
Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as  she  has  a 
daughter,  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  repent  your  bargain. 
So  now  to  supper.  To-morrow  we  shall  gather  all  the 
poor  of  the  parish  about  us,  and  the  Mistakes  of  the  Night 
shall  be  crown'd  with  a  merry  morning  ;  so,  boy,  take 
her,  and  as  you  have  bee^  mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my 
wish  is,  that  you  may  never  be  mistaken  in  the  wife. 

lExeunt  amnes. 


EPILOGUE 

By  Dr.  GOLDSMITH 

SPOKEN  BY  IVlRS.  BULia,EY 

IN   THE  CHARACTER  OF 

Miss  HARDCASTLE 

Well,  having  stoop'd  to  conquer  with  success, 

And  gain'd  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress, 

Still,  as  a  bar-maid,  I  could  wish  it  too, 

As  I  have  conquer'd  him,  to  conquer  you  : 

And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 

That  pretty  bar-maids  have  done  execution. 

Our  life  is  all  a  play,  compos'd  to  please, 

'  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances.' 

Tlie  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maid. 

Harmless  and  young,  of  every  thing  afraid ; 

Blushes  when  hir'd,  and  with  unmeaning  action, 

'  I  hopes  as  how  to  give  you  satisfaction.' 

Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene — 

Th'  unblushing  bar-maid  of  a  country  inn, 

Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters. 

Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the  waiters. 

Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she  soars, 

The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseurs. 

On  'squires  and  cits  she  there  displays  her  arts, 

And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts — 

And  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  compleat. 

E'en  Common  Councilmen  forget  to  eat. 

The  fourth  act  shows  her  wedded  to  the  'squire, 

And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher; 

G3 


170  EPILOGUE 

Pretends  to  taste,  at  Operas  cries  caro, 

And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson,  for  Che  Faro  : 

Doats  upon  dancing,  and  in  all  her  pride 

Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheapside : 

Ogles  and  leers  with  artificial  skill, 

Till  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill. 

She  sits  all  night  at  cards,  and  ogles  at  spadille. 

Such,  through  our  lives  the  eventful  history — 

The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me. 

The  bar-maid  now  for  your  protection  prays, 

Turns  female  Barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bayes. 


EPILOGUE  1 

TO  BE  SPOKEN  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF 

TONY  LUMPKIN 

By  J.  CRADOCK,  Esq. 

Well — ^now  all's  ended — and  my  comrades  gone, 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother's  nonly  son  ? 
A  hopeful  blade  ! — ^in  town  I'll  fix  my  station, 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation ; 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her, 
Off — ^in  a  crack — I'll  carry  big  Bett  Bouncer. 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear  ? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a  year ! 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In  London — 'gad,  they've  some  regard  to  spirit. 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets, 
And  big  Bett  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets ; 
Then  hoiks  to  jigs  and  pastimes  ev'ry  night — 
Not  to  the  play — ^they  say  it  a'n't  polite ; 
To  Sadler's  Wells  perhaps,  or  operas  go, 
And  once  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio. 
Thus  here  and  there,  for  ever  up  and  down, 
We'll  set  the  fashions  too  to  half  the  town  ; 
And  then  at  auctions — money  ne'er  regardy^ 
Buy  pictures  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a  yard : 
Zounds,  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say. 
We  know  what's  damn'd  genteel  as  well  as  they. 

*  This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken. 


SCENE  FROM 

THE  GRUMBLER 

A  FARCE 
Flayed  at  Covent  Gabden  Theatre,  May  8th.  1773 


DRAMATIS  PERSON.E 


Sourhy  (the  Grumbler) 
Octavio  (his  Son)      .  .  .  . 

Wentworth  (Brother-in-law  to  Sourhy) 
Dancing  Master  (called  Signior  Capriole 

in  the  BiUs)  .         . 
Scamper  (Servant)    .         .         .         . 
Clarissa  (in  love  vdth  Octavio)  , 
Jenny  (her  Maid)    .... 


Mr.  Quick. 
Mr.  Davis. 
Mr.  Owenson. 

Mr.  King. 
Mr.  Saunders. 
Miss  Helme. 
Miss  Pearce. 


SCENE  FROM  THE  GRUMBLER 

Enter  Scamper  (Sourbi/s  servant)  to  Sourhy,  and  his 

irdended  unfe^s  maid  Jenny, 

Scamper.    Sir,  a  gentleman  would  speak  with  you. 

Jenny.  Good  I  Here  comes  Scamper ;  he'll  manage 
you,  I'll  warrant  me.     (Aside.) 

Sourby.    Wlio  is  it  ? 

Scamper.  He  says  his  name  is  Monsieur  Ri — Ri — Stay, 
Sir,  I'll  go  and  ask  him  again. 

Sourby.  (PvUing  him  by  the  ears.)  Take  that,  sirrah, 
by  the  way. 

Scamper.    Ahi !    Ahi !  [Exit. 

Jenny.  Sir,  you  have  torn  off  his  hair,  so  that  he 
must  now  have  a  wig  :  you  have  pulled  his  ears  off ; 
but  there  are  none  of  them  to  be  had  for  money. 

Sourby.  I'll  teach  him — 'Tis  certainly  Mr.  Rigaut,  my 
notary ;  I  know  who  it  is,  let  him  come  in.  Could  he 
find  no  time  but  this  to  bring  me  money  ?  Plague  take 
the  blockhead  ! 

Enter  Dancing- Master  and  his  Fiddler. 

Sourby.  This  is  not  my  man.  Who  are  you,  with  your 
compliments  ? 

Dancing  Master.  (Bomng  often.)  I  am  called  Rigau- 
don,  Sir,  at  your  service. 

Sourby.  (To  Jenny.)  Have  not  I  seen  that  face  some- 
where before  ? 

Jenny.    Tliere  are  a  thousand  people  like  one  another. 

Sourby.    Well,  Mr.  Rigaudon,  what  is  your  business  ? 


176  SCENE  FROM  THE  GRUMBLER 

Dancing  Master.  To  give  you  this  letter  from  Madame 
Clarissa. 

Sourhy.  Give  it  to  me — I  would  fain  know  who  taught 
Clarissa  to  fold  a  letter  thus.     What  contains  it  ? 

Jenny.  (Aside,  while  he  unfolds  the  letter.)  A  lover, 
I  believe,  never  complained  of  that  before. 

Sourhy,  (Reads.)  '  Everybody  says  I  am  to  marry  the 
most  brutal  of  men.  I  would  disabuse  them ;  and  for 
that  reason  you  and  I  must  begin  the  ball  to-night.'  She 
is  mad ! 

Dancing  Master.    Go  on,  pray,  Sir. 

Sourhy.  (Reads.)  *  You  told  me  you  cannot  dance  ; 
but  I  have  sent  you  the  first  man  in  the  world.'  (Sourhy 
looks  at  him  from  head  to  foot.) 

Dancing  Master.    Oh  Lord,  Sir. 

Sourhy.  (Reads.)  *  Who  will  teacli  you  in  less  than  an 
hour  enough  to  serve  your  purpose.'     I  learn  to  dance  ! 

Dancing  Master.    Finish,  if  you  please. 

Sourhy.  '  And  if  you  love  me,  you  will  learn  the 
Allemande.'  The  Allemande  !  I,  the  Allemande !  Mr. 
the  first  man  in  the  world,  do  you  know  you  are  in  some 
danger  here  ? 

Dancing  Master.  Come,  Sir,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
you  shall  dance  to  a  miracle  ! 

Sourhy.  Mr.  Rigaudon,  do  you  know  I  will  send  you 
out  of  the  window  if  I  call  my  servants  ? 

Dancing  Master.  (Bidding  his  man  play.)  Come, 
brisk,  this  little  prelude  will  put  you  in  humour ;  you 
must  be  held  by  the  hand  ;  or  have  you  some  steps  of 
your  ovm.  ? 

Sourhy.  Unless  you  put  up  that  d — d  fiddle,  I'll  beat 
it  about  your  ears. 

Dancing  Master.  Zounds,  Sir  !  if  you  are  thereabouts, 
you  shall  dance  presently — ^I  say  presently. 

Sourhy.    Shall  I  dance,  villain  ? 


SCENE  FROM  THE  GRUMBLER  177 

Dancing  Master,  Yes.  By  the  heavens  above  shall 
you  dance.  I  have  orders  from  Clarissa  to  make  you 
dance.  She  has  paid  me,  and  dance  you  shall ;  first, 
let  him  go  out.    [He  draws  his  stvord,  and  puts  it  under 

his  arm, 

Sourby.  Ah  !  I'm  dead.  What  a  madman  has  this 
woman  sent  me  ! 

Jenny,  I  see  I  must  interpose.  Stay  you  there, 
Sir ;  let  me  speak  to  him  ;  Sir,  pray  do  us  the  favour 
to  go  and  tell  the  lady,  that  it's  disagreeable  to  my 
master. 

Dancing  Master.    I  will  have  him  dance. 

Sourby,    The  rascal  !  the  rascal ! 

Jenny,  Consider,  if  you  please,  my  master  is  a  grave 
man. 

Dancing  Master.    I'll  have  him  dance. 

Jenny.    You  may  stand  in  need  of  him. 

Sourby.  {Taking  her  aside.)  Yes,  tell  him  that  when 
he  will,  without  costing  him  a  farthing,  I'll  bleed  and 
purge  him  his  bellyfull. 

Dancing  Master.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that ; 
I'll  have  him  dance,  or  have  his  blood. 

Sourby.    The  rascal !    (muttering.) 

Jenny.  Sir,  I  can't  work  upon  him ;  the  madman 
will  not  hear  reason  ;  some  harm  will  happen — we  are 
alone. 

Sourby.    'Tis  very  true. 

Jenm^*    Look  on  him  ;  he  has  an  ill  look. 

Sourby.    He  has  so  (trembling). 

Dancing  Master.    Make  haste,  I  say,  make  haste. 

Sourby.    Help  !   neighbours  !   murder  ! 

Jenny.  Aye,  you  may  cry  for  help ;  do  you  know- 
that  all  your  neighbours  would  be  glad  to  see  you  robbed 
and  your  throat  cut  ?  Believe  me.  Sir,  two  Allemande 
steps  may  save  your  life. 


178  SCENE  FROM  THE  GRUMBLER 

Sourby.  But  if  it  should  come  to  be  known,  I  should  be 
taken  for  a  fool. 

Jenny.  Love  excuses  all  follies ;  and  I  have  heard 
say  that  when  vHercules  was  in  love,  he  spun  for  Queen 
Omphale. 

Sourby,  Yes,  Hercules  spun,  but  Hercules  did  not 
dance  the  Allemande. 

Jenny,  Well,  you  must  tell  him  so  ;  the  gentleman 
will  teach  you  another. 

Dancing  Master.    Will  you  have  a  minuet,  Sir  ? 

Sourby.    A  minuet ;   no. 

Dancing  Master.   The  loure. 

Sourby.    The  loure  ;   no. 

Dancing  Master.    The  passay  ! 

Sourby.    The  passay  ;  no. 

Dancing  Master.  What  then  ?  the  trocanny,  the 
tricotez,  the  rigadon  ?    Come,  choose,  choose. 

Sourby.    No,  no,  no,  I  like  none  of  these. 

Dancing  Master.  You  would  have  a  grave,  serious 
dance,  perhaps  ? 

Sourby n  Yes,  a  serious  one,  if  there  be  any — but  a  very 
serious  dance. 

Dancing  Master.  Well,  the  courante,  the  hornpipe, 
the  brooane,  the  saraband  ? 

Sourby,   No,  no,  no  ! 

Dancing  Master.  What  the  devil  then  will  you  have  ? 
But  make  haste,  or — death  ! 

Sourby.  Come  on  then,  since  it  must  be  so  ;  I'll  learn 
a  few  steps  of  the — the 


Dancing  Master.   What  of  the — the- 

Sourby.    I  know  not  what. 

Dancing  Master.    You  mock  me,  Sir  ;  you  shall  dance 

the  Allemande,  since  Garissa  will  have  it  so,  or 

[He  leads  him  about,  the  fiddle  playing  the  Allemande. 
Sourby.    I  shall  be  laughed  at  by  the  whole  town 


SCENE  FROM  THE  GRUMBLER  179 

if  it  should  be  known.  I  am  determined,  for  this  frolic, 
to  deprive  Clarissa  of  that  invaluable  blessing,  the  posses- 
sion of  my  person. 

Dancing  Master.  Come,  come,  Sir,  move,  move. 
(Teaching  him.) 

Sourby.    Cockatrice  ! 

Dancing  Master.    One,  two,  three  !    (Teaching.) 

Sourby.    A  d — d,  infernal 

Enter  Wenttvorth. 

Oh  !  brother,  you  are  come  in  good  time  to  free  me  from 
this  cursed  bondage. 

Wenttvorth.  How  !  for  shame,  brother,  at  your  age 
to  be  thus  foolish. 

Sourby.    As  I  hope  for  mercy — 

Wentuxyrth.  For  shame,  for  shame — ^practising  at  sixty 
what  should  have  been  finished  at  six  ? 

Dancing  Master.  He's  not  the  only  grown  gentleman 
I  have  had  in  hand. 

Wentux>rth.  Brother,  brother,  you'll  be  the  mockery 
of  the  whole  city. 

Sourby.  Eternal  babbler  !  hear  me  ;  this  curs'd,  con- 
founded villain  will  make  me  dance  perforce. 

WerUuKnih.    Perforce  ! 

Sourby.  Yes  ;  by  order,  he  says,  of  Clarissa  ;  but  since 
I  now  find  she  is  unworthy,  I  give  her  up — renounce  her 
for  ever. 

[Prior  sums  up  the  rest  of  the  play  thus  : — *  The  young 
couple  enter  immediately  after  this  declaration,  and 
finding  no  farther  obstruction  to  their  union,  the  piece 
finishes  with  the  consent  of  the  Grumbler,  "  in  the 
hope,"  as  he  says,  "  that  they  are  possessed  of  mutual 
requisites  to  be  the  plague  of  each  other."  ' — Ed.] 


THE 


VICAR 


O  F 


WAKEFIELD 


A        TALE. 


Suppofed  to  be  written  by  Himself, 


Sperate   miferi,   cavete  ftelices. 


VOL.        I. 


SALISBURY: 

Printed  by    B.    COLLINS, 
For  F.  NewberYj  in  Pater-Nofter-Row,  London. 

MDCCLXVI. 


ADVERTISEMENT 

There  are  an  hundred  faults  in  this  Thing,  and  an  hun- 
dred things  might  be  said  to  prove  them  beauties.  But 
it  is  needless.  A  book  may  be  amusing  with  numerous 
errors,  or  it  may  be  very  dull  without  a  single  absurdity. 
The  hero  of  this  piece  unites  in  himself  the  three  greatest 
characters  upon  earth  ;  he  is  a  priest,  an  husbandman, 
and  the  father  of  a  family.  He  is  drawn  as  ready  to 
teach,  and  ready  to  obey,  as  simple  in  affluence,  and 
majestic  in  adversity.  In  this  age  of  opulence  and  refine- 
ment, whom  can  such  a  character  please  ?  Such  as  are 
fond  of  high  life,  will  turn  with  disdain  from  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  country  fireside.  Such  as  mistake  ribaldry 
for  humour,  will  find  no  wit  in  his  harmless  conversation  ; 
and  such  as  have  been  taught  to  deride  religion,  will 
laugh  at  one,  whose  chief  stores  of  comfort  are  drawn 
from  futurity. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  The  description  of  the  family  of  Wakefield,  in  which 
a  kindred  likeness  prevails  as  well  of  minds  as  of 
persons  .  187 

II.  Family  misfortunes.  The  loss  of  fortune  only  serves 
to  encreajse  the  pride  of  the  worthy        .        .        .192 

III.  A  migration.  The  fortunate  circumstances  of  our 
lives  are  generally  found  at  last  to  be  of  our  own 
procuring 197 

IV.  A  proof  that  even  the  humblest  fortune  may  grant 
happiness,  which  depends  not  on  circumstances, 
but  constitution ^        .  205 

^  V.  A  new  and  great  acquaintance  introduced.  What 
we  place  most  hopes  upon,  generally  proves  most 
fatal 210 

VI.  The  happiness  of  a  country  fire -side       .        .        .215 

VII.    A  town  wit  described.     The  dullest  fellows  may 

learn  to  be  comical  for  a  night  or  two    .        .        •  220 

VIII.  An  amour,  which  promises  little  good  fortune,  yet 

may  be  productive  of  much 225 

IX.  Two  ladies  of  great  distinction  introduced.  Superior 

finery  ever  seems  to  confer  superior  breeding        .  236 

X.  The  family  endeavours  to  cope  with  their  betters. 
The  miseries  of  the  poor  when  they  attempt  to 
appear  above  their  circumstances        .        .        .  241 

XI,  The  family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their  heads   .  246 

XII.  Fortune  seems  resolved  to  humble  the  family  of 
Wakefield.  Mortifications  are  often  more  painful 
than  real  calamities 252 

XD0ff  Mr.  Burchell  is  found  to  be  an  enemy ;  for  he  has 

the  confidence  to  give  disagreeable  advice  •  268 

XIV.  Fresh  mortifications,  or  a  demonstration  that  seem- 
ing calamities  may  be  real  blessings  .         .         .  263 

XV.  All  Mr.  Burchell's  villainy  at  once  detected.     The 

folly  of  being  over-wise 270 


186  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  FAQS 

XVI.  The  family  use  art,  which  is  opposed  with  still 

greater 276 

XVII.  Scarce  any  virtue  found  to  resist  the  power  of 

long  and  pleasing  temptation      ....  283 

XVIII.  The  pursuit  of  a  father  to  reclaim  a  lost  child  to 

virtue 292 

XIX.  The  description  of  a  person  discontented  with  the 
present  government,  and  apprehensive  of  the  loss 
of  our  liberties 298 

XX.  The  history  of  a  philosophic  vagabond,  pursuing 

novelty,  but  losing  content         ....  308 

XXI.  The  short  continuance  of  friendship  amongst  the 
vicious,  which  is  coeval  only  with  mutual  satisfac- 
tion        324 

XXII.  Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there  is  love  at 

bottom 334 

XXIII.  None  but  the  guilty  can  be  long  and  completely 
miserable 339 

XXIV.  Fresh  calamities 345 

XXV.  No  situation,  however  wretched  it  seems,  but  has 

some  sort  of  comfort  attending  it      .        .        .  351 

XXVI.  A  reformation  in  the  gaol.  To  make  laws  com- 
plete they  should  reward  as  well  as  punish       .  357 

XXVII.  The  same  subject  continued        ....  363 

XXVIII.  Happiness  and  misery  rather  the  result  of  prudenoe 
than  of  virtue  in  this  life.    Temporal  evils  or  felici- 
ties being  regarded  by  heaven  as  tfaings  merely  in 
themselves  trifling  and  unworthy  its  care  in  the 
•distribution 368 

XXIX.  The  equal  dealings  of  Providence  demonstrated 
with  regard  to  the  happy  and  the  miserable  here 
below.  That  from  the  nature  of  pleasure  and  pain* 
the  wretched  must  be  repaid  the  balance  of  their 
sufferings  in  the  life  hereafter     .        •        .        .  380 

XXX.  Happier  prospects  begin  to  appear.  Let  us  be 
inflexible,  and  fortune  will  at  last  change  in  our 
favour 386 

XXXI.  Former  benevolence  now  repaid  jirith  unexpected 

interest 395 

XXXII.  The  Conclusion 412 


IS  Bha  did  ber  \<«ddliigfciini.— Pasb  167. 


The  description  of  the  family  of  Wakefield,  in  which  a  kindred 
likeneas  prevails  as  well  of  minds  as  of  persons. 

I  WAS  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  honest  man  who  married 
and  brought  up  a  large  family,  did  more  service  than 
he  who  continued  single  and  only  talked  of  population. 
Prom  this  motive,  I  had  scarce  taken  orders  a  year  before 
I  t)egan  to  think  seriously  of  matrimony,  and  chose  my 
wife,  as  she  did  her  wedding-gown,  not  for  a  fine  glossy 
surface,  bat  such  qualities  as  would  wear  well.  To  do 
her  justice,  she  was  a  good-natured  notable  woman ;  and 


188  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

as  for  breeding,  there  were  few  country  ladies  who  could 
shew  more.  She  could  read  any  English  book  without 
much  spelling  ;  but  for  pickling,  preserving,  and  cookery 
none  could  excel  her.  She  prided  herself  also  upon  being 
an  excellent  contriver  in  housekeeping ;  though  I  could 
never  find  that  we  grew  richer  with  all  her  contrivances. 

However,  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our  fond- 
ness encreased  as  we  grew  old.  There  was,  in  fact, 
nothing  that  could  make  us  angry  with  the  world  or 
each  other.  We  had  an  elegant  house,  situated  in  a  fine 
country,  and  a  good  neighbourhood.  The  year  was 
spent  in  a  moral  or  rural  amusement,  in  visiting  our  rich 
neighbours,  and  relieving  such  as  were  poor.  We  had 
no  revolutions  to  fear,  nor  fatigues  to  undergo  ;  all  our 
adventures  were  by  the  fire-side,  and  all  our  migrations 
from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the  traveller 
or  stranger  visit  us  to  taste  our  gooseberry- wine,  for  which 
we  had  great  reputation  ;  and  I  profess  with  t'he  veracity 
of  an  historian,  that  I  never  knew  one  of  them  ^d  fault 
with  it.  Our  cousins  too,  even  to  the  fortieth  remove, 
all  remembered  their  affinity,  without  any  help  from  the 
Herald's  office,  and  came  very  frequently  to  see  us.  Some 
of  them  did  us  no  great  honour  by  these  claims  of  kindred; 
as  we  had  the  blind,  the  maimed,  and  the  halt  amongst 
the  number.  However,  my  wife  always  insisted  that  as 
they  were  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  they  should  sit  with 
us  at  the  same  table.  So  that  if  we  had  not  very  rich, 
we  generally  had  very  happy  friends  about  us  ;  for  this 
remark  will  hold  good  through  life,  that  the  poorer  the 
guest,  the  better  pleased  he  ever  is  with  being  treated : 
and  as  some  men  gaze  with  admiration  at  the  colours  of 
a  tulip,  or  the  wing  of  a  butterfly,  so  I  was  by  nature  an 
admirer  of  happy  human  faces.  However,  when  any  one 
of  our  relations  was  found  to  be  a  person  of  a  very  bad 


I  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  189 

character,  a  troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  desired  to  get 
rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my  house,  I  ever  took  care  to 
lend  him  a  riding-coat,  or  a  pair  of  boots,  or  sometimes 
an  horse  of  small  value,  and  I  always  had  the  satisfaction 
of  finding  he  never  came  back  to  return  them.  By  this 
the  house  was  cleared  of  such  as  we  did  not  like ;  but 
never  was  the  family  of  Wakefield  known  to  turn  the 
traveller  or  the  poor  dependant  out  of  doors. 

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

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as  they  were 
educated  without  softness,,  so  they  were  at  once  well 
formed  and  healthy ;  my  sons  hardy  and  active,  my 
daughters  beautiful  and  blooming.  When  I  stood  in 
the  midst  of  the  little  circle,  which  promised  to  be 
the  supports  of  my  declining  age,  I  could  not  avoid 
repeating  the  famous  story  of  Count  Abensberg,  who, 
in  Henry  II's  progress  through  Germany,  while  other 
courtiers  came  with  their  treasures,  brought  his  thirty- 
two  children,  and  presented  them  to  his  sovereign  as 
the  most  valuable  offering  he  had  to  bestow.  In  this 
manner,  though  I  had  but  six,  I  considered  them  as 
a  very  valuable  present  made  to  my  country,  and  con- 
sequently looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor.  Our  eldest  son 
was  named  George,  after  his  uncle,  who  left  us  ten 
thousand  pounds.    Our  second  child,  a  girl,  I  intended 


190  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

to  call  after  her  aunt  Grissel ;  but  my  wife,  who  during 
her  pregnancy  had  been  reading  romances,  insisted  upon 
her  being  called  Olivia.  In  less  than  another  year  we 
had  another  daughter,  and  now  I  was  determined  that 
Grissel  should  be  her  name  ;  but  a  rich  relation  taking 
a  fancy  to  stand  gt)dmother,  the  girl  was,  by  her  direc- 
tions, caUed  Sophia  :  so  that  we  had  two  romantic 
names  in  the  family ;  but  I  solemnly  protest  I  had  no 
hand  in  it.  Moses  was  our  next,  and  after  an  interval 
of  twelve  years,  we  had  two  song  more. 

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

The  temper  of  a  woman  is  generally  formed  from  the 
turn  of  her  features,  at  least  it  was  so  with  my  daughters. 
Olivia  wished  for  many  lovers,  Sophia  to  secure  one. 
Olivia  was  often  aflFected  from  too  great  a  desire  to  please. 
Sophia  even  represt  excellence  from  her  fears  to  offend. 


I  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  191 

The  one  entertained  me  with  her  vivajcity  when  I  was 
gay,  the  other  with  her  sense  when  I  was  serious.  But 
these  qualities  were  never  carried  to  excess  in  either,  and 
I  have  often  seen  them  exchange  characters  for  a  whole 
day  together.  A  suit  of  mourning  has  transformed  my 
coquet  into  a  prude,  and  a  new  set  of  ribbands  has  given 
her  younger  sister  more  than  natural  vivacity.  My 
eldest  son  George  was  bred  at  Oxford,  as  I  intended  him 
for  one  of  the  learned  professions.  My  second  boy  Moses, 
whom  I  designed  for  business,  received  a  sort  of  miscel- 
laneous education  at  home.  But  it  is  needless  to  attempt 
describing  the  particular  characters  of  young  people  that 
had  seen  but  very  little  of  the  world.  In  short,  a  family 
likeness  prevailed  through  all ;  and  properly  speaking, 
they  had  but  one  character,  that  of  being  all  equally 
generous,  credulous,  simple,  and  inoffensive. 


y  he  expected,  produced  a  diBpat«  atteoded  nith  M 


CHAPTER  II 


Family  misfortunes.    The  loss  of  fortune  only  Berve 
the  pride  of  the  worthy. 

THE  temporal  concerns  of  our  family  were  chiefly 
committed  to  my  wife's  management ;  as  to  the 
spiritual  I  took  them  entirely  under  my  own  diiection. 
The  pioiita  of  my  living,  which  amounted  to  but  thirty- 
five  pounds  a  year,  I  ma^ie  over  to  the  orphans  and 
HJdows  of  the  clergy  of  our  diocese  ;  for  having  a  fortune 
of  my  own,  I  was  careless  of  temporalities,  and  felt 
a  secret  pleasure  in  doing  my  duty  without  reward, 
I  algo  set  a  resolution  of  keeping  no  curate,  and  of  being 
acquainted  with  every  man  in  the  parish,  exhorting  the 
married  men  to  temperance,  and  the  bachelors  to  matri- 


CH.  II  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  193 

mony  ;  so  that  in  a  few  years  it  was  a  common  saying, 
that  there  were  three  strange  wants  at  Wakefield,  a 
parson  wanting  pride,  young  men  wanting  wives,  and 
ale-houses  wanting  customers. 

Matrimony  was  always  one  of  my  favourite  topics,  and 
I  wrote  several  sermons  to  prove  its  happiness  ;  but  there 
was  a  peculiar  tenet  which  I  made  a  point  of  supporting  : 
for  I  maintained  with  Whiston,  that  it  was  unlawful  for 
a  priest  of  the  church  of  England,  after  the  death  of  his 
first  wife,  to  take  a  second,  or  to  express  it  in  one  word, 
I  valued  myself  upon  being  a  strict  monogamist. 

I  was  early  initiated  into  this  important  dispute,  on 
which  so  many  laborious  volumes  have  been  written. 
I  published  some  tracts  upon  the  subject  myself,  which, 
as  they  never  sold,  I  have  the  consolation  of  thinking 
were  read  only  by  the  happy  few.  Some  of  my  friends 
called  this  my  weak  side ;  but  alas  !  they  had  not  like 
me  made  it  the  subject  of  long  contemplation.  The  more 
I  reflected  upon  it,  the  more  important  it  appeared. 
I  even  went  a  step  beyond  Whiston  in  displaying  my 
principles  :  as  he  had  engraven  upon  his  wife's  tomb 
that  she  was  the  ordy  wife  of  William  Whiston ;  so  I 
wrote  a  similar  epitaph  for  my  wife,  though  still  living, 
in  which  I  extolled  her  prudence,  economy,  and  obedience 
till  death  ;  and  having  got  it  copied  fair,  with  an  elegant 
frame,  it  was  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  where  it 
answered  several  very  useful  purposes.  It  admonished 
my  wife  of  her  duty  to  me,  and  my  fidelity  to  her ;  it 
inspired  her  with  a  passion  for  fame,  and  constantly  put 
her  in  mind  of  her  end. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps,  from  hearing  marriage  so  often 
recommended,  that  my  eldest  son,  just  upon  leaving 
college,  fixed  his  affections  upon  the  daughter  of  a  neigh- 
bouring clergyman,  who  was  a  dignitary  in  the  church, 
and  in  circumstances  to  give  her  a  large  fortune :   but 

GOLDSMITH.      II  H 


194  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch 

fortune  was  her  smallest  aocomplishnatent.  Miss  Arabella 
Wilmot  was  allowed  by  all  (except  my  two  daughters) 
to  be  completely  pretty.  Her  youth,  health,  and  inno- 
cence, were  still  heightened  by  a  complexion  so  trans- 
parent and  such  an  happy  sensibility  of  look,  as  even  age 
could  not  gaze  on  with  indi£Perenoe.  As  Mr.  Wilmot 
knew  that  I  could  make  a  very  handsome  settlement  on 
my  son,  he  was  not  averse  to  the  match  ;  so  both  fatmlies 
lived  together  in  all  that  harmony  which  generally  pre- 
cedes an  expected  alliance.  Being  eonvinced  by  ex- 
perience that  the  days  of  courtship  are  the  most  happy 
of  our  lives,  I  was  willing  enough  to  lengthen  the  period  ; 
and  the  various  amusements  which  the  young  couple 
every  day  shared  in  each  other's  company,  seemed  to 
encrease  their  passion.  We  were  generally  awaked  in 
the  morning  by  music,  and  on  fine  days  rode  a  hunting. 
The  hours  between  breakfast  and  dinner  the  ladies  de- 
voted to  dress  and  study  :  tiiey  usually  read  a  page,  and 
then  gazed  at  themselves  in  the  glass,  which  even  philo- 
sophers might  ow^n  often  presented  the  page  of  greatest 
beauty.  At  dinner  my  wife  took  the  lead ;  for  as  she 
always  insisted  upon  carving  everything  herself,  it  being 
her  mother's  way,  she  gave  us  upon  these  occasions  the 
history  of  every  dish.  When  we  had  dined,  to  prevent 
the  ladies  leaving  us,  I  generally  ordered  the  table  to  be 
removed ;  and  sometimes,  with  the  music-master's 
assistance,  the  girls  would  give  us  a  very  agreeable  con- 
cert. Walking  out,  drinking  tea,  country  dances,  and 
forfeits  shortened  the  rest  of  the  day,  without  the  assist- 
ance of  cards,  as  I  hated  all  manner  of  gaming,  except 
backgammon,  at  which  my  old  friend  and  I  sometimes 
took  a  two-penny  hit.  Nor  can  I  here  pass  over  an 
ominous  circumstance  that  happened  the  last  time  we 
played  together ;  I  only  wanted  to  fling  a  quatre,  and 
yet  I  threw  deuce  ace  five  times  running. 


II  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  195 

Some  months  were  elapsed  in  this  manner,  till  at  last 
it  was  thought  convenient  to  fix  a  day  for  the  nuptials  of 
the  young  people,  who  seemed  earnestly  to  desire  it. 
During  the  preparations  for  the  wedding,  I  need  not 
describe  the  busy  importance  of  my  wife,  nor  the  sly 
looks  of  my  daughters  :  in  fact,  my  attention  was  fixed 
on  another  object,  the  completing  a  tract  which  I  intended 
shortly  to  publish  in  defence  of  my  favourite  principle. 
As  I  looked  upon  this  as  a  master-piece,  both  for  argu- 
ment and  style,  I  could  not  in  the  pride  of  my  heart 
avoid  shewing  it  to  my  old  friend  Mr.  Wilmot,  as  I  made 
no  doubt  of  receiving  his  approbation  ;  but  not  till  too 
late  I  discovered  that  he  was  most  violently  attached  to 
the  contrary  opinion,  and  with  good  reason ;  for  he  was  at 
that  time  actually  courting  a  fourth  wife.  This,  as  may 
be  expected,  produced  a  dispute  attended  with  some 
acrimony,  which  threatened  to  interrupt  our  intended 
alliance  :  but  on  the  day  before  that  appointed  for  the 
ceremony,  we  agreed  to  discuss  the  subject  at  large. 

It  was  managed  with  proper  spirit  on  both  sides  :  he 
asserted  that  I  was  heterodox,  I  retorted  the  charge  :  he 
replied,  and  I  rejoined.  In  the  mean  time,  while  the 
controversy  was  hottest,  I  was  called  out  by  one  of  my 
relations,  who,  with  a  face  of  concern,  advised  me  to  give 
up  the  dispute,  at  least  till  my  son's  wedding  was  over. 
'  How,'  cried  I,  '  relinquish  the  cause  of  truth,  and  let 
'  him  be  a  husband,  already  driven  to  the  very  verge  of 
'absurdity.  You  might  as  well  advise  me  to  give  up 
'  my  fortune,  as  my  argument.'  '  Your  fortune,'  re- 
turned my  friend,  '  I  am  now  sorry  to  inform  you,  is 
'  almost  nothing.  The  merchant  in  town,  in  whose  hands 
'  your  money  was  lodged,  has  gone  off,  to  avoid  a  statute 
'  of  bankruptcy,  and  is  thought  not  to  have  left  a  shilling 
'in  the  pound.  I  was  unwilling  to  shock  you  or  the 
'  family  with  the  account  till  after  the  wedding  :    but 


196 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH.  II 


now  it  may  serve  to  moderate  your  warmth  in  the  argu- 
ment ;  for,  I  suppose,  your  own  prudence  will  enforce 
the  necessity  of  dissembling,  at  least  till  your  son  has 

the  young  lady's  fortune  secure.' '  Well,'  returned 

I, '  if  what  you  tell  me  be  true,  and  if  I  am  to  be  a  beggar, 
it  shall  never  make  me  a  rascal,  or  induce  me  to  disavow 
my  principles.    I'll  go  this  moment  and  inform  the 
company  of  my  circumstances  :    and  as  for  the  argu- 
ment, I  even  here  retract  my  former  concessions  in  the 
old  gentleman's  favour,  nor  will  I  allow  him  now  to  be 
a  husband  in  any  sense  of  the  expression.' 
It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  different  sensations 
of  both  families  when  I  divulged  the  news  of  our  misfor- 
tune :  but  what  others  felt  was  slight  to  what  the  lovers 
appeared  to  endure.    Mr.  Wilmot,  who  seemed  before 
sufficiently  inclined  to  break  off  the  match,  was  by  this 
blow  soon  determined  :  one  virtue  he  had  in  perfection, 
which  was  prudence  ;  too  often  the  only  one  that  is  left 
us  at  seventy-two. 


— ->  ahe  must  hire  certilnir  pcHshed  litd  not  mr  eoupuiioD,  perceiving  h( 
danger,  ioBtmntly  pluugedin  toiler relicr — PaseEO*. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  migTEition.     The  fortunate  ciroumstaaces  of  our  lives  are 
generally  found  at  last  to  be  of  our  own  procuring. 

THE  only  hope  of  our  family  now  was,  that  the  report 
of  our  misfortune  might  be  malicious  or  premature : 
bat  a  letter  from  my  ^ent  in  town  soon  came  with  a  con- 
firmation of  every  particular.  The  loss  of  fortune  to  my- 
self alone  would  have  been  trifling  ;  the  only  uneasiness  I 
felt  was  for  my  family,  who  were  to  be  humble  without 
an  education  to  render  them  callous  to  contempt. 

Near  a  fortnight  had  passed  before  I  attempted  to 
restrain  their  affliction  ;  for  premature  consolation  is  but 
the  remembrancer  of  sorrow.    During  this  interval,  my 


198 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


thoughts  were  employed  on  some  future  me&ns  of  sup- 
porting them  ;  and  at  last  a  small  Cure  of  fifteen  pounds 
a  year  was  offered  me  in  a  distant  neighbourhood,  where 
I  could  still  enjoy  my  principles  without  molestation. 
With  this  proposal  I  joyfully  closed,  having  determined 
to  encrease  my  salary  by  managing  a  little  farm. 

Having  taken  this  resolution,  my  next  care  was  to  get 
together  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune  ;  and,  all  debts  col- 
lected and  paid,  out  of  fourteen  thousand  pounds  we  had 
but  four  hundred  remaining.  My  chief  attention,  there- 
fore, was  now  to  bring  down  the  pride  of  my  family  to 
their  circumstances ;  for  I  well  knew  that  aspiring 
beggary  is  wretchedness  itself.  '  You  cannot  be  ignorant, 
my  children,'  cried  I,  *  that  no  prudence  of  ours  could 
have  prevented  our  late  misfortune  ;  but  prudence  may 
do  much  in  disappointing  its  effects.  We  are  now  poor, 
my  fondlings,  and  wisdom  bids  us  conform  to  our 
humble  situation.  Let  us  then,  without  repining,  give 
up  those  splendours  with  which  numbers  are  wr^^hed, 
and  seek  in  humbler  circumstances  that  peace  with  which 
all  may  be  happy.  The  poor  live  pleasantly  without  our 
help,  why  then  should  not  we  karn  to  live  without 
theirs  ?  No,  my  children,  let  us  from  this  moment  give 
up  all  pretensions  to  gentility  ;  we  have  still  enough  left 
for  happiness  if  we  are  wise,  and  let  us  draw  upon 
content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune.' 
As  my  eldest  son  was  bred  a  scholar,  I  determined  to 
send  him  to  town,  where  his  abilities  might  contribute  to 
our  support  and  his  own.  The  separation  of  friends  and 
families  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  distressful  circum- 
stances attendant  on  penury.  The  day  soon  arrived  on 
which  we  were  to  disperse  for  the  first  time.  My  son, 
after  taking  leave  of  his  mother  and  the  rest,  who  mingled 
their  tears  with  their  kisses,  came  to  ask  a  blesfflng  from 
me.    This  I  gave  him  from  my  heart,  and  whicn,  added  to 


>  • 


«  e  w 


GEORGE  S  DEPARTURE 


Ill  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  199 

five  guineas,  was  all  the  patrimony  I  had  now  to  bestow. 
'  You  are  going,  my  boy,'  cried  I,  '  to  London  on  foot  in 
'  the  manner  Hooker,  your  great  ancestor,  travelled  there 
'  before  you.  Take  from  me  the  same  horse  that  was 
'  given  him  by  the  good  bishop  Jewel,  this  staff ;  and 
'  take  this  book  too,  it  will  be  your  comfort  on  the  way  : 
'  these  two  lines  in  it  are  worth  a  milhon,  /  have  been 
'  young  y  and  now  am  old  ;  yet  never  saw  I  the  righteous  man 
'  forsaketty  or  his  seed  begging  Oteir  bread.  Let  this  be  your 
'  consolation  as  you  travel  on.  Go,  my  boy,  whatever 
'  be  thy  fortune  let  me  see  thee  once  a  year  ;  still  keep 
'  a  good  hearty  and  farewell.'  As  be  was  possest  of  in- 
tegrity and  honour,  I  was  under  no,  apprehensions  from 
throwing  him  naked  into  the  amphitheatre  of  life ;  for 
I  knew  he  would  act  a  good  part  whether  vanquished  or 
victorious. 

His  departure  only  prepared  the  way  for  our  own, 
which  arrived  a  few  days  afterwards.  The  leaving  a 
neighbourhood  in  which  we  had  enjoyed  so  many  hours 
of  tranquillity,  was  not  without  a  tear,  which  scarce  forti- 
tude itself  could  suppress..  Besides,  a  journey  of  seventy 
miles  to  a  famity  that  had  hitherto  never  been  above  ten 
from  home,  filled  us  with  apprehension  ;  and  the  cries  of 
the  poor,  who  followed  us  for  some  miles,  contributed  to 
enerease  it.  The  first  day's  journey  brought  us  in  safety 
within-  thirty  mile^  of  our  future  retreat,  and  we  put  up 
for  the  night  at  an  obscure  inn  in  a  village  by  the  way. 
When  we  were  shewn  a  nxMn,  I  desired  the  landlord,  in 
my  .usual  way,  to  let  us  have  his  company,  with  which  he 
complied,  as  what  he  drank  would  enerease  the  bill  next 
morning.  He  knew,  however,  the  whole  neighbourhood 
to  which  I  was  removing,  particularly  'Squire  Thomhill, 
who  was  to  be  my  landlord,  and  who  Uved  within  a  few 
miles  of  the  place.  This  gentleman  he  described  as  one 
who  desired  to  know  little  more  of  the  world  than  its 


200  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

pleasures,  being  particularly  remarkable  for  his  attach- 
ment to  the  fair  sex.  ,  He  observed  that  no  virtue  was 
able  to  resist  his  arts  and  assiduity,  and  that  scarce 
a  farmer's  daughter  within  ten  miles  round  but  what  had 
found  him  successful  and  faithless.  Though  this  account 
gave  me  some  pain,  it  had  a  very  difiFerent  effect  upon  my 
daughters,  whose  features  seemed  to  brighten  with  the 
expectation  of  an  approaching  triumph ;  nor  was  my 
wife  less  pleased  and  confident  of  their  allurements  and 
virtue.  While  our  thoughts  were  thus  employed,  the 
hostess  entered  the  room  to  inform  her  husband,  that  the 
strange  gentleman,  who  had  been  two  days  in  the  house, 
wanted  money,  and  could  not  satisfy  them  for  his  reckon- 
ing. '  Want  money  ! '  replied  the  host,  *  that  must  be 
'  impossible  ;  for  it  was  no  later  than  yesterday  he  paid 
'  three  guineas  to  our  beadle  to  spare  an  old  broken 
'  soldier  that  was  to  be  whipped  through  the  town  for 
*  dog-stealing.'  The  hostess,  however,  still  persisting  in 
her  first  assertion,  he  was  preparing  to  leave  the  room, 
swearing  that  he  would  be  satisfied  one  way  or  another, 
when  I  begged  the  landlord  would  introduce  me  to  a 
stranger  of  so  much  charity  as  he  described.  With  this 
he  complied,  shewing  in  a  gentleman  who  seemed  to  be 
about  thirty,  drest  in  clothes  that  once  were  laced.  His 
person  was  well  formed,  and  his  face  marked  with  the 
lines  of  thinking.  He  had  something  short  and  dry  in 
his  address,  and  seemed  not  to  understand  ceremony, 
or  to  despise  it.  Upon  the  landlord's  leaving  the  room, 
I  could  not  avoid  expressing  my  concern  to  the  stranger 
at  seeing  a  gentleman  in  such  circumstances,  and  offered 
him  my  purse  to  satisfy  the  present  demand.  *  I  take  it 
'  with  all  my  heart.  Sir,'  repUed  he,  '  and  am  glad  that 
'  a  late  oversight  in  giving  what  money  I  had  about  me, 
'  has  shewn  me  that  there  are  still  some  men  like  you. 
'  I  must,  however,  previously  intreat  being  informed  of 


/ 


Ill  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  201 

^  the  name  and  residence  of  my  benefactor,  in  order  to 
^  repay  him  as  soon  as  possible.'  In  this  I  satisfied  him 
fully,  not  only  mentioning  my  name  and  late  misfortunes, 
but  the  place  to  which  I  was  going  to  remove.  '  This,' 
cried  he,  '  happens  still  more  luckily  than  I  hoped  for,  as 
'  I  am  going  the  same  way  myself,  having  been  detained 
'  here  two  days  by  the  floods,  which  I  hope  by  to-morrow 
'  will  be  found  passable.'  I  testified  the  pleasure  I  should 
have  in  his  company,  and  my  wife  and  daughters  joining 
in  intreaty,  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  stay  supper.  The 
stranger's  conversation,  which  was  at  once  pleasing  and 
instructive,  induced  me  to  wish  for  a  continuance  of  it ; 
but  it  wa»  now  high  time  to  retire  and  take  refreshment 
against  the  fatigues  of  the  following  day. 

The  next  morning  we  all  set  forward  togetheo* :  my 
family  on  horseback,  while  ]^.  Burchell.  our  new  com- 
panion, walked  along  the  foot-path  by  the  road-side, 
observing  with  a  smile,  that  as  we  were  ill  mounted,  he 
would  be  too  generous  to  attempt  leaving  us  behind. 
As  the  floods  were  not  yet  subsided,  we  were  obliged  to 
hire  a  guide,  who  trotted  on  before,  Mr.  Burchell  and 
I  bringing  up  the  rear.  We  lightened  the  fatigues  of  the 
road  with  philosophical  disputes,  which  he  seemed  to 
understand  perfectly.  But  what  surprised  me  most  was, 
that  though  he  was  a  money-borrower,  he  defended  his 
opinions  with  as  much  obstinacy  as  if  he  had  been  my 
patron.  He  now  and  then  also  informed  me  to  whom  the 
different  seats  belonged  that  lay  in  our  view  as  we 
travelled  the  road.  '  That,'  cried  he,  pointing  to  a  very 
magnificent  house  which  stood  at  some  distance, '  belongs 
'  to  Mr.  Thornhill,  a  young  gentleman  who  enjoys  a  large 
'  fortune,  though  entirely  dependent  on  the  will  of  his 
'  uncle.  Sir  William  Thornhill,  a  gentleman  who,  content 
'  with  a  little  himself,  permits  his  nephew  to  enjoy  the 
'  rest,  and  chiefly  resides  in  town.'     '  What ! '  cried  I,  '  is 

H3 


202 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


my  young  landlord  then  the  nephew  of  a  man  whose 
virtues,  generosity,  and  singularities  are  so  universally 
known  ?  I  have  heard  Sir  William  Thomhill  represented 
as  one  of  the  most  generous,  yet  whimsical  men  in  the 

kingdom  ;    a  man  of  consummate  benevolence.' 

Something,  perhaps,  too  much  so,'  replied  Mr.  Burchell, 
at  least  he  carried  benevolence  to  an  excess  when  young  ; 
for  his  passions  were  then  strong,  and  as  they  were  all 
upon  the  side  of  virtue,  they  led  it  up  to  a  romantic  ex- 
treme. He  early  began  to  aim  at  the  qualifications  of 
the  soldier  and  scholar  ;  was  soon  distinguished  in  the 
army,  and  had  some  reputation  among  men  of  learning. 
Adulation  ever  follows  the  ambitious ;  for  such  alone 
receive  most  pleasure  from  flattery.  He  was  surrounded 
with  crowds,  who  shewed  him  only  one  side  of  their 
character  ;  so  that  he  began  to  lose  a  regard  for  private 
interest  in  universal  sympathy.  He  loved  all  mankind  ; 
for  fortune  prevented  him  from  knowing  that  there  were 
rascals.  Physicians  tell  us  of  a  disorder  in  which  the 
whole  body  is  so  exquisitely  sensible,  that  the  slightest 
touch  gives  pain  :  what  some  have  thus  suffered  in  their 
persons,  this  gentleman  felt  in  his  mind.  The  slightest 
distress,  whether  real  or  fictitious,  touched  him  to  the 
quick,  and  his  soul  laboured  under  a  sickly  sensibility 
of  the  miseries  of  others.  Thus  disposed  to  relieve,  it 
will  be  easily  conjectured,  he  found  numbers  disposed 
to  solicit :  his  profusions  began  to  impair  his  fortune, 
but  not  his  good-nature ;  that,  indeed,  was  seen  to 
encrease  as  the  other  seemed  to  decay :  he  grew  im- 
provident as  he  grew  poor :  and  though  he  talked 
like  a  man  of  sense,  his  actions  were  those  of  a  fool. 
Still,  however,  being  surrounded  with  importunity,  and 
no  longer  able  to  satisfy  every  request  that  was  made 
him,  instead  of  money  he  gave  promises.  They  were  all 
he  had  to  bestow,  and  he  had  not  resolution  enough 


Ill 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


203 


to  give  any  man  pain  by  a  denial.  By  this  he  drew 
round  him  crowds  of  dependents,  whom  he  was  sure  to 
disappoint,  yet  wished  to  relieve.  These  hung  upon 
him  for  a  time,  and  left  him  with  merited  reproaches 
and  contempt.  But  in  proportion  as  he  became  con- 
temptible to  others,  he  became  despicable  to  himself. 
His  mind  had  leaned  upon  their  adulation,  and  that 
support  taken  away,  he  could  find  no  pleasure  in  the 
applause  of  his  heart,  which  he  had  never  learnt  to 
reverence.  The  world  now  began  to  wear  a  different 
aspect ;  the  flattery  of  his  friends  began  to  dwindle  into 
simple  approbation.  Approbation  soon  took  the  more 
friendly  form  of  advice,  and  advice  when  rejected  pro- 
duced their  reproaches.  He  now  therefore  found  that 
such  friends  as  benefits  had  gathered  round  him,  were 
little  estimable  ;  he  now  found  that  a  man's  own  heart 
must  be  ever  given  to  gain  that  of  another.     I  now 

found,  that that 1  forget  what  I  was  going  to 

observe  :  in  short.  Sir,  he  resolved  to  respect  himself, 
and  laid  down  a  plan  of  restoring  his  falling  fortune. 
For  this  purpose,  in  his  own  whimsical  manner,'  he 
travelled  through  Europe  on  foot,  and  now,  though  he 
has  scarce  attained  the  age  of  thirty,  his  circumstances 
are  more  affluent  than  ever.  At  present,  his  bounties 
are  more  rational  and  moderate  than  before  ;  but  still 
he  preserves  the  character  of  an  humorist,  and  finds 
most  pleasure  in  eccentric  virtues.' 
My  attention  was  so  much  taken  up  by  Mr.  Burchell's 
account,  that  I  scarce  looked  forward  as  he  went  along, 
till  we  were  alarmed  by  the  cries  of  my  family,  when  turn- 
ing, I  perceived  my  youngest  daughter  in  the  midst  of 
a  rapid  stream,  thrown  from  her  horse,  and  struggling 
with  the  torrent.  She  had  sunk  twice,  nor  was  it  in  my 
power  to  disengage  myself  in  time  to  bring  her  relief. 
My  sensations  were  even   too   violent   to  permit   my 


204  THE  VICAR  OF  WAELEJIELD         ch.  hi 

attempting  her  rescue  :  she  must  have  certainly  perished 
had  not  my  companion,  perceiving  her  danger,  instantly 
plunged  in  to  her  relief,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  brought 
her  in  safety  to  the  opposite  shore.  By  taking  the  current 
a  little  farther  up,  the  rest  of  the  family  got  safely  over, 
where  we  had  an  opportunity  of  joining  our  acknowledg- 
ments to  her's.  Her  gratitude  may  be  more  readily 
imagined  than  described  :  she  thanked  her  deliverer  more 
with  looks  than  words,  and  continued  to  lean  upon  his 
arm,  as  if  still  willing  to  receive  assistance.  My  wife  also 
hoped  one  day  to  have  the  pleasure  of  rejourning  his  kind- 
ness at  her  own  house.  Thus,  after  we  were  refreshed 
at  the  next  inn,  and  had  dined  together,  as  Mr.  Burehell 
was  going  to  a  different  part  of  the  country,  he  took 
leave  ;  and  we  pursued  our  journey  :  my  wife  observing 
as  he  went,  that  she  liked  him  extremely,  and  protesting, 
that  if  he  had  birth  and  fortune  to  entitle  him  to  match 
into  such  a  family  as  ours,  she  knew  no  man  she  would 
sooner  fix  upon.  I  could  not  but  smile  to  hear  her  talk 
in  this  lofty  strain ;  but  I  was  never  much  displeased 
with  those  harmless  delusions  that  tend  to  make  us  more 
happy. 


'.    -^ 


llMMliunlen  people  had  aeireraimn  of  being  eood  eompaaT;  while 

uipUT«l,tlieaiier«oul<luiig8ainoiD<>t1iUigbalUd.~-FAaE2a7. 

CHAPTER  IV 


THE  plaoe  of  our  retreat  was  ia  a  little  neighbourhood, 
consl^ng  of  farmers,  who  tilled  their  own  grounds, 
and  were  equal  strangers  to  opulence  and  poverty.  As 
they  had  almost  all  the  conveniences  of  life  within  them- 
selves, they  seldom  visited  towns  or  cities,  in  search  of 
superfluity.  Remote  from  the  polite,  they  still  retained 
the  primaeval  simphcity  of  manners  ;  and  frugal  by 
habit,  tfaey  scarce  knew  that  temperance  vcas  a  virtue. 
They  wrought  with  chearfulnras  on  days  of  labour  ;  but 


206  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

observed  festivals  as  intervals  of  idleness  and  pleasure. 
They  kept  up  the  Christmas  carol,  sent  true  love-knots  on 
Valentine  morning,  ate  pancakes  on  Shrove-tide,  shewed 
their  wit  on  the  first  of  April,  and  religiously  cracked  nuts 
on  Michaelmas  eve.  Being  apprized  of  our  approach,  the 
whole  neighbourhood  came  out  to  meet  their  minister, 
drest  in  their  finest  clothes,  and  preceded  by  a  pipe  and 
tabor.  A  feast  also  was  provided  for  our  reception,  at 
which  we  sate  chearfully  down  ;  and  what  the  conversa- 
tion wanted  in  wit,  was  made  up  in  laughter. 

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

The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws,  was  regulated 
in  the  following  manner :  by  sun-rise  we  all  assembled  in 
our  common  apartment ;  the  fire  being  previously 
kindled  by  the  servant.    After  we  had  saluted  each  other 


IV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  207 

with  proper  ceremony,  for  I  always  thought  fit  to  keep 
up  some  mechanical  forms  of  good  breeding,  without 
which  freedom  ever  destroys  friendship,  we  all  bent  in 
gratitude  to  that  Being  who  gave  us  another  day.  This 
duty  being  performed,  my  son  and  I  went  to  pursue  our 
usual  industry  abroad,  while  my  wife  and  daughters 
employed  themselves  in  providing  breakfast,  which  was 
always  ready  at  a  certain  time.  I  allowed  half  an  hour 
for  this  meal,  and  an  hour  for  dinner ;  which  time  was 
taken  up  in  innocent  mirth  between  my  wife  and 
daughters,  and  in  philosophical  arguments  between  my 
son  and  me. 

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

When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of  finery, 
which  all  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not  restrain.  How 
well  soever  I  fancied  my  lectures  against  pride  had  con- 
quered the  vanity  of  my  daughters  ;  yet  I  still  found 
them  secretly  attached  to  all  their  former  finery :  they  still 
loved  laces,  ribbands,  bugles  and  catgut ;  my  wife  herself 


^ 


208 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


retained  a  passion  for  her  crimson  paduasoy,  because  I 
formerly  happened  to  say  it  became  her. 

The  first  Sunday  in  particular  their  behaviour  served 
to  mortify  me  :  I  had  desired  my  girls  the  preceding 
night  to  be  drest  early  the  next  day  ;  for  I  always  loved 
to  be  at  church  a  good  while  before  the  rest  of  the  con- 
gregation. They  punctually  obeyed  my  directions  ;  but 
when  w^e  were  to  assemble  in  the  morning  at  breakfast, 
down  came  my  wife  and  daughters,  drest  out  in  all  their 
former  splendour  :  their  hair  plastered  up  with  pomatum, 
their  faces  patched  to  taste,  their  trains  bundled  up  in  an 
heap  behind,  and  rustling  at  every  motion.  I  could  not 
help  smiling  at  their  vanity,  particularly  that  of  my  wife, 
from  whom  I  expected  more  discretion.  In  this  exigence, 
therefore,  my  only  resource  was  to  order  my  son,  with 
an  important  air,  to  call  our  coach.  The  girls  were 
amazed  at  the  command ;   but  I  repeated  it  with  more 

solemnity  than  before. 'Surely,  my  dear,  you  jest,' 

cried  my  wife,  *  we  can  walk  it  perfectly  well :  we  want 
'  no  coach  to  carry  us  now.*  '  You  mistake,  child, 
returned  I,  '  we  do  want  a  coach ;  for  if  we  walk  to 
church  in  this  trim,  the  very  children  in  the  parish  will 

hoot  after  us.' '  Indeed,'  replied  my  wife,  *  I  always 

imagined  that  my  Charles  was  fond  of  aeeing  his  children 
neat  and  handsome  about  him.' — '  You  may  be  as  neat 
as  you  please,'  interrupted  I,  *  and  I  shall  love  you  the 
better  for  it ;  but  all  this  is  not  neatness,  but  frippery. 
These  rufflings,  and  pinkings,  and  patchings  will  only 
make  us  hated  by  all  the  wives  of  our  neighbours.  No, 
my  children,'  continued  I,  more  gravely,  *  those  gowns 
may  be  altered  into  something  of  a  plainer  cut ;  for 
finery  is  very  unbecoming  in  us,  who  want  the  means  of 
decency.  I  do  not  know  whether  such  flouncing  and 
shredding  is  becoming  even  in  the  rich,  if  we  consider, 
upon  a  moderate  calculation,  that  the  nisikedness  of  the 


IV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  209 

'  indigent  world  may  be  clothed  froni  the  trimmings  of 
*  the  vain.' 

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


ended^  app. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  Dew  and  great  acquaintance  introduced.    What  we  place  most 
hopes  upon,  generally  proves  most  fatal. 

AT  a  small  distance  from  the  house,  my  predecessor 
Xa.  had  mode  a  seat,  overshaded  by  an  hedge  of  haw- 
thorn and  honeysuckle.  Here,  when  the  weather  was 
fine  and  our  labour  soon  finished,  we  usually  sat  together, 
to  enjoy  an  extensive  landscape  in  the  calm  of  the 
evening.  Here  too  we  dranJc  tea,  which  was  now  become 
an  occasional  banquet ;  and  as  we  had  it  but  seldom, 
it  diffused  a  new  joy,  the  preparations  for  it  being  made 


CH.  V  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  211 

with  no  small  share  of  bustle  and  ceremony.  On  these 
occasions  our  two  little  ones  always  read  for  us,  and 
they  were  regularly  served  after  we  had  done.  Some- 
times, to  give  a  variety  to  our  amusements,  the  girls 
sang  to  the  guitar  ;  and  while  they  thus  formed  a  little 
concert,  my  wife  and  I  would  stroll  down  the  sloping 
field,  that  was  embellished  with  blue  bells  and  centaury, 
talk  of  our  children  with  rapture,  and  enjoy  the  breeze 
that  wafted  both  health  and  harmony. 

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

It  was  about  the  beginning  of  autumn,  on  a  holiday, 
for  I  kept  such  as  intervals  of  relaxation  from  labour, 
that  I  had  drawn  out  my  family  to  our  usual  place  of 
amusement,  and  our  young  musicians  began  their  usual 
concert.  As  we  were  thus  engaged,  we  saw  a  stag  bound 
nimbly  by,  within  about  twenty  paces  of  where  we  were 
sitting,  and  by  its  panting  it  seemed  prest  by  the  hunters. 
We  had  not  much  time  to  reflect  upon  the  poor  animal's 
distress,  when  we  perceived  the  dogs  and  horsemen  come 
sweeping  along  at  some  distance  behind,  and  making  the 
very  path  it  had  taken.  I  was  instantly  for  returning 
in  with  my  family  ;  but  either  curiosity,  or  surprise,  or 
some  more  hidden  motive,  held  my  wife  and  daughters 
to  their  seats.  The  huntsman,  who  rode  foremost,  passed 
us  with  great  swiftness,  followed  by  four  or  five  persons 
more,  who  seemed  in  equal  haste*  At  last,  a  young 
gentleman  of  more  genteel  appearance  than  the  rest, 
came  forward,  and  for  a  while  regarding  us,  instead  of 
pursuing  the  chace,  stopt  short,  and  giving  his  horse  to 
a  servant  who  attended,  approached  us  with  a  careless 
superior  air.  He  seemed  to  want  no  introduction,  but 
was  going  to  salute  my  daughters,  as  one  certain  of 


212  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

a  kind  reception  ;  but  they  had  early  learnt  the  lesson 
of  looking  presumption  out  of  countenance.  Upon  which 
he  let  us  know  his  name  was  Thomhill,  and  that  he  was 
owner  of  the  estate  that  lay  for  some  extent  round  us. 
He  again  therefore  offered  to  salute  the  female  part  of 
the  family,  and  such  was  the  power  of  fortune  and  fine 
clothes,  that  he  foun<l  no  second  repulse.  As  his  address, 
though  confident,  was  easy,  we  soon  became  more  familiar ; 
and  perceiving  musical  instruments  lying  near,  he  begged 
to  be  favoured  with  a  song.  As  I  did  not  approve  of 
such  disproportioned  acquaintances,  I  winked  upon  my 
daughters  in  order  to  prevent  their  compliance  ;  but  my 
hint  was  counteracted  by  one  from  their  mother ;  so 
that,  with  a  chearful  air,  they  gave  us  a  favourite  song 
of  Dryden's.  Mr.  Thomhill  seemed  highly  ddighted  with 
their  performance  and  choice,  and  then  took  up  the  guitar 
himself.  He  plajred  but  very  indifferently ;  however, 
my  eldest  daughter  repaid  his  former  apfdause  with 
interest,  and  assured  him  that  his  tones  were  louder  than 
even  those  of  her  master.  At  this  compliment  he  bow^, 
which  she  returned  with  a  curtesy.  He  praised  her  taste, 
and  she  commended  his  understanding  :  an  age  could 
not  have  made  them  better  acquainted  ;  while  the  fond 
mother,  too,  equally  happy,  insisted  upon  her  landlord's 
stepping  in,  and  tasting  a  glass  of  her  gooseberry.  The 
whole  family  seemed  earnest  to  please  him :  my  girls 
attempted  to  entertain  him  with  topics  they  thought 
most  modern,  while  Moses,  on  the  contrary,  gave  him 
a  question  or  two  from  the  ancients,  for  which  he  had 
the  satisfaction  of  being  laughed  at :  my  little  ones  were 
no  less  busy,  and  fondly  stuck  close  to  the  stranger.  All 
my  endeavours  could  scarce  keep  their  dirty  fingers 
from  handling  and  tarnishing  the  lace  on  his  clothes,  and 
lifting  up  the  flaps  of  his  pocket-holes,  to  see  what  was 
there.    At  the  approach  of  evening  he  took  leave ;   but 


V  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  213 

not  till  he  had  requested  permission  to  renew  his  visit, 
which  as  he  was  our  landlord,  we  most  readily  agreed  to. 
As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  my  wife  called  a  council  on 
the  conduct  of  the  day.  She  was  of  opinion,  that  it  was 
a  most  fortunate  hit ;  for  that  she  had  know^n  even 
stranger  things  than  that  brought  to  bear.  She  hoped 
again  to  see  the  day  in  which  we  might  hojd  up  our  heads 
with  the  best  of  them ;  and  concluded,  she  protested  she 
could  see  no  reason  why  the  two  Miss  Wrinklers  should 
marry  great  fortunes,  and  her  children  get  none.  As 
this  last  argument  was  directed  to  me,  I  protested  I  could 
see  no  reason  for  it  neither,  nor  why  Mr.  Simkins  got  the 
ten  thousand  pound  prize  in  the  lottery,  and  we  sate  down 
with  a  blank.  '  I  protest,  Charles,'  cried  my  wife,  '  this 
'  is  the  w  ay  you  always  damp  my  girls  and  me  when  we 
'are  in  spirits.  Tell  me,  Sophy,  my  dear,  what  do  you 
'  think  of  our  new  visitor  ?    Don't  you  think  he  seemed 

*  to  be  good-natured  ?  ' — '  Immensely  so  indeed.  Mamma,' 
replied  she.  '  I  think  he  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon 
'  every  thing,  and  is  never  at  a  loss  ;  and  the  more  trifling 
'  the  subject  the  more  he  has  to  say.' — *  Yes,'  cried 
Olivia,  '  he  is  well  enough  for  a  man  ;  but  for  my  part, 
'  I  don't  much  like  him,  he  is  so  extremely  impudent 

*  and  familiar  ;  but  on  the  guitar  he  is  shocking.'  These 
two  last  speeches  I  interpreted  by  contraries.  I  found 
by  this,  that  Sophia  internally  despised,  as  much  as 

Olivia  secretly  admired  him. '  Whatever  may  be  your 

'  opinions  of  him,  my  children,'  cried  I,  '  to  confess  the 
'  truth,  he  has  not  prepossest  me  in  his  favour.  Dispro- 
'  portioned  friendships  ever  terminate  in  disgust ;  and 
'  I  thought,  notwithstanding  all  his  ease,  that  he  seemed 
'perfectly  sensible  of  the  distance  between  us.     Let  us 

*  keep  to  companions  of  our  own  rank.  There  is  no 
'  character  more  contemptible  than  a  man  that  is  a  for- 

*  tune-hunter ;    and  I  can  see  no  reason  why  fortune- 


214  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch.  v 

'  hunting  women  should  not  be  contemptible  too.  Thus, 
'  at  best,  we  shall  be  contemptible  if  his  views  are  honour- 
*  able  ;  but  if  they  be  otherwise  !  I  should  shudder  but 
'  to  think  of  that !  It  is  true  I  have  no  apprehensions 
'  from  the  conduct  of  my  children,  but  I  think  there  are 
'  some  from  his  character.' — I  would  have  proceeded, 
but  for  the  interruption  of  a  servant  from  the  'Squire, 
who,  with  his  compliments,  sent  us  a  side  of  venison,  and 
a  promise  to  dine  with  us  some  days  after.  This  well- 
timed  present  pleaded  more  powerfully  in  his  favour, 
than  any  thing  I  had  to  say  could  obviate.  I  therefore 
continued  silent,  satisfied  with  just  having  pointed  out 
danger,  and  leaving  it  to  their  own  discretion  to  avoid 
it.  That  virtue  which  requires  to  be  ever  guarded,  is 
scarce  worth  the  centinel. 


,  otiearrinff  the  tiuldaltf  of  Mr.  Burchsll  [i 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  happiness  of  a  country  fireside, 
lis  we  carried  on  the  former  dispute  with  some  degree  of 
XI.  warmth,  in  order  to  accommodate  matters  it  was  uni- 
versally agreed  that  we  should  have  a  part  of  the  venison 
for  supper,  and  the  girls  undertook  the  task  with  alacrity. 
'  I  am  sorry,'  cried  I,  '  that  we  have  no  neighbour  or 
'  stranger  td  take  a  part  in  this  good  chear :  feasts  of 
'  this  kind  acquire  a  double  relish  from  hospitality.' — 
'  Bless  me,'  cried  my  wife,  '  here  comes  our  good  friend 
'  Mr,  Burchell,  that  saved  our  Sophia,  and  that  run  you 
'  down  fairly  in  the  ailment.* — '  Confute  me  in  argu- 


216  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  ment,  child  ! '  cried  I.  '  You  mistake  there,  my  dear, 
'  I  believe  there  are  but  few  that  can  do  that :  I  never 
'  dispute  your  abilities  at  making  a  goose-pye,  and  I  beg 
'  you'll  leave  argument  to  me.' — As  I  spoke,  poor 
Mr.  Burchell  entered  the  house,  and  was  welcomed  by 
the  family,  who  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  while 
little  Dick  oflSciously  reached  him  a  chair. 

I  was  pleased  %ith  the  poor  man's  friendship,  for  two 
reasons  :  because  I  knew  that  he  wanted  mine,  and 
I  knew  him  to  be  friendly  as  far  as  he  was  able.  He 
was  known  in  our  neighbourhood  by  the  character  of 
the  poor  Gentleman  that  would  do  no  good  when  he 
was  young,  though  he  was  not  yet  thirty.  He  would 
at  intervals  talk  with  great  good  sense ;  but  in  general 
he  was  fondest  of  the  company  of  chOdren,  whom  he 
used  to  call  harmless  little  men.  He  was  famous,  I  found, 
for  singing  them  ballads,  and  telling  them  stories  ;  and 
seldom  went  out  without  something  in  his  pockets  for 
them,  a  piece  of  gingerbread,  or  an  halfpenny  whistle. 
He  generally  fcame  for  a  few  days  into  our  neighbourhood 
once  a  y^ar,  and  lived  upon  the  neighbours'  hospitality. 
He  sate  down  to  supper  among  us,  and  my  wife  was  not 
sparing  of  her  gooseberry-wine.  The  tale  went  round  ; 
he  sang  us  old  songs,  and  gave  the  children  the  story 
of  the  Buck  of  Beverland,  with  the  history  of  Patient 
Grissel,  the  adventures  of  Catskin,  and  then  Fair  Rosa- 
mond's Bower  Our  cock,  which  always  erew  at  eleven, 
now  told  us  it  was  time  for  repose ;  but  an  unforeseen 
difficulty  started  about  lodging  the  stranger ;  aU  our 
beds  were  already  taken  up,  anc^it  was  too  late  to  send 
him  to  the  next  alehouse.  In  this  dilemma,  little  Dick 
offered  him  his  part  of  the  bed,  if  his  brother  Moses 
would  let  him  lie  with  him  ;  '  And  I,'  cried  Bill,  *  will 
'  give  Mr.  Burchell  my  part,  if  my  sisters  will  take  me 
*  to  theirs.' — *  Well  done,  my  good  children,'  cried  I, 


VI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  217 

'hospitality  is  one  of  the  first  Christian  duties.     The 

*  beast  retires  to  its  shelter,  and  the  bird  flies  to  its  nest ; 

*  but  helpless  man  can  only  find  refuge  from  his  fellow- 
'  creature.     The  greatest  stranger  in  this  world,  was  He 

*  that  came  to  save  it.     He  never  had  an  house,  as  if 

*  willing   to   see   wl^at   hospitality   was   left   remaining 

*  amongst  us.  Deborah,  my  dear,'  cried  I,  to  my  wife, 
'give  those  boys  a  lump  of  sugar  eaclf,  and  let  Dick's 
'  be  the  largest  because  he  spoke  first.' 

In  the  morning  early  I  called  out  my  whole  family  to 
help  at  saving  an  after-growth  of  hay,  and  our  guest 
offering  his  assistance,  he  was  accepted  among  the  number. 
Our  labours  went  on  lightly ;  we  turned  the  swath  to 
the  wind.  I  went  foremost,  and  the  rest  followed  in  due 
succession.  I  could  not  avoid,  however,  observing  the 
assiduity  of  Mr.  Burchell  in  assisting  my  daughter  Sophia 
in  her  part  of  the  task.  When  he  had  finished  his  own, 
he  ji'ould  join  in  her's,  and  enter  into  a  close  conversa- 
tion :  but  I  had  too  good  an  opinion  of  Sophia's  under- 
standing, and  was  too  well  convinced  of  her  ambition,  to 
be  under  any  uneasiness  from  a  man  of  broken  fortune. 
When  we  were  finished  for  the  day,  Mr.  Burchell  was 
invited  as  on  the  night  before  ;  but  he  refused,  as  he 
was  to  lie  that  night  at  a  neighbour's,  to  whose  child  he 
was  carrying  a  whistle.  When  gone,  our  conversation  at 
supper  turned  upon  our  late  unfortunate  guest.  '  What 
'a  strong  instance,'  said  I,  'is  that  poor  man  of  the 
'  miseries  attending  a  youth  of  levity  and  extravagance. 
'  He  by  no  means  wants  sense,  which  only  serves  to  aggra- 
'  vate  his  former  folly.  Poor  forlorn  creature,  where  are 
'  now  the  revellers,  the  flatterers,  that  he  could  once 
'  inspire  and  command  ?  Gone,  perhaps,  to  attend  the 
'  bagnio  pander,  grown  rich  by  his  extravagance.  They 
'  once  praised  him,  and  now  they  applaud  the  pander : 
'  their  former  raptures  at  his  wit  are  now  converted  into 


218  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  sarcasms  at  his  folly  :  he  is  poor,  and  perhaps  deserves 
'  poverty ;  for  he  has  neither  the  ambition  to  be  inde- 
'  pendent,  nor  the  skill  to  be  useful.'  Prompted  perhaps 
by  some  secret  reasons,  I  delivered  this  observation  with 
too  much  acrimony,  which  my  Sophia  gently  reproved. 
Whatsoever  his  former  conduct  may  have  been.  Papa, 
his  circumstances  should  exempt  him  from,  censure  now. 
His  present  indigence  is  a  sufficient  punishment  for 
former  folly,  and  I  have  heard  my  Papa  himself  say, 
that  we  should  never  strike  one  unnecessary  blow  at 
a  victim  over  whom  Providence  holds  the  scourge  of 
its  resentment.' — '  You  are  right,  Sophy,'  cried  my  son 
Moses,  '  and  one  ef  the  ancients  finely  represents  so 
malicious  a  conduct,  by  the  attempts  of  a  rustic  to 
flay  Marsyas  whose  skin,  the  fable  tells  us,  had  been 
wholly  stript  off  by  another.  Besides,  I  don't  know  if 
this  poor  man's  situation  be  so  bad  as  my  father  would 
r^iesent  it.  We  are  not  to  judge  of  the  feelings  of 
others  by  what  we  might  feel  if  in  their  place.  How- 
ever dark  the  habitation  of  the  mole  to  our  eyes,  yet 
the  animal  itself  finds  the  apartment  sufficiently  light- 
some. And  to  confess  a  truth,  this  man's  mind  seems 
fitted  to  his  station ;  for  I  never  heard  any  one  more 
sprightly  than  he  was  to-day,  when  he  conversed  with 
you.'  This  was  said  without  the  least  design ;  how- 
ever, it  excited  a  blush,  which  she  strove  to  cover  by 
an  affected  laugh,  assuring  him,  that  she  iscarce  took 
any  notice  of  what  he  said  to  her ;  but  that  she  believed 
he  might  once  have  been  a  very  fine  gentleman.  The 
readiness  with  which  she  undertook  to  vindicate  heirself , 
and  her  blushing,  were  symptoms  I  did  not  internally 
approve  ;   but  I  represt  my  suspicions. 

As  we  expected  our  landlord  the  next  day,  my  wife 
went#o  make  the  venison  pasty.  Moses  sate  reading, 
while  I  taught  the  little  ones  :    my  daughters  seemed 


VI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  219 

equally  busy  with  the  rest ;  and  I  observed  them  for 
a  good  while  cooking  something  over  the  fire.  I  at  first 
supposed  they  were  assisting  their  mother ;  but  little 
Dick  informed  me  in  a  whisper,  that  they  were  making 
a  vxiah  for  the  face.  Washes  of  all  kinds  I  had  a  natural 
antipathy  to ;  for  I  knew  that  instead  of  mending  the 
complexion  they  spoiled  it.  I  therefore  approached  my 
chair  by  sly  degrees  to  the  fire,  and  grasping  the  poker, 
as  if  it  wanted  mending,  seemingly  by  accident,  over- 
turned the  whole  composition,  and  it  was  too  late  to 
begin  another. 


—  This  sOectiulIy  nisad  the  lingh  tgajast  poor  Uoses^pAaE  222. 

CHAPTER  VTI 

A  town  wit  described.     The  dullest  fellows  may  leam  to  be 
comioal  for  a  night  or  two. 

WHEN  the  morning  arrived  on  which  we  were  to 
entertain  our  young  landlord,  it  may  be  easily 
supposed  what  provisions  ^vere  exhausted  to  make  an 
appearance.  It  may  also  be  conjectured  that  my  wife 
and  daughters  expanded  their  gayest  pluoiage  upon  this 
occasion.  Mr.  Thornhill  came  with  a  couple  of  friends, 
his  chaplain  and  feeder.  The  servants,  who  were  numer- 
ous, he  politely  ordered  to  the  next  alehouse,  but  my 
wife,  in  the  triumph  of  her  heart,  insisted  on  entertaining 
them  all ;  for  which,  by  the  by,  our  family  was  pinched 
for  three  weeks  after.  As  Mr.  Burchell  had  hinted  to  us 
the  day  before,  that  he  was  making  some  proposals  of 
marriage  to  Miss  Wilmot,  my  son  George's  former  mis- 
tress, this  a  good  deal  damped  the  heartiness  of  his 


CH.  VII        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  221 

reception  :  but  accident,  in  some  measure,  relieved  our 
embarrassment ;  for  one  of  the  company  happening  to 
mention  her  name,  Mr.  Thornhill  observed  with  an  oath, 
that  he  never  knew  any  thing  more  absurd  than  calling 
such  a  fright  a  beauty  :  '  For  strike  me  ugly,'  continued 
he,  *if  I  should  not  find  as  much  pleasure  in  choosing 
'  my  mistress  by  the  information  of  a  lamp  under  the 

*  clock  at  St.  Dunstan's.'  At  this  he  laughed,  and  so 
did  we  : — ^the  jests  of  the  rich  are  ever  successful.  Olivia 
too  could  not  avoid  whispering  loud  enough  to  be  heard, 
that  he  had  an  infinite  fund  of  humour. 

After  dinner,  I  began  with  my  usual  toast,  the  Church  ; 
for  this  I  was  thanked  by  the  chaplain,  as  he  said  the 

Church  was  the  only  mistress  of  his  affections. *  Come, 

'  tell  us  honestly,  Frank,'  said  the  'Squire,  with  his  usual 
archness,  'suppose  the  Church,  your  present  mistress, 
'  drest  in  lawn  sleeves,  on  one  hand,  and  Miss  Sophia, 
'  with  no  lawn  about  her,  on  the  other,  which  would  you 
'  be  for  ?  '    *  For  both,  to  be  sure,'  cried  the  chaplain. — 

*  Right,  Frank,'  cried  the  'Squire,  *  for  may  this  glass 

*  suffocate  me  but  a  fine  girl  is  worth  all  the  priestcraft 
'  in  the  Creation.  For  what  are  tithes  and  tricks  but  an 
'  imposition,  all  a  confounded  imposture,  and  I  can  prove 

*  it.' '  I  wish  you  would,'  cried  my  son  Moses,  *  and 

'  I  think,'  continued  he,  '  that  I  should  be  able  to  answer 

*  you.' — '  Very  well,  Sir,'  cried  the  'Squire,  who  immedi- 
ately smoked  him,  and  winking  on  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany, to  prepare  us  for  the  sport,  *  if  you  are  for  a  cool 
'  argument  upon  that  subject,  I  am  ready  to.  accept  the 

*  challenge.    And  first,  whether  are  you  for  managing  it 

*  analogically  or  dialogically  ?  '  'I  am  for  managing  it 
'  rationally,'  cried  Moses,  quite  happy  at  being  permitted 
to  dispute.    '  Good  again,'  cried  the  'Squire,  '  and  firstly, 

*  of  the  first.  I  hope  you'll  not  deny  that  whatever  is, 
'  is.    If  you  don't  grant  me  that  I  can  go  no  further.' 


222  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

*  Why,'  returned  Moses,  '  I  think  I  may  grant  that,  and 

*  make  the  best  of  it.' — '  I  hope  too,'  returned  the  other, 

*  you'll  grant  that  a  part  is  less  than  the  whole.'    '  I  grant 

*  that  too,'  cried  Moses,  *  it  is  but  just  and  reasonable.' 

'  I  hope,'  cried  the  'Squire,  '  you  will  not  deny,  that 

'  the  two  angles  of  a  triangle  are  equal  to  two  right 

*  ones.' — '  Nothing  can  be  plainer,'  returned  t'oth^,  and 
looked  round  with  his  usual  importance. — '  Very  well,' 
cried  the  'Squire,  speaking  very  quick,  'the  premises 

being  thus  settled,  I  proceed  to  observe,  that  the  con- 
catenation of  self -existence,  proceeding  in  a  reciprocal 
duplicate  ratio,  naturally  produces  a  problematical 
dialogism,  which  in  some  measure  prov^  that  the 
essence  of  spirituality  may  be  referred  to  the  second 

predicable.' '  Hold,   hold,' cried  the  other,    *  I 

deny  that :  Do  you  think  I  can  thus  tamely  submit 
to  such  heterodox  doctrines  ?  ' — *  What,'  replied  the 
Squire,  as  if  in  a  passion,  '  not  submit !  Answer  me  one 
plain  question  :  Do  you  think  Aristotle  right  when  he 
says,  that  relatives  are  related  ? '  '  Undoubtedly,* 
replied  the  other.  '  If  so  then,'  cried  the  'Squire,  *  answer 
me  directly  to  what  I  propose  :  Whether  do  you  judge 
the  analytical  investigation  of  the  first  part  of  my 
enthymem  deficient  secundum  quoad,  or  quoad  minus, 
and  give  me-  your  reasons,  give  me  your  reasons,  I  say, 

directly.' *  I  protest,'  cried  Moses,  '  I  don't  rightly 

comprehend  the  force  of  your  reasoning ;  but  if  it  be 
reduced  to  one  simple  proposition,  I  fancy  it  may  then 

have  an  answer.' '  O  Sir,'  cried  the  'Squire,  *  I  am 

your  most  humble  servant,  I  find  you  want  me  to 
furnish  you  with  argument  and  intellects  too.  No,  Sir, 
there  I  protest  you  are  too  bard  for  me.'  This  effectually 
raised  the  laugh  against  poor  Moses,  who  sate  the  only 
dismal  figure  in  a  group  of  merry  faces  :  rior  did  he  offer 
a  single  syllable  more  during  the  whole  entertainment. 


VII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  223 

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

Upon  his  departure,  we  again  entered  into  a  debate 
upon  the  merits  of  our  young  landlord.  As  he  directed 
his  looks  and  conversation  to  Olivia,  it  was  no  longer 
doubted  but  that  she  was  the  object  that  induced  him  to 
be  our  visitor.  Nor  did  she  seem  to  be  much  displeased 
at  the  innocent  raillery  of  her  brother  and  sister  upon 
this  occasion.  Even  Deborah  herself  seemed  to  share 
the  glory  of  the  day,  and  exulted  in  her  daughter's  vic- 
tory as  if  it  were  her  own.  '  And  now,  my  dear,'  cried 
she  to  me,  *  I'll  fairly  own,  that  it  was  I  that  instructed 
'  my  girls  to  encourage  our  landlord's  addresses.  I  had 
'always  some  ambition,  and  you  now  see  that  I  was 
'  right ;  for  who  knows  how  this  may  end  ?  '  '  Aye, 
'  who  knows  that  indeed,'  answered  I,  with  a  groan  : 
'  for  my  part  I  don't  much  like  it ;  and  I  could  have 
'  been  better  pleased  with  one  that  was  poor  and  honest, 
'  than  this  fine  gentleman  with  his  fortune  and  infidelity  ; 
*for  depend  on't,  if  he  be  what  I  suspect  him,  no  free- 
'  thinker  shall  ever  have  a  child  of  mine.' 

'  Sure,  father,'  cried  Moses, '  you  are  too  severe  in  this  ; 
'  for  Heaven  will  never  arraign  him  for  what  he  thinks, 
'but  for  what  he  does.  Every  man  has  a  thousand 
'vicious  thoughts,  which  arise  without  his  power  to 


224  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD        ch.  vii 

suppress.  Thinking  freely  of  religion  may  be  involun- 
tary with  this  gentleman  :  so  that  allowing  his  senti- 
ments to  be  wTong,  yet  as  he  is  purely  passive  in  his 
assent,  he  is  no  more  to  be  blamed  for  his  errors,  than 
the  governor  of  a  city  without  walls  for  the  shelter  he 
is  obliged  to  aflFord  an  invading  enemy.' 

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

'  Why,  my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she  have  read  ?  ' 
cried  I.  '  It  does  not  occur  to  me  that  I  ever  put  such 
'  books  into  her  hands  :    you  certainly  over-rate  her 

*  merit.'    '  Indeed,  Papa,'  replied  Olivia,  *  she  does  not : 

*  I  have  read  a  great  deal  of  controversy.  I  have  read 
f  the  disputes  between  Thwackum  and  Square ;  the 
'  controversy  between  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday  the 

*  savage,  and  I  am  now  employed  in  reading  the  con- 
« troversy  in  Religious  Courtship.'  '  Very  well,'  cried 
I,  '  that 's  a  good  girl,  I  find  you  are  perfectly  qualified 
<for  making  converts,  and  so  go  help  your  mother  to 
'  make  the  gooseberry-pye.' 


^^ 


So  loud  a  report,  and  »  nrar,  Btirtled  ray  a»ughters :  anr 

hat  Sophia  in  ths  Mght  had  thrown  herself   into  Mr.  Bun 
iroteetion.— Paoe  2H. 


CHAPTER  VUI 

An  amour,  vhich  promises  little  good  fortune,  yet  maj  be 
productive  of  much. 

THE  next  moming  we  were  again  visited  by  Mr.  Bur- 
cbell,  though  I  b^an,for  certain  reasom,  to  be  dia- 
pleased  with  the  frequency  of  his  return ;  but  I  could  not 
refuse  him  my  company  and  fire-side.  It  is  true  his  labour 
mote  than  requited  his  eutertaimnent ;  for  he  wrought 
among  us  with  vigour,  and  either  in  the  meadow  or  at  the 
hay-rick  put  himBelf  foremost.     Besides,  he  hod  always 


226 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


something  amusing  to  say  that  lessened  our  toil,  and  was 
at  once  so  out  of  the  way,  and  yet  so  sensible,  that  I  loved, 
laughed  at,  and  pitied  him.  My  only  dislike  arose  from 
an  attachment  he  discovered  to  my  daughter  :  he  would 
in  a  jesting  manner,  call  her  his  little  mistress,  and  when 
he  bought  each  of  the  girls  a  set  of  ribbands,  her's  was 
the  finest.  I  knew  not  how,  but  he  every  day  seemed 
to  become  more  amiable,  his  wit  to  improve,  and  his 
simplicity  to  assume  the  superior  airs  of  wisdom. 

Our  family  dined  in  the  field,  and  we  sate,  or  rather 
reclined,  round  a  temperate  repast,  our  cloth  spread  upon 
the  hay,  while  Mr.  Burchell  gave  cheerfulness  to  the  feast. 
To  heighten  our  satisfaction,  two  blackbirds  answered 
each  other  from  opposite  hedges,  the  familiar  red-breast 
came  and  pecked  the  crumbs  from  our  hands,  and  every 
sound  seemed  but  the  echo  of  tranquillity.  *  I  never  sit 
thus,'  says  Sophia,  '  but  I  think  of  the  two  lovers  so 
sweetly  described  by  Mr.  Gay,  who  were  struck  dead  in 
each  other's  arms.  There  is  something  so  pathetic  in 
the  description,  that  I  have  read  it  an  hundred  times 

with  new  rapture.' '  In  my  opinion,'  cried  my  son, 

the  finest  strokes  in  that  description  are  much  below 
those  in  the  Acis  and  Galatea  of  Ovid.  The  Roman 
poet  understands  the  use  of  contrast  better,  and  upon 
that  figure  artfully  managed,  all  strength  in  the  pathetic 

depends.' '  It  is  remarkable,'  cried  Mr.  Burchell, 

that  both  the  poets  you  mention  have  equally  con- 
tributed to  introduce  a  false  taste  into  their  respective 
countries,  by  loading  all  their  lines  with  epithet.  Men 
of  little  genius  found  them  most  easily  imitated  in  their 
defects ;  and  English  poetry,  like  that  in  the  latter 
empire  of  Rome,  is  nothing  at  present  but  a  combination 
of  luxuriant  images,  without  plot  or  connexion  ;  a  string 
of  epithets  that  improve  the  sound,  without  carrying 
on  the  sense.     But  perhaps,  madam,  while  I  thus  repre- 


(. 
I 


vm  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  227 

'  hend  others,  you'll  think  it  just  that  I  should  give  them 
*an  opportunity  to  retaliate,  and  indeed  I  have  made 
'  this  remark,  only  to  have  an  opportunity  of  introducing 

*  to  the  company  a  ballad,  which,  whatever  be  its  other 

*  defects,  is  I  think  at  least  free  from  those  I  have 

*  mentioned.' 

A   BALLAD 
I. 

*  Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way. 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray. 

II. 

'  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread. 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread. 

Seem  length'ning  as  I  go.' 

III. 

'Forbear,  my  son,'  the  Hermit  cries, 
'  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

IV. 

'  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

V. 

*Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare. 

My  blessing  and  repose. 


228  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

VI. 

*No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 

To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them  : 

VII. 

'  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supply'd, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

vni. 

'  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong ; 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.' 

IX. 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  Heav'n  descends. 

His  gentle  accents  fell  : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

X. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

XI. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Bequir'd  a  master's  care ; 
The  wicket,  op'ning  with  a  latch, 

Receiv'd  the  harmless  pair. 


vm  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  229 

XII. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  ev'ning  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest : 

XIII. 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gayly  prest,  and  smil'd ; 
And  &kiird  in  legendary  lore 

The  ling'ring  hours  beguil'd. 

XIV. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries, 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

XV. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 

To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  b^an  to  flow. 

XVI. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  opprest : 
*  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,'  he  cried, 

*  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

XVII. 

'  From  better  habitations  spum'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretum'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 


230  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

xvm. 

'  Alas  !    the  joys  that  fortune  brings, 

Are  trifling  and  decay ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

XIX. 

*  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  : 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

XX. 

*  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest : 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

XXI. 

'  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,'  he  said : 
But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

XXII. 

Surpris'd  he  sees  new  beauties  rise. 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view ; 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

XXIII. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms  : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 


vm  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  231 

XXIV. 

'  And  ah  !    forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,'  she  cried ; 
'  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 

Where  Heav'n  and  you  reside. 

XXV. 

'  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share. 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray : 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

XXVI. 

*  My  father  liv'd  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  Lord  was  he  : 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine, 
He  had  but  only  me. 

XXVII. 

*  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Uimumber'd  suitors  came ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt  or  feign'd  a  flame. 

XXVIII. 

*  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 

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

XXIX. 

*  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 


4'- 


232  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

XXX, 

*  And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale. 

He  carol'd  lays  of  love, 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 
And  music  to  the  grove. 

XXXI. 

'  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  Heav'n  refin'd, 
Could  nought  of  purity  display 

To  emulate  his  mind. 

XXXII. 

'  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine; 
Their  charms  were  his,  but  woe  to  me, 

Their  constancy  was  mine. 

XXXIII. 

*  For  still  I  try'd  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 
I  triumphed  in  his  pain. 

XXXIV. 

*  Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  .my  pride ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 
In  secret  where  he  died. 

XXXV. 

'  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault. 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought. 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 


vin  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  233 

XXXVI. 

*  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 
And  so  for  him  will  I.' 

XXXVII. 

*  Forbid  it  Heav'n  ! '  the  Hermit  cried, 

And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast : 
The  wond'ring  fair  one  tum'd  to  chide, — 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  prest. 

xxxvni. 

'  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restor'd  to  love  and  thee. 

XXXIX. 

*  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  ev'ry  care  resign : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 
My  life, — my  all  that 's  mine  ? 

XL. 

*  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart. 
Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too.' 

While  this  ballad  was  reiiding,  Sophia  seemed  to  mix 
an  air  of  tenderness  with  her  approbation.  But  our 
tranquillity  was  soon  disturbed  by  the  report  of  a  gun 
just  by  us,  and  immediately  after  a  man  was  seen 

13 


234  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

bursting  through  the  hedge,  to  take  up  the  game  he  had 
killed.  This  sportsman  was  the  'Squire's  chaplain,  who 
had  shot  one  of  the  blackbirds  that  so  agreeably  enter- 
tained us.  So  loud  a  report,  and  so  near,  startled  my 
daughters  :  and  I  could  perceive  that  Sophia  in  the 
fright  had  thrown  herself  into  Mr.  Burchell's  arms  for 
protection.  The  gentleman  came  up,  and  asked  pardon 
for  having  disturbed  us,  affirming  that  he  was  ignorant 
of  our  being  so  near.  He  therefore  sate  down  by  my 
youngest  daughter,  and  sportsman-like,  offered  her  what 
he  had  killed  that  morning.  She  was  going  to  refuse,  but 
a  private  look  from  her  mother  soon  induced  her  to 
correct  the  mistake,  and  accept  his  present,  though  with 
some  reluctance.  My  wife,  as  usual,  discovered  her 
pride  in  a  whisper,  observing,  that  Sophy  had  made  a 
conquest  of  the  chaplain,  as  well  as  her  sister  had  of  the 
'Squire.  I  suspected,  however,  with  more  probability, 
that  her  affections  were  placed  upon  a  different  object. 
The  chaplain's  errand  was  to  inform  us,  that  Mr.  Thomhill 
had  provided  music  and  refreshments,  and  intended  that 
night  giving  the  young  ladies  a  ball  by  moonlight,  on 
the  grass-plot  before  our  door.  '  Nor  can  I  deny,'  con- 
tinued he, '  but  I  have  an  interest  in  being  first  to  deliver 
'  this  message,  as  I  expect  for  my  reward  to  be  honoured 
'  with  Miss  Sophy's  hand  as  a  partner.'  To  this  my  girl 
replied,  that  she  should  have  no  objection,  if  she  could  do 
it  with  honour  ;  *  But  here,'  continued  she,  '  is  a  gentle- 
'  man,'  looking  at  Mr.  Burchell,  '  who  has  been  my  com- 
'  panion  in  the  task  for  the  day,  and  it  is  fit  he  should 
*  share  in  its  amusements.'  Mr.  Burchell  returned  her 
a  compliment  for  her  intentions ;  but  resigned  her  up 
to  the  chaplain,  adding  that  he  was  to  go  that  night  five 
miles,  being  invited  to  an  harvest  supper.  His  refusal 
appeared  to  me  a  little  extraordinary,  nor  could  I  con- 
ceive how  so  sensible  a  girl  as  my  youngest,  could  thus 


J 


VIII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  235 

prefer  a  man  of  broken  fortune  to  one  whose  expectations 
were  much  greater.  But  as  men  are  most  capable  of 
distinguishing  merit  in  women,  so  the  ladies  often  form 
the  truest  judgments  of  us.  The  two  sexes  seem  placed 
as  spies  upon  each  other,  and  are  furnished  with  different 
abilities,  adapted  for  mutual  inspection. 


ind  wben  got  aboot  luir-viy  horns,  pemtTed  ths  proceasioD  nunhiDg 

■luwlf  forinrd  towu-ds  the  chureh.— Pad*  flU. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Two  ladies  of  great  diatinction  introduced.     Superior  finery  ever 
seems  to  confer  superior  breeding. 

MR.  BURCHELL  had  scarce  taken  leave,  andSopbia 
consented  to  dance  with  the  chaplain,  when  my 
little  ones  came  running  out  to  tell  us  that  the  'Squire  was 
come  with  a  crowd  ot  company.  Upon  our  return,  we 
found  our  landlord,  with  a  couple  of  under  gentlemen  and 
two  young  ladies  richly  drest,  whom  he  introduced  as 


CH.  IX         THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  237 

women  of  very  great  distinction  and  fashion  from  town. 
We  happened  not  to  have  chairs  enough  for  the  whole 
company  :  but  Mr.  Thornhill  immediately  proposed  that 
every  gentleman  should  sit  in  a  lady's  lap.  This  I  posi- 
tively objected  to,  notwithstanding  a  look  of  disapproba- 
tion from  my  wife.  Moses  was  therefore  dispatched  to 
borrow  a  couple  of  chairs  ;  and  as  we  w  ere  in  w^ant  of 
ladies  to  make  up  a  set  at  country  dances,  the  two 
gentlemen  went  with  him  in  quest  of  a  couple  of  partners. 
Chairs  and  partners  were  soon  provided.  The  gentle- 
men returned  with  my  neighbour  Flamborough's  rosy 
daughters,  flaunting  with  red  top-knots.  But  an  unlucky 
circumstance  was  not  adverted  to ;  though  the  Miss  Flam- 
boroughs  were  reckoned  the  very  best  of  dancers  in  the 
parish,  and  understood  the  jig  and  the  round-about  to 
perfection,  yet  they  were  totally  unacquainted  with 
country  dances.  This  at  first  discomposed  us  :  however, 
after  a  little  shoving  and  dragging,  they  at  last  went 
merrily  on.  Our  music  consisted  of  two  fiddles,  with  a 
pipe  and  tabor.  The  moon  shone  bright,  Mr.  Thornhill 
and  my  eldest  daughter  led  up  the  ball,  to  the  great 
delight  of  the  spectators  ;  for  the  neighbours,  hearing 
what  was  going  forward,  came  flocking  about  us.  My  girl 
moved  with  so  much  grace  and  vivacity,  that  my  wife 
could  not  avoid  discovering  the  pride  of  her  heart,  by 
assuring  me,  that  though  the  little  chit  did  it  so  cleverly, 
all  the  steps  were  stolen  from  herself.  The  ladies  of  the 
town  strove  hard  to  be  equally  easy,  but  without  success. 
They  swam,  sprawled,  languished,  and  frisked ;  but  all 
would  not  do  :  the  gazers  indeed  owned  that  it  was  fine  ; 
but  neighbour  Flamborough  observed,  that  Mi^  Livy's 
feet  seemed  as  pat  to  the  music  as  its  echo.  After  the 
dance  had  continued  about  an  hour,  the  two  ladies,  who 
were  apprehensive  of  catching  cold,  moved  to  break  up 
the  ball.     One  of  them,  I  thought,  expressed  her  senti- 


238  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

ments  upon  this  occasion  in  a  very  coarse  maimer,  when 
she  observed,  that  by  the  living  jingo,  she  vxis  all  of  a  muck 
of  atoeat.  Upon  our  return  to  the  house,  we  found  a  very 
elegant  cold  supper,  which  Mr.  Thomhill  had  ordered  to 
be  brought  with  him.  The  conversation  at  this  time  was 
more  reserved  than  before.  The  two  ladies  threw  my 
girls  quite  into  the  shade  ;  for  they  would  talk  of  nothing 
but  high  life,  and  high-lived  company ;  with  other  fashion- 
able topics,  such  as  pictures,  taste,  Shakespear,  and  the 
musical  glasses.  'Tis  true  they  once  or  twice  mortified  us 
sensibly  by  slipping  out  an  oath  ;  but  that  appeared  to  me 
as  the  surest  symptom  of  their  distinction,  (though  I  am 
since  informed  that  swe&ring  is  perfectly  unfashionable). 
Their  finery,  however,  threw  a  veil  over  any  grossness  in 
their  conversation.  My  daughters  seemed  to  regard  their 
superior  accomplishments  with  envy ;  and  what  ap- 
peared amiss  was  ascribed  to  tip-top  quality  breeding. 
But  the  condescension  of  the  ladies  was  still  superior  to 
their  other  accomplishments.  One  of  them  observed 
that  had  Miss  Olivia  seen  a  little  more  of  the  world,  it 
would  greatly  improve  her.  To  which  the  other  added, 
that  a  single  winter  in  town  would  make  little  Sophia 
quite  another  thing.  My  wife  warmly  assented  to  both, 
adding,  that  there  was  nothing  she  more  ardently  wished 
than  to  give  her  girls  a  single  winter's  polishing.  To  this 
I  could  not  help  replying,  that  their  breeding  was  already 
superior  to  their  fortune ;  and  that  greater  refinement 
would  only  serve  to  make  their  poverty  ridiculous,  and 
give  them  a  taste  for  pleasures  they  had  no  right  to 
possess. — '  And  what  pleasures,'  cried  Mr.  Thomhill, 
'  do  they  not  deserve  to  possess,  who  have  so  much  in 
'  their  power  to  bestow  ?  As  for  my  part,'  continued  he, 
'  my  fortune  is  pretty  large,  love,  liberty  and  pleasure 
^  are  my  maxims  ;  but  curse  me  if  a  settlement  of  half 
'  my  estate  could  give  my  charming  Olivia  pleasure,  it 


IX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  239 

'  should  be  hers ;   and  the  only  favour  I  would  ask  in 

*  return  would  be  to  add  myself  to  the  benefit.'  I  was 
not  such  a  stranger  to  the  world  as  to  be  ignorant  that 
this  was  the  fashionable  cant  to  disguise  the  insolence. 
of  the  basest  proposal ;  but  I  made  an  effort  to  suppress 
my  resentment.  '  Sir,'  cried  I,  '  the  family  which  you 
'  now  condescend  to  favour  with  your  company,  has 
'  been  bred  with  as  nice  a  sense  of  honour  as  you.  Any 
'  attempts  to  injure  that,  may  be  attended  with  very 
'  dangerous  consequences.  Honour,  Sir,  is  our  only 
'  possession  at  present,  and  of  that  last  treasure  we  must 

*  be  particularly  careful.' — ^I  was  soon  sorry  for  the 
warmth  with  which  I  had  spoken  this,  when  the  young 
gentleman,  grasping  my  hand,  swore  he  commended  my 
spirit,  though  he  disapproved  my  suspicions.     '  As  to 

your  present  hint,'  continued  he, '  I  protest  nothing  was 
farther  from  my  heart  than  such  a  thought.  No,  by  all 
that 's  tempting,  the  virtue  that  will  stand  a  regular 
siege  was  never  to  my  taste ;  for  all  my  amours  are 
carried  by  a  coup  de  main.' 
The  two  ladies,  who  affected  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
rest,  seemed  highly  displeased  with  this  last  stroke  of 
freedom,  and  began  a  very  discreet  and  serious  dialogue 
upon  virtue  ;  in  this  my  wife,  the  chaplain,  and  I  soon 
joined  ;  and  the  'Squire  himself  w^as  at  last  brought  to 
confess  a  sense  of  sorrow  for  his  former  excesses.  We 
talked  of  the  pleasures  of  temperance,  and  of  the  sunshine 
in  the  mind  unpolluted  with  guilt.  I  was  so  well  pleased, 
that  my  little  ones  were  kept  up  beyond  the  usual  time  to 
be  edified  by  so  much  good  conversation.  Mr.  Thornhill 
even  went  beyond  me,  and  demanded  if  I  had  any  objec- 
tion to  giving  prayers.  I  joyfully  emb^ced  the  proposal, 
and  in  this  manner  the  night  was  passed  in  a  most  com- 
fortable way,  till  at  last  the  company  began  to  think  of 
returning.  The  ladies  seemed  very  unwilUng  to  part  with 


240  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD        ch.  ix 

my  daughters  ;  for  whom  they  had  conceived  a  particular 
affection,  and  joined  in  a  request  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
their  company  home.  The  'Squire  seconded  the  proposal, 
and  my  wife  added  her  entreaties  ;  the  girls  too  looked 
upon  me  as  if  they  wished  to  go.  In  this  perplexity 
I  made  two  or  three  excuses,  which  my  daughters  as 
readily  removed ;  so  that  at  last  I  was  obliged  to  give 
a  peremptory  refusal ;  for  which  we  had  nothing  but 
sullen  looks  and  short  answers  the  whole  day  ensuing. 


V 


/ 


Bnt  prevkiualy  I  should  have  nientiDiied  tlia  very  iiupoIHe  behavionr 

of  Mr.  Burcfiel!.  who  during  thiB  dJHOurw,  wt«  with  hU  het  tirned  to  tUe  flro, 
■nd  at  the  lonelnBion  of  every  gentenca  would  cry  out/n^  .'— Paoe  2*B, 

CHAPTER  X 

The  family  endeavours  to  cope  with  their  betters.  The  miseriea 
of  the  poor  when  they  attempt  to  appear  above  their  cir- 
cumstances. 

I  NOW  began  to  find  that  all  my  long  and  painful 
lectures  upon  temperance,  aimplieity,  and  contentment, 
were  entirely  disregarded.  The  distinctions  lately  paid  ub 
by  our  betters  awaked  that  pride  which  I  had  laid  asleep, 
but  not  removed.  Our  windows  again,  as  formerly, 
were  filled  with  washes  for  the  neck  and  face.  The  sun 
was  dreaded  as  an  enemy  to  the  skin  without  doors,  and 
the  fire  as  a  spoiler  of  the  complexion  within.  My  wife 
observed,  that  rising  too  early  would  hurt  her  daughters' 
eyes,  that  working  after  dinner  would  redden  their  noses, 


242  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

and  she  convinced  me  that  the  hands  never  looked  so 
white  as  when  they  did  nothing.  Instead  therefore  of 
finishing  George's  shirts,  we  now  had  them  new  modelling 
their  old  gauzes,  or  flourishing  upon  cat-gut.  The  poor 
Miss  Flamboroughs,  their  former  gay  companions,  were 
cast  off  as  mean  acquaintance,  and  the  whole  conversa- 
tion ran  upon  high  life,  and  high-lived  company,  with 
pictures,  taste,  Shakespear,  and  the  musical  glasses. 

But  we  could  have  borne  all  this,  had  not  a  fortune- 
telling  gipsey  come  to  raise  us  into  perfect  sublimity. 
The  tawny  sybil  no  sooner  appeared,  than  my  girls  came 
running  to  me  for  a  shilling  a  piece  to  cross  her  hand 
with  silver.  To  say  the  truth,  I  was  tired  of  being  always 
wise,  and  could  not  help  gratifying  their  request,  because 
\I  loved  to  see  them  happy.  I  gave  each  of  them  a 
shilling ;  though,  for  the  honour  of  the  family,  it  must 
be  observed  that  they  never  went  without  money  them- 
selves, as  my  wiie  always  generously  let  them  have 
a  guinea  each,  to  keep  in  their  pockets  ;  but  with  strict 
injunctions  never  to  change  it.  After  they  had  been 
closeted  up  with  the  fortune-teller  for  some  time,  I  knew 
by  their  looks,  upon  their  returning,  that  they  had  been 
promised  something  great. — '  Well  my  girls,  how  have 
'  you  sped  ?  Tell  me,  Livy,  has  the  fortune-teller  given 
'  thee  a  penny-worth  ?  ' — '  I  protest.  Papa",'  says  the 
girl,  *  I  believe  she  deals  with  somebody  that 's  not 
'  right ;  for  she  positively  declared,  that  I  am  to  be 
'  married  to  a  'Squire  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth  ! ' — 
'  Well,  now  Sophy,  my  child,'  said  I,  '  and  what  sort  of 

*  a  husband  are  you  to  have  ?  '  '  Sir,'  replied  she,  'I  am 
'to  have  a  Lord  soon  after  my  sister  has  married  the 

*  'Squire.' '  How,'  cried  I,  '  is  that  all  you  are  to  have 

'  for  your  two  shillings  !  Only  a  Lord  and  a  'Squire  for 
'  two  shillings  !    You  fools,  I  could  have  promised  you 

*  a  Prince  and  a  Nabob  for  half  the  money.' 


X  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  243 

This  curiosity  of  theirs,  however,  was  attended  with 
very  serious  effects  :  we  now  began  to  think  ourselves 
designed  by  the  stars  to  something  exalted,  and  already 
anticipated  our  future  grandeur. 

It  has  been  a  thousand  times  observed,  and  I  must 
observe  it  once  more,  that  the  hours  we  pass  with  happy 
prospects  in  view,  are  more  pleasing  than  those  crowned 
with  fruition.  In  the  first  case,  we  cook  the  dish  to  our 
own  appetite ;  in  the  latter,  nature  cooks  it  for  us.  It 
is  impossible  to  repeat  the  train  of  agreeable  reveries  we 
called  up  for  our  entertainment.  We  looked  upon  our 
fortunes  as  once  more  rising ;  and  as  the  whole  parish 
asserted  that  the  'Squire  was  in  love  with  my  daughter, 
she  was  actually  so  with  him ;  for  they  persuaded  her 
into  the  passion.  In  this  agreeable  interval,  my  wife  had 
the  most  lucky  dreams  in  the  world,  which  she  took  care 
to  tell  us  every  morning,  with  great  solemnity  and  exact- 
ness. It  was  one.  night  a  coffin  and  cross  bones,  the 
sign  of  an  approaching  wedding ;  at  another  time  she 
imagined  her  daughters'  pockets  filled  with  farthings, 
a  certain  sign  they  would  shortly  be  stuffed  with  gold. 
The  girls  themselves  had  their  omens.  They  felt  strange 
kisses  on  their  lips  ;  they  saw  rings  in  the  candle,  purses 
bounced  from  the  fire,  and  true  love-knots  lurked  in  the 
bottom  of  every  tea-cup. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  we  received  a  card  from 
the  town  ladies  ;  in  which,  with  their  compliments,  they 
hoped  to  see  all  our  family  at  church  the  Sunday  following. 
All  Saturday  morning  I  could  perceive,  in  consequence 
of  this,  my  wife  and  daughters  in  close  conference  to- 
gether, and  now  and  then  glancing  at  me  with  looks  that 
betrayed  a  latent  plot.  To  be  sincere,  I  had  strong 
suspicions  that  some  absurd  proposal  was  preparing  for 
appearing  with  splendour  the  next  day.  In  the  evening 
they  began  their  operations  in  a  very  regular  manner. 


r 


244 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKElFIELD 


CH. 


and  my  wife  undertook  to  conduct  the  siege.    After  tea, 

when  I  seemed  in  spirits,  she  began  thus '  I  fancy, 

Charles,  my  dear,  we  shall  have  a  great  deal  of  good  com- 
pany at  our  church  to-morrow.' — '  Perhaps  we  may, 
my  dear,'  returned  I,  'though  you  need  be  under  no 
uneasiness  about  that,  you  shall  have  a  sermon  w^hether 
there  be  or  not.' '  That  is  what  I  expect,'  returned 

she  ;  '  but  I  think,  my  dear,  we  ought  to  appear  there  as 
decently  as  possible,  for  who  knows  what  may  happen  ? ' 
Your  precautions,'  replied  I,  *  are  highly  conmiendable. 
A  decent  behaviour  and  appearance  in  church  is  what 
charms  me.  We  should  be  devout  and  humble,  chear- 
ful  and  serene.' — '  Yes,'  cried  she,  *  I  know  that ;  but 
I  mean  we  should  go  there  in  as  proper  a  manner  as 
possible ;  not  altogether  like  the  scrubs  about  us.' 
You  are  quite  right,  my  dear '  returned  I,  '  and  I  was 
going  to  make  the  very  same  proposal.  The  proi)er 
manner  of  going  is,  to  go  there  as  early  as  possible,  to 
have  time  for  meditation  before  the  service  begins.' — 
Phoo,  Charles,'  interrupted  she,  '  all  that  is  very  true  ; 
but  not  what  I  would  be  at.  I  mean  we  should  go  there 
genteelly.  You  know  the  church  is  two  miles  off,  and 
I  protest  I  don't  like  to  see  my  daughters  trudging  up 
to  their  pew  all  blowzed  and  red  with  walking,  and 
looking  for  all  the  world  as  if  they  had  been  winners 
at  a  smock  race.  Now,  my  dear,  my  proposal  is  this  : 
there  are  our  two  plow  horses,  the  Colt  that  has  been 
in  our  family  these  nine  years,  and  his  companion 
Blackberry,  that  has  scarce  done  an  earthly  thing 
for  this  month  past.  They  are  both  grown  fat  and 
lazy.  Why  should  not  they  do  something  as  well  as 
we  ?  And  let  me  tell  you,  when  Moses  has  trimmed 
them  a  little,  they  will  cut  a  very  tol^*able  figure.' 
To  this  proposal  I  objected,  that  walking  would  be 

twenty  times  more  genteel  than  such  a  paltry  conveyance, 


X  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  245 

as  Blackberry  was  wall-eyed,  and  the  Colt  wanted  a  tail : 
that  they  had  never  been  broke  to  the  rein  ;  but  had  an 
hundred  vicious  tricks  ;  and  that  we  had  but  one  saddle 
and  pillion  in  the  whole  house.  All  these  objections 
however,  were  over-ruled ;  so  that  I  was  obliged  to 
comply.  The  next  morning  I  perceived  them  not  a  little 
busy  in  collecting  such  materials  as  might  be  necessary 
for  the  expedition  ;  but  as  I  found  it  would  be  a  business 
of  time,  I  walked  on  to  the  church  before,  and  they 
promised  speedily  to  follow.  I  waited  near  an  hour  in 
the  reading  desk  for  their  arrival ;  but  not  finding  them 
come  as  expected,  I  was  obliged  to  begin,  and  went 
through  the  service,  not  without  some  uneasiness  at 
finding  them  absent.  This  was  encreased  when  all  was. 
finished,  and  no  appearance  of  the  family.  I  therefore 
walked  back  by  the  horse- way ,  which  was  five  miles  round, 
though  the  foot-way  was  but  two,  and  when  got  about 
half-way  home,  perceived  the  procession  marching  slowly 
forward  towards  the  church  ;  my  son,  my  wife,  and  the 
two  little  ones  exalted  on  one  horse,  and  my  two  daughters 
upon  the  other.  I  demanded  the  cause  of  their  delay ; 
but  I  soon  found  by  their  looks  they  had  met  with 
a  thousand  misfortunes  on  the  road.  The  horses  had  at 
first  refused  to  move  from  the  door,  till  Mr.  Burchell 
was  kind  enough  to  beat  them  forward  for  about  two 
hundred  yards  with  his  cudgel.  Next,  the  straps  of  my 
wife's  pillion  broke  down,  and  they  were  obliged  to  stop 
to  repair  them  before  they  could  proceed.  After  that, 
one  of  the  horses  took  it  into  his  head  to  stand  still,  and 
neither  blows  nor  entreaties  could  prevail  with  him  to 
proceed.  He  was  just  recovering  from  this  dismal  situa- 
tion when  I  found  them ;  but  perceiving  every  thing 
safe,  I  own  their  present  mortification  did  not  much 
displease  me,  as  it  would  give  me  many  opportunities  of 
future  triumph,  and  teach  my  daughters  more  humility. 


m  Aevenl  pacw  from  tl 


CHAPTER  XI 
The  family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their  heads, 

MICHAEI^IAS  eve  happening  on  the  next  day,  we 
were  invited  to  bum  nuts  and  play  trickB  at 
neighbour  Flamborough's.  Our  late  mortificatione  had 
humbled  us  a  little,  or  it  is  probable  we  might  have 
rejected  suoh  an  invitation  with  contempt :  however, 
we  suffered  ourselves  to  be  happy.  Our  honest  neigh- 
bour's goose  and  dumplings  were  fine,  and  the  lamb's- 


CH.  XI        THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  247 

wool,  even  in  the  opinion  of  my  wife,  who  was  "a  con- 
noisseur, was  excellent.  It  is  true,  his  manner  of  telling 
stories  was  not  quite  so  well.  They  were  very  long,  and 
very  dull,  and  all  about  himself,  and  we  had  laughed  at 
them  ten  times  before  :  however,  we  were  kind  enough 
to  laugh  at  them  once  more. 

Mr.  Burchell,  who  was  of  the  party,  was  always  fond 
of  seeing  some  innocent  amusement  going  forward,  and 
set  the  boys  and  girls  to  blind  man's  buff.  My  wHe  too 
was  persuaded  to  join  in  the  diversion,  and  it  gave  me 
pleasure  to  think  she  was  not  yet  too  old.  In  the  mean 
time,  my  neighbour  and  I  looked  on,  laughed  at  every 
feat,  and  praised  our  own  dexterity  when  we  were  young. 
Hot  cockles  succeeded  next,  questions  and  commands 
followed  that,  and  last  of  all,  they  sat  down  to  hunt  the 
slipper.  As  every  person  may  not  be  acquainted  with 
this  primaeval  pastime,  it  may  be  necessary  to  observe, 
that  the  company  at  this  play  plant  themselves  in  a  ring 
upon  the  ground  all  except  one  who  stands  in  the  middle, 
whose  business  it  is  to  catch  a  shoe,  which  the  company 
shove  about  imder  their  hams  from  one  to  another, 
something  like  a  weaver's  shuttle.  As  it  is  impossible, 
in  this  case,  for  the  lady  who  is  up  to  face  all  the  com- 
pany at  once,  the  great  beauty  of  the  play  lies  in  hitting 
her  a  thump  with  the  heel  of  the  shoe  on  that  side  least 
capable  of  making  a  defence.  It  was  in  this  manner  that 
my  eldest  daughter  was  hemmed  in,  and  thumped  about, 
all  blowzed,  in  spirits,  and  bawling  for  fair  play,  fair 
play,  with  a  voice  that  might  deafen  a  ballad  singer,  when, 
confusion  on  confusion,  who  should  enter  the  room  but 
our  two  great  acquaintances  from  town.  Lady  Blarney 
and  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  !  Descrip- 
tion would  but  beggar,  therefore  it  is  unnecessary  to 
describe  this  new  mortification.  Death  !  To  be  seen  by 
ladies  of  such  high  breeding  in  such  vulgar  attitudes  ! 


248  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

Nothing  better  could  ensue  from  such  a  vulgar  play  of 
Mr.  Flamborough's  proposing.  We  seemed  stuck  to  the 
ground  for  some  time,  as  if  actually  petrified  with  amaze- 
ment. 

The  two  ladies  had  been  at  our  house  to  see  us,  and 
finding  us  from  home,  came  after  us  hither,  as  they  were 
uneasy  to  know  what  accident  could  have  kept  us  from 
church  the  day  before.  Olivia  undertook  to  be  our 
prolocutor,  and  delivered  the  whole  in  a  summary  way, 
only  saying,  '  We  were  thrown  from  our  horses.'  At 
which  account  the  ladies  were  greatly  concerned  ;  but 
being  told  the  family  received  no  hurt,  they  were  ex- 
tremely glad  :  but  being  informed  that  we  were  almost 
killed  by  the  fright,  they  were  vastly  sorry  ;  but  hearing 
that  we  had  a  very  good  night,  they  were  extremely  glad 
again.  Nothing  could  exceed  their  complaisance  to  my 
daughters  ;  their  professions  the  last  evening  were  warm, 
but  now  they  were  ardent.  They  protested  a  desire  of 
having  a  more  lasting  acquaintance.  Lady  Blarney  was 
particularly  attached  to  Olivia ;  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina 
Amelia  Skeggs  (I  love  to  give  the  whole  name)  took 
a  greater  fancy  to  her  sister.  They  supported  the  con- 
versation between  themselves,  while  my  daughters  sate 
silent,  admiring  their  exalted  breeding.  But  as  every 
reader,  however  beggarly  himself,  is  fond  of  high-lived 
dialogues,  with  anecdotes  of  Lords,  Ladies,  and  Knights 
of  the  Garter,  I  must  beg  leave  to  give  him  the  con- 
cluding part  of  the  present  conversation.  y 

*  All  that  I  know  of  the  matter,'  cried  Miss  Sk^gSj/is 

*  this,  that  it  may  be  true,  or  it  may  not  be  true  :  fbut 
'  this  I  can  assure  your  Ladyship,  that  the  whole  rout  was 
'  in  amaze ;   his  Lordship  turned  all  manner  of  colours, 

*  my  Lady  fell  into  a  sound,  but  Sir  Tomkyn,  drawing  his 
^  sword,  swore  he  was  her's  to  the  last  drop  of  his  blood.' 

'  Well,'  replied  our  Peeress,  *  this  I  can  say,  that  the 


/ 


XI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  249 

'  Duchess  never  told  me  a  syllable  of  the  matter,  and 
'  I  believe  her  Grace  would  keep  nothing  a  secret  from 
"  me.    This  you  may  depend  on  as  fact,  that  the  next 

*  morning  my  Lord  Duke  cried  out  three  times  to  his 
'  valet  de  chambre,  "  Jernigan,  Jernigan,  Jernigan,  bring 

*  "  me  my  garters."  ' 

But  previously  I  should  have  mentioned  the  very 
impolite  behaviour  of  Mr.  Burchell,  who  during  this  dis- 
course, sate  with  his  face  turned  to  the  fire,  and  at  the 
conclusion  of  every  sentence  would  cry  out  fvdge,  an 
expression  which  displeased  us  all,  and  in  some  measure 
damped  the  rising  spirit  of  the  conversation. 

'  Besides,  my  dear  Skeggs,'  continued  our  Peeress, 
"  there  is  nothing  of  this  in  the  copy  of  verses  that 

*  Dr.  Burdock  made  upon  the  occasion.'    Fvdge! 

*  I  am  surprized  at  that,'  cried  Miss  Skeggs  ;    *  for  he 

*  seldom  leaves  any  thing  out,  as  he  writes  only  for  his 
'own  amusement.  But  can  your  Ladyship  favour  me 
'  with  a  sight  of  them?'    Fvdge  I 

'  My  dear  creature,'  replied  our  Peeress,  '  do  you  think 
"*  I  carry  such  things  about  me  ?  Though  they  are  very 
'  fine  to  be  sure,  and  I  think  myself  something  of  a  judge  ; 
'  at  least  I  know  what  pleases  myself.     Indeed  I  was 

*  ever  an  admirer  of  all  Doctor  Burdock's  little  pieces ; 
"*  for  except  what  he  does,  and  our  dear  Countess  at 
'  Hanover-Square,  there  's  nothing  comes  out  but  the 
'  most  lowest  stuff  in  nature ;    not  a  bit  of  high  life 

*  among  them.'    Fvdge! 

'  Your  Ladyship  should  except,'  says  t'other,  '  your 

*  own  things  in  the  Lady's  Magazine.    I  hope  you'll  say 

*  there  's  nothing  low-lived  there  ?  But  I  suppose  we 
*are  to  have  no  more  from  that  quarter?'     Fvdge! 

'  Why,  my  dear,'  says  the  Lady,  '  you  know  my  reader 

*  and  companion  has  left  me,  to  be  married  to  Captain 
'  Koach,  and  as  my  poor  eyes  won't  suffer  me  to  write 


250  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  myself,   I  have  been  for  some  time  looking  out  for 

*  another.  A  proper  person  is  no  easy  matter  to  find, 
'  and  to  be  sure  thirty  pounds  a  year  is  a  small  stipend 
'  for  a  well-bred  girl  of  character,  that  can  read,  write, 
'  and  behave  in  company  ;   as  for  the  chits  about  to\*Ti, 

*  there  is  no  bearing  them  about  one.'    Fvdge  / 

*  That  I  know,'  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  '  by  experience. 
'  For  of  the  three  companions  I  had  this  last  half  year, 
'  one  of  them  refused  to  do  plain-work  an  hour  in  the  day, 
'  another  thought  twenty-five  guineas  a  year  too  small 
'  a  salary,  and  I  was  obliged  to  send  away  the  third, 
'  because  I  suspected  an  intrigue  with  the  chaplain. 
'  Virtue,  my  dear  Lady  Blarney,  virtue  is  worth  any 

*  price  ;   but  where  is  that  to  be  found  ? '   Fvdge! 

My  wife  had  been  for  a  long  time  all  attention  to  this 
discourse  ;  but  was  particularly  struck  with  the  latter 
part  of  it.  Thirty  pounds  and  twenty-five  guineas  a 
year  made  fifty-six  pounds  five  shillings  English  money, 
all  which  was  in  a  manner  going  a-begging,  and  might 
easily  be  secured  in  the  family.  She  for  a  moment  studied 
my  looks  for  approbation  ;  and,  to  own  a  truth,  I  was  of 
opinion,  that  two  such  places  would  fit  our  two  daughters 
exactly.  Besides,  if  the  'Squire  had  any  real  affection 
for  my  eldest  daughter,  this  would  be  the  way  to  make 
her  every  way  qualified  for  her  fortune.  My  wife  there- 
fore was  resolved  that  we  should  not  be  deprived  of 
such  advantages  for  want  of  assurance,  and  undertook 
to  harangue  for  the  family.    *  I  hope,'  cried  she,  *  your 

*  Ladyships  will  pardon  my  present  presumption.    It  is 

*  true,  we  have  no  right  to  pretend  to  such  favours  ;  but 
*yet  it  is  natural  for  me  to  wish  putting  my  children 
'  forward  in  the  world.  And  I  will  be  bold  to  say  my 
'  two  girls  have  had  a  pretty  good  education,  and  capa- 
'  city,  at  least  the  country  can't  shew  better.  They  can 
'  read,  write,  and  cast  accompts  ;  they  understand  their 


XI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  251 

'  needle,  breadstitch,  cross  and  change,  and  all  manner 

*  of  plain- work ;    they  can  pink,  point,  and  frill ;    and 

*  know   something   of   music  ;     they   can  do   up   small 

*  clothes,  work  upon  catgut ;    my  eldest  can  cut  paper, 

*  and  my  youngest  has  a  very  pretty  manner  of  telling 
'  fortunes  upon  the  cards.'    Fudge  I 

When  she  had  delivered  this  pretty  piece  of  eloquence, 
the  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  a  few  minutes  in 
silence,  with  an  air  of  doubt  and  importance.  At  last. 
Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  condescended  to 
observe,  that  the  young  ladies,  from  the  opinion  she 
could  form  of  them  from  so  slight  an  acquaintance, 
seemed  very  fit  for  such  employments  :  '  But  a  thing 
'  of  this  kind,  Madam,'  cried  she,  addressing  my  spouse, 
'  requires  a  thorough  examination  into  characters,  and 
'  a  more  perfect  knowledge  of  each  other.  Not,  madam,' 
continued  she,  *  that. I  in  the  least  suspect  the  young 
'  ladies'  virtue,  prudence,  and  discretion  ;    but  there  is 

*  a  form  in  these  things.  Madam,  there  is  a  form.' 

My  wife  approved  her  suspicions  very  much,  observing, 
that  she  was  very  apt  to  be  suspicious  herself ;  but 
referred  her  to  all  the  neighbours  for  a  character  :  but 
this  our  Peeress  declined  as  unnecessary,  alleging  that 
her  cousin  Thornhill's  recommendation  would  be  suffi- 
cient, and  upon  this  we  rested  our  petition. 


B;  this  time  I  began  to  have  a  maet  lieuty  contempt  rortha  pooraiiiBul 

myself,  and  vaa  nlmoBt  aalumed  at  the  approach  of  every  cuBtomer.— Pasb  SU. 

CHAPTER  XII 

Fortune  seems  resolved  to  humble  the  famitj'  of  Wakefield. 
Mortifications  are  oft«n  more  painful  than  real  calamities. 

WHEN  we  were  returned  home,  the  night  was  dedi- 
cated to  schemes  of  future  conquest.  Deborah 
exerted  much  sagacity  in  conjecturing  which  of  the  two 
girls  was  hkely  to  have  the  beat  place,  and  most  oppor- 
tunities of  seeing  good  company.  The  only  obstacle  to 
our  preferment  was  in  obtaining  the  'Squire's  recom- 
mendation ;    but  he  had  already  shewn  us  too  many 


CH.  xn        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  253 

instances  of  his  friendship  to  doubt  of  it  now.  Even  in 
bed  my  wife  kept  up  the  usual  theme  :  '  Well,  faith,  my 
dear  Charles,  between  ourselves,  I  think  we  have  made 

an  excellent  day's  work  of  it.' '  Pretty  well,'  cried 

I,   not  knowing  what  to  say. *  What,  only  pretty 

well ! '  returned  she.  *  I  think  it  is  very  well.  Suppose 
the  girls  should  come  to  make  acquaintances  of  taste 
in  town  !  This  I  am  assured  of,  that  London  is  the 
only  place  in  the  world  for  all  manner  of  husbands. 
Besides,  my  dear,  stranger  things  happen  every  day  : 
and  as  ladies  of  quality  are  so  taken  with  my  daughters, 
w^hat  will  not  men  of  quality  be  !  Entre  novs,  I  protest 
I  like  my  Lady  Blarney  vastly,  so  very  obliging.  How- 
ever, Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs  has  my 
warm  heart.  But  yet,  when  they  came  to  talk  of  places 
in  town,  you  saw  at  once  how  I  nailed  them.  Tell  me, 
my  dear,  don't  you  think  I  did  for  my  children  there  ?  * 

'  Ay,'  returned  I,  not  knowing  well  what  to  think 

of  the  matter,  '  Heaven  grant  they  may  be  both  the 
'  better  for  it  this  day  three  months  ! '  This  was  one  of 
those  observations  I  usually  made  to  impress  my  wife 
with  an  opinion  of  my  sagacity  :  for  if  the  girls  succeeded, 
then  it  was  a  pious  wish  fulfilled ;  but  if  any  thing 
unfortunate  ensued,  then  it  might  be  looked  upon  as 
a  prophecy.  All  this  conversation,  however,  was  only 
preparatory  to  another  scheme,  and  indeed  I  dreaded  as 
much.  This  was  nothing  less  than,  that  as  we  were  now 
to  hold  up  our  heads  a  little  higher  in  the  world,  it 
would  be  proper  to  sell  the  Colt,  which  was  grown  old^ 
at  a  neighbouring  fair,  and  buy  us  a  horse  that  would 
carry  single  or  double  upon  an  occasion,  and  make  a 
pretty  appearance  at  church  or  upon  a  visit.  This  at 
first  I  opposed  stoutly ;  but  it  was  as  stoutly  defended. 
However,  as  I  weakened,  my  antagonists  gained  strength > 
till  at  last  it  was  resolved  to  part  with  him. 


254  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I  had  inten- 
tions of  going  myself  ;  but  my  wife  persuaded  me  that 
I  had  got  a  cold,  and  nothing  could  prevail  upon  her  to 
permit  me  from  home.  *  No,  my  dear,'  said  she,  '  our 
'  son  Moses  is  a  discreet  boy,  and  can  buy  and  sell  to  very 
'  good  advantage  ;  you  know  all  our  great  bargains  are 
'  of  his  purchasing.  He  always  stands  out  and  higgles, 
'  and  actually  tires  them  till  he  gets  a  bargain.' 

As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I  was 
willing  enough  to  entrust  him  with  this  commission  ;  and 
the  next  morning  I  perceived  his  sisters  mighty  busy  in 
fitting  out  Moses  for  the  fair  ;  trimming  his  hair,  brushing 
his  buckles,  and  cocking  his  hat  with  pins.  The  business 
of  the  toilet  being  over,  we  had  at  last  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  him  mounted  upon  the  Colt,  with  a  deal  box  before 
him  to  bring  home  groceries  in.  He  had  on  a  coat  made 
of  that  cloth  they  call  thunder  and  lightning,  which, 
though  grown  too  short,  was  much  too  good  to  be  thrown 
away.  His  waistcoat  was  of  gosling  green,  and  his  sisters 
had  tied  his  hair  with  a  broad  black  ribband.  We  all 
followed  him  several  paces  from  the  door,  bawling  after 
him  good  luck,  good  luck,  till  we  could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarce  gone,  when  Mr.  Thomhill's  butler  came 
to  congratulate  us  upon  our  good  fortune,  saying,  that 
he  overheard  his  young  master  mention  our  names  with 
great  commendation. 

Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come  alone. 
Another  footman  from  the  same  family  followed,  with 
a  card  for  my  daughters,  importing,  that  the  two  ladies 
had  received  such  pleasing  accounts  from  Mr.  Thornhill 
of  us  all,  that,  after  a  few  previous  enquiries,  they 
hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied.  'Ay,'  cried  my  wife, 
*  I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  into  the  families 
'  of  the  great ;  but  when  one  once  gets  in,  then,  as  Moses 
'says,  one  may  go  sleep.'    To  this  piece  of  humour, 


xn  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  255 

for  she  intended  it  for  wit,  my  daughters  assented  with 
a  loud  laugh  of  pleasure.  In  short,  such  was  her  satisfac- 
tion at  this  message,  that  she  actually  put  her  hand  in  her 
pocket,  and  gave  the  messenger  seven-pence  halfpenny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting-day.  The  next  that  came 
was  Mr.  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair.  He  brought 
my  little  ones  a  pennyworth  of  gingerbread  each,  which 
my  wife  undertook  to  keep  for  them,  and  give  them  by 
letters  at  a  time.  He  brought  my  daughters  also  a 
couple  of  boxes,  in  which  they  might  keep  wafers,  snuff, 
patches,  or  even  money,  when  they  got  it.  My  wife  was 
usually  fond  of  a  weasel-skin  purse,  as  being  the  most 
lucky ;  but  this  by  the  by.  We  had  still  a  regard  for 
Mr.  Burchell,  though  his  late  rude  behaviour  was  in  some 
measure  displeasing  ;  nor  could  we  now  avoid  communi- 
cating our  happiness  to  him,  and  asking  his  advice  : 
although  we  seldom  followed  advice,  we  were  all  ready 
enough  to  ask  it.  When  he  read  the  note  from  the  two 
ladies,  he  shook  his  head,  and  observed,  that  an  affair  of 

this  sort  demanded  the  utmost  circumspection. This 

air  of  diffidence  highly  displeased  my  wife.  '  I  never 
doubted.  Sir,'  cried  she,  *  your  readiness  to  be  against 
my  daughters  and  me.  You  have  more  circumspection 
than  is  wanted.  However,  I  fancy  when  we  come  to  ask 
advice,  we  will  apply  to  persons  who  seem  to  have  made 

use  of  it  themselves.' '  Whatever  my  own  conduct 

may  have  been.  Madam,'  replied  he,  *  is  not  the  present 
question ;  though  as  I  have  made  no  use  of  advice 
myself,  I  should  in  conscience  give  it  to  those  that  will.' 

As  I  was  apprehensive  this  answer  might  draw  on 

a  repartee,  making  up  by  abuse  what  it  wanted  in  wit, 
I  changed  the  subject,  by  seeming  to  wonder  what  could 
keep  our  son  so  long  at  the  fair,  as  it  was  now  almost  night- 
fall.  '  Never  mind  our  son,'  cried  my  wife,  '  depend 

*  upon  it  he  knows  what  he  is  about.    I'll  warrant  we'll 


256  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  never  see  him  sell  his  hen  of  a  rainy  day.  I  have  seen 
'  him  buy  such  bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  I'll  tell 
'  you  a  good  story  about  that,  that  will  make  you  split 

*  your  sides  with  laughing But  as  I  live,  yonder  comes 

*'  Moses,  without  an  horse,  and  the  box  at  his  back.' 

As  she  spoke,  Moses  <^ame  slowly  on  foot,  and  sweating 
under  the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strapt  round  his  shoul- 
ders like  a  pedlar. — *  Welcome,  welcome,  Moses  ;    well, 

'  my  boy,  what  have  you  brought  us  from  the  fair  ?  ' 

'  I  have  brought  you  myself,'  cried  Moses,  with  a  sly 
look,  and  resting  the  box  on  the  dresser. — '  Ah,  Moses,' 
cried  my  wife,  '  that  we  know,  but  where  is  the  horse  ?  ' 

*  I  have  sold  him,'  cried  Moses,  *  for  three  pounds  five 

*  shillings  and  two-pence.' '  Well  done,  my  good  boy,' 

returned  she,  *  I  knew  you  would  touch  them  off.  Be- 
'  tween  ourselves,  three  pounds  five  shillings  and  two- 

*  pence  is  no  bad  day's  work.    Come  let  us  have  it  then.' 

'  I  have  brought  back  no  money,'  cried  Moses  again, 

'  I  have  laid  it  all  out  in  a  bargain,  and  here  it  is,'  pulling 
out  a  bundle  from  his  breast :  'here  they  are  ;  a  groce  of 
'  green  spectacles,  with  silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases.' 

'  A  groce  of  green  spectacles ! '  repeated  my  wife  in 

a  faint  voice.  *  And  you  have  parted  with  the  Colt,  and 
'  brought  us  back  nothing  but  a  groce  of  green  paltry 

*  spectacles  ! ' — '  Dear  mother,'  cried  the  boy,  *  why  won't 

*  you  listen  to  reason  ?  I  had  them  a  dead  bargain,  or 
'  I  should  not  have  bought  them.  The  silver  rims  alone 
'  will  sell  for  double  the  money.' — *  A  fig  for  the  silver 
'  rims,'  cried  my  wife  in  a  passion  :  *  I  dare  swear  they 
'  won't  sell  for  above  half  the  money  at  the  rate  of  broken 
'  silver,  five  shillings  an  ounce.'    *  You  need  be  under  no 

*  uneasiness,'  cried  I,  '  about  selling  the  rims  ;   for  they 

*  are  not  worth  sixpence,  for  I  perceive  they  are  onl}'^ 

*  copper  varnished  over.' — '  What,'  cried  my  wife,  '  not 
'  silver,  the  rims  not  silver  ! '     '  No,'  cried  I,  *  no  more 


xir  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  257 

silver  than  your  saucepan.' — *  And  so,'  returned  she, 
we  have  parted  with  the  Colt,  and  have  only  got  a  groce 
of  green  spectacles,  with  copper  rims  and  shagreen  cases ! 
A  murrain  take  such  trumpery.  The  blockhead  has 
been  imposed  upon,  and  should  have  known  his  com- 
pany better.' — '  There,  my  dear,'  cried  I,  '  you  are 
wrong,  he  should  not  have  known  them  at  all.' — *  Marry, 
hang  the  idiot,'  returned  she,  '  to  bring  me  such  stuff  ; 
if  I  had  them  I  would  throw  them  in  the  fire.'  *  There 
again  you  are  wrong,  my  dear,'  cried  I ;  '  for  though 
they  be  copper,  w^e  will  keep  them  by  us,  as  copper 
spectacles,  you  know,  are  better  than  nothing.' 
By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  undeceived. 
He  now  saw  that  he  had  indeed  been  imposed  upon  by  a 
prowling  sharper,  who,  observing  his  figure,  had  marked 
him  for  an  easy  prey.  I  therefore  asked  the  circumstances 
of  his  deception.  He  sold  the  horse,  it  seems,  and  walked 
the  fair  in  search  of  another.  A  reverend  looking  man 
brought  him  to  a  tent,  under  pretence  of  having  one  to 
sell.  '  Here,'  continued  Moses,  *  we  met  another  man,  very 
'  well  drest,  who  desired  to  borrow  twenty  pounds  upon 
'these,  saying,  that  he  wanted  money,  and  would  dis- 

*  pose  of  them  for  a  third  of  the  value.    The  first  gentle- 

*  man,  who  pretended  to  be  my  friend,  whispered  me  to 
'  buy  them,  and  cautioned  me  not  to  let  so  good  an  offer 
'pass.  I  sent  for  Mr.  Flamborough,  and  they  talked 
'  him  up  as  finely  as  they  did  me,  and  so  at  last  we  were 

*  persuaded  to  buy  the  two  groce  between  us.' 


aOLDSlflTH.      IX 


Mmecl  indeed  Knnething  ippKcable  to  both  aides  in  thti  letter. 
a  migbt  u  well  be  renBired  to  tiioM  to  vham  it  wu  written,  u  to 
iliciousmeiDingwasbbvlauBiUid  wswentuofartber.— FasbSTI. 

CHAPTER  XIII 


OUR  family  had  now  made  oeveral  attempts  to  be  fine ; 
but  some  miforeseen  disaster  demolished  each  as 
soon  as  projected.  I  endeavoured  to  take  the  advantage 
of  evfery  disappointment,  to  improve  their  good  sense  in 
proportion  as  they  were  frustrated  in  ambition.  '  You 
'  see,  my  children,'  cried  I,  '  how  little  is  to  be  got  by 
'  attempts  to  impose  upon  the  world,  in  coping  with  our 
'  betters.    Such  as  are  poor  and  will  associate  with  none 


CH.  xiu      THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  259 

but  the  rich,  are  hated  by  those  they  avoid,  and  despised 
by  those  they  follow.  Unequal  combinations  are  always 
disadvantageous  to  the  weaker  side :  the  rich  having 
the  pleasure,  and  the  poor  the  inconveniences  tliat 
result  from  them,  But  come,  Dick,  my  boy,  and  repeat 
the  fable  that  you  were  reading  to-day,  for  the  good  of 
the  company.' 

'  Once  upon  a  time,'  cried  the  child,  '  a  Giant  and  a 
Dwarf  were  friends,  and  kept  together.  They  made  a 
bargain  that  they  would  never  forsake  each  other,  but 
go  seek  adventures.  The  first  battle  they  fought  was 
with  two  Saracens,  and  the  Dwarf,  who  was  very 
courageous,  dealt  one  of  the  champions  a  most  angry 
blow.  It  did  the  Saracen  very  little  injury,  who  lifting 
up  his  sword,  fairly  struck  off  the.  poor  Dwarf's  arm. 
He  was  now  in  a  woeful  plight ;  but  the  Giant  coming 
to  his  assistance,  in  a  short  time  left  the  two  Saracens 
dead  on  the  plain,  and  the  Dwarf  cut  off  the  dead  man's 
head  out  of  spite.  They  then  travelled  on  to  another 
adventure.  This  was  against  three  bloody-minded 
Satyrs,  who  were  carrying  away  a  damsel  in  distress. 
The  Dwarf  was  not  quite  so  fierce  now  as  before  ;  but 
for  all  that,  struck  the  first  blow,  which  was  returned 
by  another,  that  knocked  out  his  eye  ;  but  the  Giant  was 
soon  up  with  them,  and  had  they  not  fled,  would  cer- 
tainly have  killed  them  every  one.  They  were  all  very 
joyful  for  this  victory,  and  the  damsel  who  was  relieved 
fell  in  love  with  the  Giant  and  married  him.  They  now 
travelled  far,  and  farther  than  I  can  tell,  till  they  met 
with  a  company  of  robbers.  The  Giant,  for  the  first 
time,  was  foremost  now  ;  but  the  Dwarf  w  as  not  far 
behind.  The  battle  was  stout  and  long.  Wherever 
the  Giant  came  all  fell  before  him  ;  but  the  Dwarf  had 
like  to  have  been  killed  more  than  once.  At  last  the 
victory  declared  for  the  two  adventurers ;    but  the 


260  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  Dwarf  lost  his  leg.    The  Dwarf  was  now  without  an 

*  arm,  a  leg,  and  an  eye,  while  the  Giant  Mas  without  a 
'  single  wound.  Upon  which  he  cried  out  to  his  little 
'  companion,  My  little  hero,  this  is  glorious  sport ;  let  us 
'  get  one  victory  more,  and  then  we  shall  have  honour 

*  for  ever.  No,  cries  the  Dwarf,  who  was  by  this  time 
'  groAvn  wiser,  no,  I  declare  off  ;  I'll  fight  no  more  :   for 

*  I  find  in  every  battle  that  you  get  all  the  honour  and 
'  rewards,  but  all  the  blows  fall  upon  me.' 

I  was  going  to  moralize  this  fable,  when  our  attention 
was  called  off  to  a  warm  dispute  between  my  wife  an^ 
Mr.  Burchell,  upon  my  daughters'  intended  expedition 
to  town.  My  wife  very  strenuously  insisted  upon  the 
advantages  that  would  result  from  it ;  Mr.  Burchell,  on 
the  contrary,  dissuaded  her  with  great  ardour,  and  I  stood 
neuter.  His  present  dissuasions  seemed  but  the  second 
part  of  those  which  were  received  with  so  ill  a  grace  in 
the  morning.  The  dispute  grew  high,  while  poor 
Deborah,  instead  of  reasoning  stronger,  talked  louder, 
and  at  last  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  from  a  defeat  in 
clamour.  Tlie  conclusion  of  her  harangue,  however,  was 
highly  displeasing  to  us  all :  she  knew,  she  said,  of  some 
who  had  their  own  secret  reasons  for  what  they  advised  ; 
but,  for  her  part,  she  wished  such  to  stay  away  from  her 
house  for  the  future. — '  Madam,'  cried  Burchell,  with 
looks  of  great  composure,  which  tended  to  inflame  her 
the  more,  *  as  for  secret  reasons,  you  are  right :  I  have 
secret  reasons,  which  I  forbear  to  mention,  because  you 
are  not  able  to  answer  those  of  which  I  make  no  secret : 
but  I  find  my  visits  here  are  become  troublesome  :  I'll 
take  my  leave  therefore  now,  and  perhaps  come  once 
more  to  take  a  final  farewell  when  I  am  quitting  the 
country.'  Thus  saying,  he  took  up  his  hat,  nor  could 
the  attempts  of  Sophia,  whose  looks  seemed  to  upbraid 
his  precipitancy,  prevent  his  going. 


XIII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  261 

When  gone,  we  all  regarded  each  other  for  some 
minutes  with  confusion.  My  wife,  who  knew  herself  to 
be  the  cause,  strove  to  hide  her  concern  with  a  forced 
smile,  and  an  air  of  assurance,  which  I  was  willing  to 
reprove  :  *  How,  woman,'  cried  I  to  her,  Ms  it  thus  we 
treat  strangers  ?  Is  it  thus  we  return  their  kindness  ? 
Be  assured,  my  dear,  that  these  were  the  harshest  words, 
and  to  me  the  most  unpleasing,  that  have  escaped  your 
lips  ! ' — *  Why  would  he  provoke  me  then  ?  '  replied 
she ;  '  but  I  know  the  motives  of  his  advice  perfectly 
well.  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 
;  *  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,'  re- 
plied 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  economist  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  occ|ision 
I  can't  pretend  to  determine  ;  but  I  was  not  displeased 
at  the  bottom,  that  we  were  rid  of  a  guest  from  whom 


262  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD      ch.  xiii 

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. 


Then  tlie  poor  Vomin  would  totntErueB  tell  tha  'Squin,  tint  die  tbouBht 

liim  ■ndOllvU  extremely  of  (Site, and  would  bid  both  stancl  up  to  we  which 
wu  tallest.  — Fasb  £77. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Fretb  mortifioBtioDs,  or  a  demoDitrotion  that  seeming  calamities 
may  be  real  blessings. 

THE  journey  of  my  daughters  .to  town  was  now 
resolved  upon,  Mr.  ThornhUl  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  great- 
ness of  their  expectations,  which  could  not  be  done 


264  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

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  plough,  with- 
out 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  senti- 
ments 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 


N 


XIV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  266 

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  at 
the  fair,  came  up,  and  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  proposed 
adjourning  to  a  public-house  and  taking  a  glass  of  what- 
ever 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  Whistonian 
controversy,  my  last  pamphlet,  the  arch-deacon's  reply, 
and  the  hard  measure  that  was  dealt  me.  But  our  atten- 
tion was  in  a  short  time  taken  off  by  the  appearance  of 
a  youth,  who,  entering  the  room,  respectfully  said  some- 
thing 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  reUeve  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  com- 
panion, 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 

k3 


266  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

some  time,  and  when  my  friend  was  gone,  most  respect- 
fully demanded  if  I  was  in  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  benevo- 

*  lence  has  already  excited.    You  behold  before  you,  Sir, 

*  that  Dr.  Primrose,  the  Monogamist,  whom  you  have 
'  been  pleased  to  call  great.  You  here  see  that  unfor- 
'  tunate  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  though,  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  har- 
bour such  an  opinion  myself.  I  therefore  took  occasion 
to  observe,  that  the  world  in  general  began  to  be  blame- 
ably  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 


XIV         .    THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  267 

*  creation  of  the  world  has  puzzled  philosophers  of  all 
'  ages.  What  a  medley  of  opinions  have  they  not 
'  broached  upon  the  creation  of  the  world  ?  Sanchonia- 
'  thon,  Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocellus  Lucanus  have  all 

*  attempted  it  in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words, 
'  Anarchon  ara  kai  atelvtaion  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  surname  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  kvberneies,  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  sufScient  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  touchstone ;  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  pro- 
duced, 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  compljdng  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 


268  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch, 

'  and  get  gold  for  this  ;  you'll  do  it  at  neighbour  Jackson's 
*or  any  where.'  While  the  fellow  was  gone,  he  enter- 
tained 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  Abra- 
ham returned,  we  had  both  agreed  that  money  was  never 
so  hard  to  be  come  at  as  now.  Abraham  returned  to  in- 
form us,  that  he  had  been  over  the  whole  fair,  and  could 
not  get  change,  though  he  had  offered  haK  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  three 

*  jumps  ;  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  neigh- 
bour smoking  his  pipe  at  his  own  door,  and  informing 
him  that  I  had  a  small  bill  upon  him,  he  read  it  twice 


XIV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  269 

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.  '  Ay,'  con- 
tinued 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.  Thomhill  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. 


■  Y«a.  she  b  gone  off  with  two  gentlemen  In  >  pont-«luise,  *adone  of  them 

biased  her,  and  saidiia  would  die  fiiTliei.'— Paoe  289. 

CHAPTER  XV 
All  Mr.  Burchell'B  Tillainy  at  once  detected.    The  folly  of  being 

THAT  evening  and  a  part  of  the  following  day  was  em- 
ployed in  fruitless  attempts  to  discover  our  enemies : 
scarcely  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, 


CH.  XV         THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  271 

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  cojpy  of  a  letter  to  he  sent  to  the  ladies  at  ThornhilU 
castle.  It  instantly  occurred  that  he  was  the  base  in- 
former, 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  dan- 
gerous 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 


*  •  .  • :• 

*  •  •  •  • 

*  •     •  • 


•  "^ 


272  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  cm. 

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  in- 
stances 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.  Bur- 
chell  was  approaching  at  the  other  end  of  the  field.  It 
is  easier  to  conceive  than  describe  the  complicated  sen- 
sations which  are  felt  from  the  pain  of  a  recent  injury, 
and  the  pleasure  of  approaching  vengeance.  Though 
our  intentions  were  only  to  upbraid  him  with  his  ingrati- 
tude, 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, 
iny  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 


XV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  273 

'  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  style 
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  twrk  of  God,* 

'  I  always  held  that  hackney'd  maxim  of  Pope,'  re- 
turned 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 

*  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 


'   '  ^  J  •*      "  J  " 


274  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

^%hen  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  mis- 
chief. 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,'  con- 
tinued 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  unparalleled 
eflFrontery,  '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 


XV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  275 

'  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  scarcely  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  door,  and 

*  the  only  punishment  I  wish  thee  is  an  alarmed  con- 

*  science,  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  com- 
posure, 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  villanies.  '  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  com- 
'  panions,  and  in  the  beginning  of  their  journey  insepar- 
'  ably  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  disagree- 
'  ment,  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  XVI 
The  family  use  art,  which  ia  opposed  with  etill  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  suppljdt^  them  with  those 
little  recreations  which  oui  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 


CH,  XVI       THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  277 

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  play-houses,  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  mixed  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  bene- 
factor, who  gave  every  day  some  new  proofs  of  his  pas- 
sion, 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  bashful- 
ness,  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 


278  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

*   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  con- 
troversy. 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  indica- 
tion of  his  desire  to  be  introduced  into  the  family,  nor 


•»  «•  ♦   • 

•It*  •«•«*«  •   • 

*  V  ••    •  *, .  .  • 


XVI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  279 

could  we  refuse  his  request.  The  painter  was  therefore 
set  to  work,  and  as  he  wrought  with  assiduity  and  expe- 
dition, 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  dis- 
regard so  material  a  point  is  inconceivable  ;  but  certain 
it  is,  we  had  been  all  greatly  overseen.  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  neighbours.  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  tranquillity  was  con- 
tinually 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.  Thomhill's 


280  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

addresses,  my  wife  undertook  to  sound  him,  by  pie- 
tending  to  ask  his  advice  in  the  choice  of  a  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  solenm  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.  Thomhill  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  overhear  the  whole  con- 
versation :  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  alwajrs  sure  of  getting  good 
husbands :  '  But  heaven  help,'  continued  she,  '  the  girls 

*  that  have  none.  What  signifies  beauty,  Mr.  Thomhill  ? 
'  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  we;re  a  queen,  and  then  I  know 

*  where  my  eldest  daughter  should  look  for  an  husband. 


XVI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  281 

But  now,  that  you  have  put  it  into  my  head,  seriously, 
Mr.  Thomhill,  can't  you  recommend  me  a  proper  hus- 
band 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  choose,  I  would 
find  out  a  person  possessed  of  every  accomphshment 
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,  Mt  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  god- 
dess.   Upon  my  soul,  I  speak  what  I  think,  she  's  an 

angel.' *  Ah,  Mr.  Thomhill,  you  only  flatter  my 

poor  girl :  but  we  have  been  tWnking  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,  Thomhill,  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  approba- 
tion of  our  choice.' '  How,  Madam,'  replied  he,  '  my 

approbation  !  My  approbation  of  such  a  choice  !  Never. 
What !  Sacrifice  so  much  beauty,  and  sense,  and  good- 
ness, 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,  riveted  here.' 
After  he  was  gone,  upon  general  consultation,  we  could 


282  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD       ch.  xvi 

• 

not  tell  what  to  make  of  these  fine  sentiments.  Olivia 
considered  them  as  instances  of  the  most  exalted  pas- 
sion ;  but  I  was  not  quite  so  sanguine  :  it  seemed  to 
me  pretty  plain,  that  they  had  more  of  love  than  matri- 
mony 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  XVII 

Scarcely  aoy  virtue  found  to  resist  the  power  of  long  and 
pleasing  temptation. 

AS  I  only  studied  my  child's  real  happiness,  the  assi- 
-i\-  duity  of  Mr,  Williams  pleased  me,  aa  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.  Thomhill  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 


284  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

side,  acted  the  coquet  to  i)erfection,  if  that  might  be 
called  acting  which  was  her  real  character,  pretending 
to  lavish  all  her  tenderness  on  her  new  lover.  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill  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  uneasi- 
ness 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  in- 
dulged her  grief.  It  was  in  such  a  situation  I  found 
her  one  evening,  after  she  had  been  for  some  time  sup- 
porting.a  fictitious  gaiety. — *  You  now  see,  my  child,' 
said  I,  *  that  your  confidence  in  Mr.  Thomhill'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  declara- 
tion.'  '  Yes,  papa,'  returned  she,  '  but  he  has  his 

reasons  for  this  delay  :  I  know  he  has.  The  sincerity 
of  his  looks  and  words  convinces  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  instru- 
mental 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 


XVII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIEI^D  285 

ft 
*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  proi)er, 

*  and  in  the  mean  time  take  care  to  let  Mr.  Thomhill 

*  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  for  ever.' — This  pro- 
posal, 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  ox)en.  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  nup- 
tials, that  my  little  family  at  night  were  gathered  round 
a  charming  fire,  telling  stories  of  the  past,  and  laying 


286  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

schemes  for  the  future.    Busied  in  forming  a  thousand 
projects,  and  laughing  at  whatever  folly  came  upper- 
most, '  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  through  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  111  sing 
them  for  you,  papa.    Which  song  do  you  choose,  the 
Dying  Sioan,  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  love,  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  imto  my  song ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wond'rous  short, 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man. 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran. 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 


xvn  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  287 

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  recover'd  of  the  bite. 
The  dog  it  was  that  died.^ 

*  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 

^  Goldamitb  had  already  inserted  this  BUgy  in  The  Bee, 


288  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

straight  before  them,  nor  the  Hugginsons  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 
mould  :  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  per- 
suades us  to  marry,  it  also  furnishes  us  with  s,  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  Eng- 
land 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 


XVII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  289 

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.  Wliile  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,  *  0  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 
papa  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  0  may  heaven's 
everlasting  fury  light  upon  him  and  his  !  Thus  to  rob 
me  of  my  child  !  And  sure  it  wiU,  for  taking  back  my 
sweet  innocent  that  I  was  leading  up  to  heaven.  Such 
sincerity  as  my  child  was  possessed  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  !  'r •*  Father,*  cried  my  son,  *  is  this  your 

QOUDsuira  ii  L 


290  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

fortitude  ? '    *  Fortitude,  child  !  Yes,  he  shall  see  I  have 
*'  fortitude !    Bring   me   my   pistols.    Fli   poraue   the 
^  traitor.    While  he  is  on  earth  FU  pursue  him.    Old  as 
*  I  am,  he  shall  find  I  can  stii^  him  yet.    The  Tillain  ! 
*'  The  perfidious  villain  ! '    I  had  by  this  time  reached 
down  my  pistols,  when  my  poor  wife,  whose  passicms 
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  pati^ice,  for 
she  has  vilely  deceived  us.'     *  Indeed,  Sir,'  resumed  my 
son,  after  a  pause,  *  your  rage  is  too  violent  and  unbe- 
coming.   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,  villain  as  he  is.' ^  I 

did  not  curse  him,  child,  did  I  ?  ' '  Indeed,  Sir,  you 

did  ;  you  curst  him  twice.' '  Then  may  heaven  for- 
give 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  I 

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  I 
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  w*ept  very 


xvn  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  291 

'  much,  and  leaned  upon  his  arm,  and  they  drove  off  very 

'  fast.' *  She's  an  imgrateful  creature,'  cried  my  wife, 

who  could  scarce  speak  for  weeping,  *  to  use  us  thus. 
'  She  never  had  the  least  constraint  put  upon  her  affec- 
'  tions.    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  misfor- 
tunes, was  spent  in  the  bitterness  of  complaint,  and  ill- 
supported  salhes  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  chear- 
fulness  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  these  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  detesta- 
tion of  her  guilt  is  as  great  as  yours  ;  but  ever  shall  this 
house  and  this  heart  be  open  to  a  poor  returning  repent- 
ant sinner.  The  sooner  she  returns  from  her  transgres- 
sion, 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,  though  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  though  I  cannot  save  her  from  shame,  I  may  prevent 
the  continuance  of  iniquity.' 


oxpe<tlns  tlia  nrriTsI  of  Mr.  Cfispe,  pmentlius  ■  tru«  epItODie  ot  EBijNiih 
lmp«tloLce.--PAo«  an,  r-.  i~  -• 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
The  pursuit  of  a  father  to  reclaim  a  lost  child  to  virtue. 

THOUGH  the  child  could  not  describe  the  geotleman's 
person  who  handed  his  eieter  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  Thomhill- 
caatle,  resolving  to  upbraid  him,  and,  if  possible,  to  brmg 
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  poet-chaise  nitb 
a  gentleman  whom,  by  the  description,  I  could  only  guess 
to  be  Mr  Burchelt,  and  that  they  drove  very  fast.    This 


CH.  xvm      THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  293 

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  elojyement,  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  th€i 
appearance  of  another  witness  left  me  no  room  to  doubt 
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  mighfc  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 
inquired  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  over- 
taking 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  pur- 
suit, 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 


294  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

reflected  that  it  would  be  to  no  purpose  to  continue  my 
pursuit  farther,  and  resolved  to  return  home  to  an  inno- 
cent family,  who  wanted  my  assistance.  But  the  agita- 
tions 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  unex- 
pected stroke,  as  I  was  more  than  seventy  miles  distant 
from  home  :  however,  I  retired  to  a  little  ale-house  by 
the  roadside,  and  in  this  place,  the  usual  retreat  of  indi- 
gence and  frugality,  I  laid  me  down  patiently  to  wait  the 
issue  of  my  disorder.  I  languished  h^e  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  wets  at  that  time  actually  com- 
piling 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  had  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  joumies  of  ten  miles  a  day.  My  health  and 
usual  tranquillity  were  almost  restored,  and  I  now  con- 
demned 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 


xvin  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  295 

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  forwards,  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  Otw^ays  of  the  day. 

I  fancy.  Sir,'  cried  the  player,  '  few  of  our  modem 
dramatists  would  think  themselves  much  honoured  by 
being  compared  to  the  writers  you  mention.  Dryden 
and  Rowe's  manner,  Sir,  are  quite  out  of  fashion  ;  our 
taste  has  gone  back  a  whole  century ;  Fletcher,  Ben 
Jonson,  and  all  the  plays  of  Shakspear  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  over-charged 
characters,  which  abound  in  the  works  you  mention  ? ' — 


296  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

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  panto- 
mime, under  the  sanction  of  Jonson's  or  Shakspear's 

nahae.' '  So  then,   I  suppose,'  cried  I,   '  that  our 

modem  dramatists  are  rather  imitators  of  Shakspear 

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  apprized 
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  con* 
sider  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  w^hether 
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  own  mind 


XVIII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  297 

for  nothing  less  than  a  parliament-man  at  least ;  but 
was  almost  confirmed  in  my  conjectures,  when  upon 
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  pre- 
vailed on  to  comply. 


L3 


toleisblc  voice,  and  ni 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

The  description  of  a  person  diacontented  with  the  present 
government,  and  apprehensive  of  the  loss  of  our  Ubertiee. 

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  modem  ;  he  went  to  give  orders  for  supper, 


CH.  XIX        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  299 

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  dishabille,  were  introduced,  and  the  conversation 
b^an  with  some  sprightliness.  Politics,  however,  were 
the  subject  on  which  our  entertainer  chiefly  expatiated  : 
for  he  asserted  that  liberty  w  as  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  nejgative, 
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  Ledger,  the 
Chronicle,  the  London  Evening,  the  Whitehall  Evening 
Post,  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.' 


300  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  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  modem  decla- 
mation. 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  them- 
selves 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  sub- 
mit, 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  metropohs.  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  generaUty  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, 


XIX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  301 

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  increase  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  conmiercial  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 
nciarry  with  the  rich  ;  or  when  the  learned  are  held  un- 
qualified 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 


302 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD 


method  to  employ  the  superfluity  of  his  fortune  but  in 
purchasing  power.    That  is,  differently  speaking,   in 
making  dependants,  by  purchasing  the  liberty  of  the 
needy  or  the  venal,  of  men  who  are  willing  to  bear  the 
mortification  of  contiguous  tyranny  for  breads    Thus 
each  very  opulent  man  generally  gathers  round  him  a 
circle  of  the  pd6rest  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  sph^e  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  neigh- 
bouring man  in  power,  and  yet  are  too  poor  to  set  up 
for  tyranny  themselves.     In  this  middle  order  of  man- 
kind 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  rabblel  for 
if  the  fortune  suflicient  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  great  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  prero- 
gative and  privileges  of  the  one  principal  governor  with 


XIX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  303 

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  cham> 
pions  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  ; 


304  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  I  think  such  principles  demand  ten  thousand  pardons. 
t  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  imme- 
'  diately,  to  prevent  worse  consequences ;  Sir,  I  insist 
'  upon  it.'  I  was  going  to  repeat  my  remonstrances  ;  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  gentle- 
man 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  surprise  at  finding  such  com- 
pany and  good  chear,  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  obUgation.'  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  apprehen- 
sions 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 


XIX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  305 

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, 
no\v  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  uncon- 
cern, when  last  I  had  heard  from  my  son  George.  '  Alas  ! 
'  Madam,'  cried  I,  '  he  has  now  been  near  tliree  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  m^cesee  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  forebore  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  improve- 
ments 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 


303  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

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  bom  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  accom- 
pany them  to  the  play-house,  which  was  no  other  than 
a  bam.    As  the  company  with  which  I  went  was  incon- 
testably  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, 


XIX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  307 

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  hke  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  unresisted  beauty,  and  often  would  ask 
questions  without  giving  any  manner  of  attention  to 
the  answers. 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  hietory  of  a  philoBophic  vagabond,  pnrBning  novelty,  but 
loaing  content. 

A  ITER  ne  had  supped,  Mrs.  Arnold  politely  offered 
JrX.  to  send  a  couple  of  her  footmen  for  my  son's 
haggage,  which  he  at  first  seemed  to  decline  ;  but  upon 
her  pressing  the  requ^t,  he  was  obliged  to  inform  her, 
that  a  Btick  and  a  wallet  were  all  the  moveable  things 
upon  this  earth  that  he  could  boast  of.  '  Why,  ay  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  1  have  desisted 
from  the  pursuit.' — '  I  fancy,  Sir,'  cried  Mrs.  Arnold, 


CH.  XX        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  309 

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  obhgation.' '  Madam/  re- 
plied 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  mis- 
fortune of  my  life,  which  you  all  know,  was  great ;  but 
though  it  distressed,  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  to-morrow, 
but  chearful  as  the  birds  that  carolled  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. 
Ay,  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-tumkey  in 
Newgate.  I  was  up  early  and  late  :  I  was  browbeat 
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 


310 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


cs. 


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 
vnH  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  pro- 
fession, 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  com- 
mencing 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  jogg-trot  men, 
who  go  on  smoothly  and  duUy,  and  write  history  and 
pohtics,  and  are  praised  :  men,  Sir,  who,  had  they  been 
bred  cobblers,  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  litera- 
ture, hailed  the  antiqnU  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  goiddess  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 
do^^n,  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  some 
paradoxes  with  ingenuity.    They  were  false,  indeed, 


XX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  311 

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,'  repUed  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  condenming  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  httle  man  happening  to  enter 
the  room,  placed  himself  in  the  box  before  me,  and  after 
some  prehminary  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  to  the  world  of 
Propertius,  with  notes.  This  demand  necessarily  pro- 
duced a  reply  that  I  had  no  money  ;  and  that  concession 
led  him;  to  inquire  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  pro- 
posals ;  upon  these  very  proposals  I  have  subsisted 
very  comfortably  for  twelve  years.     The  moment  a 


312  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

nobleman  returns  from  his  travels,  a  Creolian  arrives 
from  Jamaica,  or  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  hve  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  employ- 
ment 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  ?  ' 

'  0  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  indig- 
nities, and  yet  a  fortune  too  humble  to  hazard  a  second 
attempt  for  fame,  I  was  now  obhged  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  Httle  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  midst  of 


XX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  313 

periodical  publications,  unnoticed  and  unknown.  The 
public  were  more  importantly  employed,  than  to  observe 
the  easy  simplicity  of  my  style,  or  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  fojc  the  bite  of  a.  mad  dog ; 
while  Philautos,  Philalethes,  Philelutheros,  and  Philan- 
thropos  all  wrote  better,  because  they  wrote  faster,  than  I. 

*  Now,  therefore,  I  began  to  associate  with  none  but 
disappointed  authors,  hke  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  Thomhill  was  at 
the  bottom  a  very  good-natured  fellow.' 

'  What  did  you  say,  George  ?  '  interrupted  I. — '  Thorn- 
hill,  was  not  that  his  name  ?    It  can  certc^inly  be  no 

other  than  my  landlord.' *  Bless  me,'  cried  Mrs. 

Arnold,  '  is  Mr.  Thomhill  so  near  a  neighbour  of  yours  ? 
HeTEas  long  been  a  friend  in  our  family,  and  we  expect 
a  visit  from  him  shortlv.' 

'  My  friend's  first  care,'  continued  my  son,  '  was  to 
alter  my  appearance  by  a  very  fine  suit  of  his  own 
clothes,  and  then  I  was  admitted  to  his  table,  upon 


314  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  '  ch. 

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.  Besides  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  god-father  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  umny  of  them 
who  were  as  dull  as  himself,  that  permitted  his  assi- 
duities. 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  though  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 


XX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  315 

the  to\\Ti,  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 
Thomhill,  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  benevo- 
lence. 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  recom- 
mendation ?  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  bo 
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  ser- 
vants 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 


316  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

awe,  and  raised  my  idea  of  the  o\^Tier.  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  \^athout 
taking  farther  notice,  he  w^ent  out  of  the  room,  and  left 
me  to  digest  my  own  happiness  at  leisure.  I  saw  no 
more  of  him,  till  told  by  a  footman  that  his  lordship 
was  going  to  his  coach  at  the  door.  Down  I  immediately 
followed,  and  joined  my  voice  to  that  of  three  or  four 
more,  who  came  like  me,  to  petition  for  favours.  His 
lordship,  however,  went  too  fast  for  us,  and  was  gaining 
his  chariot  door  with  large  strides,  when  I  hallooed  out 
to  know  if  I  was  to  have  any  reply.  He  was  by  this 
time  got  in,  and  muttered  an  answer,  half  of  which  I 
only  heard,  the  other  half  was  lost  in  the  rattling  of  his 
chariot  wheels.  I  stood  for  some  time  with  my  neck 
stretched  out,  in  the  posture  of  one  that  was  listening 
to  catch  the  glorious  sounds,  till  looking  round  me, 
I  found  myself  alone  at  his  lordship's  gate. 

'  My  patience,'  continued  my  son,  '  was  now  quite  ex- 
hausted :  stung  with  the  thousand  indignities  I  bad  met 
with,  I  was  willing  to  cast  myself  away,  and  only  wanted 
the  gulph  to  receive  me.  I  regarded  myself  as  one  of 
those  vile  beings  that  nature  designed  should  be  thrown 
by  into  her  lumber  room,  there  to  perish  in  obscurity. 


XX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  317 

I  had  still  however  half  a  guinea  left,  and  of  that  I 
thought  nature  herself  should  not  deprive  me  ;  but  in 
order  to  be  sure  of  this,  I  was  resolved  to  go  instantly 
and  spend  it  while  I  had  it,  and  then  trust  to  occur- 
rences for  the  rest.  As  I  was  going  along  with  this 
resolution,  it  happened  that  Mr.  Crispe's  office  seemed 
invitingly  open  to  give  me  a  welcome  reception.  In  this 
office  Mr.  Crispe  kindly  offers  all  his  majesty's  subjects 
a  generous  promise  of  £30  a  year,  for  which  promise  all 
they  give  in  return  is  their  liberty  for  life,  and  permission 
to  let  him  transport  them  to  America  as  slaves.  I  was 
happy  at  finding  a  place  where  I  could  lose  my  fears  in 
desperation,  and  entered  this  cell,  for  it  had  the  appear- 
ance of  one,  with  the  devotion  of  a  monastic.  Here 
I  found  a  number  of  poor  creatures,  all  in  circumstances 
like  myself,  expecting  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Crispe,  presenting 
a  true  epitome  of  English  impatience.  Each  untract- 
able  soul  at  variance  with  fortune,  wreaked  her  injuries 
on  their  own  hearts  :  but  Mr.  Crispe  at  last  came  down 
and  all  our  murmurs  were  hushed.  He  deigned  to  regard 
me  with  an  air  of  peculiar  approbation,  and  indeed  he 
was  the  first  man  who  for  a  month  past  talked  to 
me  with  smiles.  After  a  few  questions,  he  found  I  was 
fit  for  every  thing  in  the  world.  He  paused  a  while  upon 
the  properest  means  of  providing  for  me,  and  slapping 
his  forehead  as  if  he  had  found  it,  assured  me,  that 
there  was  at  that  time  an  embassy  talked  of  from  the 
synod  of  Pennsylvania  to  the  Chickasaw  Indians,  and 
that  he  would  use  his  interest  to  get  me  made  secretary. 
I  knew  in  my  own  heart  that  the  fellow  lied,  and  yet  his 
promise  gave  me  pleasure,  there  w^as  something  so  magni- 
ficent in  the  sound.  I  fairly  therefore  divided  my  half 
guinea,  one  half  of  which  went  to  be  added  to  his  thirty 
thousand  pound,  and  with  the  other  half  I  resolved  to 
go  to  the  next  tavern  to  be  there  more  happy  than  he. 


318  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  CH, 

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

'  This  scheme  thus  blo\iii  up,  I  had  some  thoughts 


XX  TSE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  319 

of  fairly  shipping  back  to  England  again  ;  but  falling 
into  company  \\dth  an  Irish  student  who  was  returning 
from  Louvain,  our  conversation  turning  upon  topics  of 
literature,  (for  by  the  way  it  may  be  observed  that  I 
always  forgot  the  meanness  of  my  circumstances  when 
I  could  converse  upon  such  subjects)  from  him  I  learned 
that  there  were  not  two  men  in  his  whole  university 
who  understood  Greek.  This  amazed  me.  I  instantly 
resolved  to  travel  to  Louvain,  and  there  live  by  teaching 
Greek ;  and  in  this  design  I  was  heartened  by  my 
brother  student,who  threw  out  some  hints  that  a  fortune 
Inight  be  got  by  it. 

'  I  set  boldly  forward  the  next  morning.  Every  day 
lessened  the  burthen  of  my  moveables,  like  Aesop  and 
his  basket  of  bread  ;  for  I  paid  them  for  my  lodgings  to 
the  Dutch  as  I  travelled  on.  When  I  came  to  Louvain, 
I  was  resolved  not  to  go  sneaking  to  the  lower  professors, 
but  openly  tendered  my  talents  to  the  principal  himself. 
I  went,  had  admittance,  and  offered  him  my  service  as 
a  master  of  the  Greek  language,  which  I  had  been  told 
was  a  desideratum  in  this  university.  The  principal 
seemed  at  first  to  doubt  of  my  abilities  ;  but  of  these 
I  offered  to  convince  him  by  turning  a  part  of  any 
Greek  author  he  should  fix  upon  into  Latin.  Finding 
mc  perfectly  earnest  in  my  proposal,  he  addressed  me 
thus  :  You  See  me,  young  man,  continued  he,  I  never 
learned  Greek,  and  I  don't  find  that  I  have  ever  missed 
it.  I  have  had  a  doctor's  cap  and  gown  without  Greek  ; 
I  have  ten  thousand  florins  a  year  without  Greek;  I  eat 
heartily  without  Greek,  and  in  sl^jtr^ continued  bcj  as  - 
I  don't  know  Greek,  I  do  not  believe  there  is  aflfs* 
good  in  it. 

'  I  was  now  too  far  from  home  to  think  of  returning  ; 
so  I  resolved  to  go  forward.  I  had  some  knowledge  of 
music,  wdth  a  tolerable  voice;  now  turned  what  was 


320 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD: 


CH. 


once  my  amusement  into  a  present  means  of  subsistence. 
I  passed  among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and 
among  such  of  the  French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be 
very  merry  ;  for  I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  pro- 
portion to  their  wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a 
peasant's  house  towards  night-fall,  I  played  one  of  my 
most  merry  tunes,  and  that  procured  me  not  only  a 
lodging,  but  subsistence  for  the  next  day,  I  once  or 
twice  attempted  to  play  for  people  of  fashion ;  but 
they  always  thought  my  performance  odious,  and  never 
rewarded  me  even  with  a  trifle.  This  was  to  me  the 
more  extraordinary,  as  whenever  I  used  in  better  days 
to  play  for  company,  when  playing  was  my  amuse- 
ment, my  music  never  failed  to  throw  them  into  rap- 
tures, and  the  ladies  especially  ;  but  as  it  was  now  my 
only  means,  it  was  received  with  contempt ;  a  proof 
how  ready  the  world  is  to  underrate  those  talents  by 
which  a  man  is  supported. 

'  In  this  manner  I  proceeded  to  Paris,  with  no  design 
but  just  to  look  about  me,  and  then  to  go  forward.  The 
people  of  Paris  are  much  fonder  of  strangers  that  have 
money  than  of  those  that  have  wit.  As  I  could  not 
boast  much  of  either,  I  was  no  great  favourite.  After 
walking  about  the  town  four  or  Ave  days,  and  seeing 
the  outsides  of  the  best  houses,  I  was  preparing  to  leave 
this  retreat  of  venal  hospitality,  when  passing  through 
one  of  the  principal  streets,  whom  should  I  meet  but 
our  cousin  to  whom  you  first  recommended  me.  This 
meeting  was  very  agreeable  to  me,  and  I  believe  not 
displeasing  to  him.  He  inquired  into  the  nature  of  my 
journey  to  Paris,  and  informed  me  of  his  own  business 
there,  which  was  to  collect  pictures,  medals,  intaglios, 
and  antiques  of  all  kinds  for  a  gentleman  in  London, 
who  had  just  stept  into  taste  and  a  large  fortune.  I  was 
the  more  surprised  at  seeing  our  cousin  pitched  upon 


XX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  321 

for  this  office,  as  he  himself  had  often  assured  me  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  Upon  asking  how  he  had 
been  taught  the  art  of  a  cognoscento  so  very  suddenly, 
he  assured  me  that  nothing  was  more  easy.  The  whole 
secret  consisted  in  a  strict  adherence  to  two  rules  :  the 
one  always  to  observe  that  the  picture  might  have  been 
better  if  the  painter  had  taken  more  pains ;  and  the 
other,  to  praise  the  works  of  Pietro  Perugino.  But, 
says  he,  as  I  once  taught  you  how  to  be  an  author  in 
London,  I'll  now  undertake  to  instruct  you  in  the  art 
of  picture  buying  at  Paris,  y 

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

*  When  he  had  finished  his  commission  in  Paris,  he  left 
me  strongly  recommended  to  several  men  of  distinction, 
as  a  person  very  proper  for  a  travelling  tutor ;  and  after 

G0LD8MITIT.      II  M 


322  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  CH. 

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

'  I  now  therefore  was  left  once  more  upon  the  world  at 
large  ;  but  then  it  was  a  thing  I  was  used  to.  However, 
my  skill  in  music  could  avail  me  nothing  in  a  country 
where  every  peasant  was  a  better  musician  than  I ;  but 
by  this  time  I  had  acquired  another  talent  which 
answered  my  purpose  as  well,  and  this  was  a  skill  in  dis- 


^mi 


XX    ,  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  323 

putation.  ^  In  all*  the  foreign  universities  and  convents, 
there  are  upon'certain  days  philosophical  theses  main- 
tained against  every  adventitious  disputant ;  for  which, 
if  the  champion  opposes  with  any  dexterity,  he  can 
claim  a  gratuity  in  money,  a  dinner,  and  a  bed  for  one 
night.  In  this  manner  therefore  I  fought  my  way 
towards  England,  walked  along  from  city  to  city, 
examined  mankind  more  nearly,  and,  if  I  may  so  express 
it,  saw  both  sides  of  the  picture.  My  remarks,  however, 
are  but  few ;  I  found  that  monarchy  was  the  best 
government  for  the  poor  to  live  in,  and  commonwealths 
for  the  rich.  I  found  that  riches  in  general  were  in  every 
country  another  name  for  freedom ;  and  that  no  man  is 
so  fond  of  liberty  himself  as  not  to  be  desirous  of  sub- 
jecting the  will  of  some  individuals  in  society  to  his  own. 
'  Upon  my  arrival  in  England  I  resolved  to  pay  my 
respects  first  to  you,  and  then  to  enlist  as  a  volunteer  in 
the  first  expedition  that  was  going  forward  ;  but  on  my 
journey  down  my  resolutions  were  changed,  by  meeting 
an  old  acquaintance,  who  I  found  belonged  to  a  company 
of  comedians  that  were  going  to  make  a  summer  cam- 
paign in  the  country.  The  company  seemed  not  much 
to  disapprove  of  me  for  an  associate.  They  all  however 
apprized  me  of  the  importance  of  the  task  at  which  I\ 
aimed  ;  that  the  public  was  a  many-headed  monster,  / 
and  that  only  such  as  had  very  good  heads  could  please  y 
it :  that  acting  was  not  to  be  learnt  in  a  day,  and  that  / 
without  some  tr&ditional  shrugs  which  had  been  on  / 
the  stage,  and  only  on  the  stage,  these  hundred  years,  |  • 
I  could  never  pretend  to  pJease.  The  next  difficulty 
was  in  fitting  me  with  parts,  as  almost  every  character 
was  in  keeping.  I  was  driven  for  some  time  from  one 
character  to  another,  till  at  last  Horatio  was  fixed  upon, 
which  the  presence  of  the  present  company  has  happily 
hindered  me  from  acting.' 


I,  lioldlnRDpmvth: 


w  let  the  flames 'bum  OD,  a 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  short  continuance  of  friendship  amongst  the  vicious,  which 
is  coeval  only  with  mutual  satisfaction. 

MY  son's  account  was  too  )ong  to  be  delivered  at  once, 
the  fir&t  p&rt  of  it  waa  begun  that  night,  and  he  was 
concluding  the  rest  after  dinner  the  next  day,  when  the 
appeatanceof  Mr.  Thornhill's  equipage  at  the  door  seemed 
to  make  a  pause  in  the  general  satisfaction.    The  butler 


CH.  XXI      THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  325 

who  was  now  become  my  friend  in  the  family,  informed 
me  with  a  whisper  that  the  'Squire  had  already  made 
some  overtures  to  Miss  Wilmot,  and  that  her  aunt  and 
uncle  seemed  highly  to  approve  the  match.  Upon  Mr. 
Thornhill's  entering,  he  seemed  at  seeing  my  son  and  me 
to  start  back  ;  but  I  readily  imputed  that  to  surprise  and 
not  displeasure.  However,  upon  our  advancing  to  salute 
him,  he  returned  our  greeting  with  the  most  apparent 
candour ;  and  after  a  short  time  his  presence  served  only 
to  increase  the  general  good  humour. 

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


326  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

ness  Miss  Wilmot  shewed  my  son,  Mr.  Thornhiirs  friend- 
ship seemed  proportionably  to  encreajse  for  him. 

He  had  formerly  made  us  the  most  kind  assurances  of 
using  his  interest  to  serve  the  family ;  but  now  his 
generosity  was  not  confined  to  promises  alone  :  the  morn- 
ing I  designed  for  my  departure,  Mr.  Thornhill  came  to 
me  with  looks  of  real  pleasure  to  inform  me  of  a  piece  of 
service  he  had  done  for  his  friend  Geoi^e.  This  was 
nothing  less  than  his  having  procured  him  an  ensign's 
commission  in  one  of  the  regiments  that  were  going  to  the 
West  Indies,  for  which  he  had  promised  but  one  hundred 
pounds,  his  interest  having  been  sufficient  to  get  an  abate- 
ment of  the  other  two.     *  As  for  this  trifling  piece  of 

*  service,'  continued  the  young  gentleman,  '  I  desire  no 

*  other  reward  but  the  pleasure  of  having  served  my 
'  friend  ;  and  as  for  the  hundred  pounds  to  be  paid,  if  you 

*  are  unable  to  raise  it  yourselves,  I  will  advance  it,  and 

*  you  shall  repay  me  at  your  leisure.'  This  was  a  favour 
we  wanted  words  to  express  our  sense  of  ;  I  readily  there- 
fore gave  my  bond  for  the  money,  and  testified  as  much 
gratitude  as  if  I  never  intended  to  pay. 

George  was  to  depart  for  town  the  next  day  to  secure 
his  commission,  in  pursuance  of  his  generous  patron's 
directions,  who  judged  it  highly  expedient  to  use  des- 
patch, lest  in  the  mean  time  another  should  step  in  with 
more  advantageous  proposals.  The  next  morning  there- 
fore our  young  soldier  was  early  prepared  for  his  depar- 
ture, and  seemed  the  only  person  among  us  that  was  not 
affected  by  it.  Neither  the  fatigues  and  dangers  he  was 
going  to  encounter,  nor  the  friends  and  mistress,  for  Miss 
Wilmot  actually  loved  him,  he  was  leaving  behind,  any 
way  damped  his  spirits.  After  he  had  taken  leave  of  the 
rest  of  the  company,  I  gave  him  all  I  had,  my  blessing. 

*  And  now,  my  boy,'  cried  I,  '  thou  art  going  to  fight  for 

*  thy  country,  remember  how  thy  brave  grandfather 


XXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  327 

*  fought  for  his  sacred  King,  when  loyalty  among  Britons 

*  was  a  virtue.  Go,  my  boy,  and  imitate  him  in  all  but 
'  his  misfortunes,  if  it  was  a  misfortune  to  die  with  Lord 
'  Falkland.  Go,  my  boy,  and  if  you  fall,  though  distant, 
'  exposed,  and  unwept  by  those  that  love  you,  the  most 
'  precious  tears  are  those  with  which  heaven  bedews  the 
'  linburied  head  of  a  soldier.' 

The  next  morning  I  took  leave  of  the  good  family 
that  had  been  kind  enough  to  entertain  me  so  long,  not 
without  several  expressions  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Thornhill 
for  his  late  bounty.  I  left  them  in  the  enjoyment  of  all 
that  happiness  which  af9uence  and  good  breeding  pro- 
cure, and  returned  towards  home,  despairing  of  ever 
finding  my  daughter  more,  but  sending  a  sigh  to  heaven 
to  spare  and  forgive  her.  I  was  now  come  within 
about  twenty  miles  of  home,  having  hired  an  horse  to 
carry  me,  as  I  was  yet  but  weak,  and  comforted  myself 
with  the  hopes  of  soon  seeing  all  I  held  dearest  upon  earth. 
But  the  night  coming  on,  I  put  up  at  a  little  public-house 
by  the  road-side,  and  asked  for  the  landlord's  company 
over  a  pint  of  wine.  We  sate  beside  his  kitchen  fire, 
which  was  the  best  room  in  the  house,  and  chatted  on 
politics  and  the  news  of  the  country.  We  happened, 
among  other  topics,  to  talk  of  young  'Squire  Thornhill, 
who  the  host  assured  me  was  hated  as  much  as  his  uncle 
Sir  WiUiam,  who  sometimes  came  down  to  the  country, 
was  loved.  He  went  on  to  observe,  that  he  made  it  his 
whole  study  to  betray  the  daughters  of  such  as  received 
him  to  their  houses,  and  after  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks 
possession,  turned  them  out  unrewarded  and  abandoned 
to  the  world.  As  we  continued  our  discourse  in  this 
manner,  his  wife,  who  had  been  out  to  get  change, 
returned,  and  perceiving  that  her  husband  was  enjoying 
a  pleasure  in  which  she  was  not  a  sharer,  she  asked  him 
in  an  angry  tone,  what  he  did  there,  to  which  he  only 


328 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


replied  in  an  ironical  way,  by  drinking  her  health.  '  Mr. 
Symmonds,'  cried  she,  *you  use  me  very  ill,  and  I'll  bear 
it  no  longer.  Here  three  parts  of  the  business  is  left  for 
me  to  do,  and  the  fourth  left  unfinished  :  while  you  do 
nothing  but  soak  with  the  guests  all  day  long,  whereas 
if  a  spoonful  of  liquor  were  to  cure  me  of  a  fever  I  never 
touch  a  drop.'     I  now  found  what  she  would  be  at,  and 

immediately  poured  her  out  a  glass,  which  she  received 

with  a  curtsey,  and  drinking  towards  my  good  health, 
Sir,'  resumed  she, '  it  is  not  so  much  for  the  value  of  the 
liquor  I  am  angry,  but  one  cannot  help  it  when  the  house 
is  going  out  of  the  windows.  If  the  customers  or  guests 
are  to  be  dunned,  all  the  burthen  lies  upon  my  back, 
he'd  as  lief  eat  that  glass  as  budge  after  them  himself. 
There  now  above  stairs,  we  have  a  young  woman  who 
has  come  to  take  up  her  lodgings  here,  and  I  don't 
believe  she  has  got  any  money  by  her  over-civility. 
I  am  certain  she  is  very  slow  of  payment,  and  I  wish  she 
were  put  in  mind  of  it.' *  What  signifies  minding  her,' 

cried  the  host  ?  '  if  she  be  slow  she  is  sure.' — '  I  don't 
know  that,'  replied  the  wife  ;  *  but  I  know  that  I  am 
sure  she  has  been  here  a  fortnight  and  we  have  not  yet 
seen  the  cross  of  her  money.' '  I  suppose,  my  dear,' 

cried  he,  *  we  shall  have  it  all  in  a  lump.' — '  In  a  lump  ! ' 

cried  the  other, '  I  hope  we  may  get  it  any  way  ;  and  that 
I  am  resolved  we  will  this  very  night,  or  out  she  tramps, 
bag  and  baggage.' — '  Consider,   my  dear,'   cried  the 

husband,  '  she  is  a  gentlewoman,  and  deserves  more 
respect.' — '  As  for  the  matter  of  that,'    returned  the 

hostess,  'gentle  or  simple,  out  she  shall  pack  with  a 
sussarara.  Gentry  may  be  good  things  where  they 
take  ;  but  for  my  part  I  never  saw  much  good  of  them 
at  the  sign  of  the  Harrow.' Thus  saying,  she  ran  up 

a  narrow  flight  of  stairs  that  went  from  the  kitchen  to 

a  room  over  head,  and  I  soon  perceived  by  the  loud- 


XXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  329 

hess  of  her  voice,  and  the  bitterness  of  her  reproaches, 
that  no  money  was  to  be  had  from  her  lodger.  I  could 
hear  her  remonstrances  very  distinctly  :  '  Out  I  say,  pack 
'  out  this  moment,  tramp  thou  infamous  strumpet,  or 
'  I'll  give  thee  a  mark  thou  won't  be  the  better  for  these 
'  three  months.  What !  you  trumpery,  to  come  and 
'  take  up  an  honest  house  without  cross  or  coin  to  bless 

*  yourself  with  ;  come  along  I  say.' '  O  dear  madam,' 

cried  the  stranger,  '  pity  me,  pity  a  poor  abandoned 

*  creature  for  one  night,  and  death  will  soon  do  the  rest.' 

1  instantly  knew  the  voice  of  my  poor  ruin'd  child 

Olivia.  I  jflew  to  her  rescue,  while  the  woman  was 
dragging  her  along  by  her  hair,  and  I  caught  the  dear 
forlorn   wretch  in  my  arms. '  Welcome,   any  way 

welcome,  my  dearest  lost  one,  my  treasure,  to  your 
poor  old  father's  bosom.  Though  the  vicious  forsake 
thee,  there  is  yet  one  in  the  world  that  will  never  for- 
sake thee ;   though  thou  hadst  ten  thousand  crimes  to 

answer  for,  he  will  forget  them  all.' '  0  my  own  dear,' 

-for  minutes  she  could  no  more '  my  own  dearest 

good  papa  !  Could  angels  be  kinder  !  How  do  I  deserve 
so  much  !  The  villain,  I  hate  him  and  myself,  to  be  a 
reproach  to  such  goodness.     You  can't  forgive  me,  I 

know  you  cannot.' '  Yes,  my  child,  from  my  heart 

I  do  forgive  thee  !  Only  repent,  and  we  both  shall  yet 
be  happy.  We  shall  see  many  pleasant  days  yet,  my 
OUvia  ! '— '  Ah  !  never,  Sir,  never.  The  rest  of  my 
wretched  life  must  be  infamy  abroad  and  shame  at 
home.  But,  alas  !  papa,  you  look  much  paler  than  you 
used  to  do.  Could  such  a  thing  as  I  am,  give  you  so 
much  uneasiness  ?     Surely  you  have  too  much  wisdom 

to  take  the  miseries  of  my  guilt  upon  yourself.' '  Our 

wisdom,  young  woman,'  replied  I — '  Ah,  why  so  cold 
a  name,  papa  ?  '  cried  she.  '  This  is  the  first  time  you 
ever  called  me  by  so  cold  a  name.' — *  I  ask  pardon,  my 

M  3 


330 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


*  darling,'  returned  I ;   '  but  I  was  going  to  observe,  that 

*  wisdom  makes  but  a  slow  defence  against  trouble, 

*  though  at  last  a  sure  one.'  The  landlady  now  returned 
to  know  if  we  did  not  choose  a  more  genteel  apartment, 
to  which  assenting,  we  were  shewn  a  room  where  we 
could  converse  more  freely.  After  we  had  talked  our- 
selves into  some  degree  of  tranquillity,  I  could  not  avoid 
desiring  some  account  of  the  gradations  that  led  to  her 
present  wretched  situation.     *  That  villain.  Sir,'  said  she, 

from  the  first  day  of  our  meeting  made  me  honourable 
though  private  proposals.' 

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

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

*  You  amaze  me,  my  dear,'  cried  I ;  *  but  now  I  find 
my  first  suspicions  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  baseness  were  too 
well  grounded  :  but  he  can  triumph  in  security  ;  for  he 


DISCOVERY  OF  OLIVIA 


XXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  331 

is  rich  and  we  are  poor.  But  tell  me,  my  child,  sure  it 
was  no  small  temptation  that  could  thus  obliterate  all 
the  impressions  of  such  an  education,  and  so  virtuous 
a  disposition  as  thine  ?  ' 

'  Indeed,  Sir,'  replied  she,  *  he  owes  all  his  triumph  to 
the  desire  I  had  of  making  him,  and  not  myself,  happy. 
I  knew  that  the  ceremony  of  our  marriage,  which  was 
privately  performed  by  a  popish  priest,  was  no  way 
binding,  and  that  I  had  nothing  to  trust  to  but  his 
honour.'     '  What,'  interrupted  I, '  and  were  you  indeed 

married  by  a  priest,  and  in  orders  ?  ' '  Indeed,  Sir, 

we  were,'  replied  she,  *  though  we  were  both  sworn  to 
conceal  his  name.'-—'  Why,  then,  my  child,  come  to 
my  arms  again,  and  now  you  are  a  thousand  times  more 
welcome  than  before ;  for  you  are  now  his  wife  to  all 
intents  and  purposes ;  nor  can  all  the  laws  of  man, 
though  written  upon  tables  of  adamant,  lessen  the  force 
of  that  sacred  connection.' 

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

'  Has  he  so  ?  '  cried  I,  *  then  we  must  hang  the  priest, 
and  you  shall  inform  against  him  to-morrow.' — *  But, 
Sir,'  returned  she, '  will  that  be  right,  when  I  am  sworn 

to  secrecy  ?  ' '  My  dear,'  I  replied,  *  if  you  have 

made  such  a  promise,  I  cannot,  nor  will  I  tempt  you  to 
break  it.  Even  though  it  may  benefit  the  public,  you 
must  not  inform  against  him.  In  all  human  institutions 
a  smaller  evil  is  allowed  to  procure  a  greater  good  ;  as 
in  politics,  a  province  may  be  given  away  to  secure  a 
kingdom  ;  in  medicine,  a  limb  may  be  lopt  off  to  pre- 
serve the  body.  But  in  religion  the  law  is  written,  and 
inflexible,  never  to  do  evil.  And  this  law,  my  child,  is 
right :    for  otherwise,  if  we  commit  a  smaller  evil  to 


332  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

procure  a  greater  good,  certain  guilt  would  be  thus  in- 
curred, in  expectation  of  contingent  advantage.  And 
though  the  advantage  should  certainly  follow,  yet  the 
interval  between  commission  and  advantage,  which  is 
allowed  to  be  guilty,  may  be  that  in  which  we  are  called 
away  to  answer  for  the  things  we  have  done,  and  the 
volume  of  human  actions  is  closed  for  ever.  But  I 
interrupt  you,  my  dear ;  go  on.* 

*  The  very  next  morning,'  continued  she,  *  I  found  what 
little  expectations  I  was  to  have  from  his  sincerity. 
That  very  morning  he  introduced  me  to  two  unhappy 
women  more,  whom,  like  me,  he  had  deceived,  but  who 
lived  in  contented  prostitution.  I  loved  him  too  ten- 
derly to  bear  such  rivals  in  his  affections,  and  strove 
to  forget  my  infamy  in  a  tumult  of  pleasures.  With 
this  view  I  danced,  dressed,  and  talked ;  but  still  was 
unhappy.  The  gentlemen  who  visited  there  told  me 
every  moment  of  the  power  of  my  charms,  and  this  only 
contributed  to  encrease  my  melancholy,  as  I  had  thrown 
all  their  power  quite  away.  Thus  each  day  I  grew  more 
pensive,  and  he  more  insolent,  till  at  last  the  monster 
had  the  assurance  to  offer  me  to  a  young  Baronet  of  his 
acquaintance.  Need  I  describe.  Sir,  how  his  ingratitude 
stung  me.  My  answer  to  this  proposal  was  almost 
madness.  I  desired  to  part.  As  I  was  going,  he  offered 
me  a  purse  ;  but  I  flung  it  at  him  with  indignation,  and 
burst  from  him  in  a  rage,  that  for  a  while  kept  me  in- 
sensible of  the  miseries  of  my  situation.  But  I  soon 
looked  round  me,  and  saw  myself  a  vile,  abject,  guilty 
thing,  without  one  friend  in  the  world  to  apply  to. 

*  Just  in  that  interval  a  jstage-coach  happening  to  pass 
by,  I  took  a  place,  it  being  my  only  aim  to  be  driven  at 
a  distance  from  a  wretch  I  despised  and  detested.  I  was 
set  down  here,  where,  since  my  arrival,  my  own  anxiety 
and  this  woman's  unkindness  have  been  my  only  com- 


XXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  333 

panions.  The  hours  of  pleasure  that  I  have  passed  with 
my  mamma  and  sister  now  grow  painful  to  me.  Their 
sorrows  are  much  ;  but  mine  is  greater  than  theirs  ;  for 
mine  are  mixed  with  guilt  and  infamy.' 

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


My  (ompasaion  for  my  poor  daughter,  overpowered  by  tliia  new  disaster. 

Interrupted  what  I  had  farCFier  to  observe.    1  bade  her  motPier  support  her,  ami 
altera  short  tlmealiereeovered.-PAai  343. 

CHAPTER  XXII 
Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there  is  love  at  bottom. 

THE  next  morning  I  took  my  daughter  behind  me,  and 
set  out  on  my  return  home.  As  we  travelled  along,  I 
strove,  by  every  persuasion,  to  calm  her  sorrows  and  fears, 
and  to  arm  her  with  resolution  to  bear  the  presence  of  her 
offended  mother.  I  took  every  opportunity,  from  the  , 
prospect  of  a  fine  country  through  which  we  passed,  to 
observe  how  much  kinder  heaven  was  to  us  than  we  to 
each  other,  and  that  the  misfortunes  of  nature's  making  \ 
were  very  few.  I  assured  her  that  she  should  never 
perceive  any  change  in  my  affections,  and  that  during  my 
life,  which  yet  might  be  long,  she  might  depend  upon  a 
guardian  and  an  instructor.  I  armed  her  against  tlie 
I  censure  of  the  world,  shewed  her  that  books  were  sweet 


CH.  xxn     THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  335 

unreproaching  companions  to  the  miserable,  and  that  if 
they  could  not  bring  us  to  enjoy  life,  they  would  at  least 
teach  us  to  endure  it. 

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

It  was  now  near  midnight  that  I  came  to  knock  at  my 
door  :  all  was  still  and  silent :  my  heart  dilated  with 
unutterable  happiness,  when,  to  my  amazement,  I  saw 
the  house  bursting  out  in  a  blaze  of  fire,  and  every  aper- 
ture red  with  conflagration  !  I  gave  a  loud  convulsiv^V- 
outcry,  and  fell  upon  the  pavement  insensible.  This 
alarmed  my  son,  who  had  till  this  been  asleep,  and  he, 


336  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

perceiving  the  flames,  instantly  waked  my  wife  and 
daughter,  and  all  ranning  out  naked  and  ^ild  with  appre- 
hension, recalled  me  to  life  with  their  anguish.  But  it 
was  only  to  objects  of  new  terror ;  for  the  flames  had 
by  this  time  caught  the  roof  of  our  dwelling,  part  after 
part  continuing  to  fall  in,  while  the  family  stood  with 
silent  agony  looking  on  as  if  they  enjoyed  the  blaze.  I 
gazed  upon  them  and  upon  it  by  turns,  and  then  looked 
round  me  for  my  two  little  ones  ;  but  they  were  not  to 
be  seen.     O  misery  !    *  Where,'  cried  I,  *  where  are  my 

*  little  ones  ?  * '  They  are  burnt  to  death  in  the  flames,' 

says  my  wife  calmly,  *  and  I  will  die  with  them.' — ^That 
moment  I  heard  the  cry  of  the  babes  within,  who  were 
just  awaked  by  the  fire,  and  nothing  could  have  stopped 
me.  *  Where,  where,  are  my  children  ?  '  cried  I,  rushing 
through  the  flames,  and  bursting  the  door  of  the  chamber 
in  which  they  were  confined ;    *  Where  are   my  little 

ones  ?  ' '  Here,  dear  papa,  here  we  are,'  cried  they 

together,  while  the  flames  were  just  catching  the  bed 
where  they  lay.  I  caught  them  both  in  my  arms,  and 
snatching  them  through  the  fire  as  fast  as  possible,  while 
just  as  I  was  got  out,  the  roof  sank  in.  '  Now,'  cried  I, 
holding  up  my  children,  *  now  let  the  flames  burn  on, 
'  and  all  my  possessions  perish.  Here  they  are,  I  have 
'  saved  my  treasures.  Here,  my  dearest,  here  are  our 
'  treasures,  and  we  shall  yet  be  happy.'  We  kissed  our 
little  darlings  a  thousand  times  ;  they  clasped  us  round 
the  neck,  and  seemed  to  share  our  transports,  while  their 
mother  laughed  and  wept  by  turns. 

I  now  stood  a  calm  spectator  of  the  flames,  and  after 
some  time  began  to  perceive  that  my  arm  to  the  shoulder 
was  scorched  in  a  terrible  manner.  It  was  therefore  out 
of  my  power  to  give  my  son  any  assistance,  either  in 
attempting  to  save  our  goods,  or  preventing  the  flames 
spreading  to  our  com.    By  this  time  the  neighbours  were 


xxn  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  337 

alarmed,  and  came  rumiing  to  our  assistance ;  but  all 
they  could  do  was  to  stand,  like  us,  si)ectators  of  the 
calamity.  My  goods,  among  which  were  the  notes  I  had 
reserved  for  my  daughters'  fortunes,  were  entirely  con- 
sumed, except  a  box  with  some  papers  that  stood  in 
the  kitchen,  and  two  or  three  things  more  of  little  con- 
sequence, which  my  son  brought  away  in  the  beginning. 
The  neighbours  contribujbed,  however,  what  they  could 
to  lighten  our  distress.  They  brought  us  clothes,  and 
furnished  one  of  our  out-houses  with  kitchen  utensils  ; 
so  that  by  daylight  we  had  another,  though  a  wretched 
dwelling,  to  retire  to.  My  honest  next  neighbour  and 
his  children  were  not  the  least  assiduous  in  providing 
us  with  every  thing  necessary,  and  offering  whatever 
consolation  untutored  benevolence  could  suggest. 

When  the  fears  of  my  family  had  subsided,  curiosity 
to  know  the  cause  of  my  long  stay  began  to  take  place  ; 
having  therefore  informed  them  of  every  particular,  I 
proceeded  to  prepare  them  for  the  reception  of  our  lost 
one,  and  though  we  had  nothing  but  wretchedness  now 
to  impart,  I  was  willing  to  procure  her  a  welcome  to 
what  we  had.  This  task  would  have  been  more  difficult 
but  for  our  recent  calamity,  which  had  humbled  my 
wife's  pride  and  blunted  it  by  more  poignant  afflictions. 
Being  unable  to  go  for  my  poor  child  myself,  as  my  arm 
grew  very  painful,  I  sent  my  son  and  daughter,  who 
soon  returned,  supporting  the  wretched  delinquent,  who 
had  not  the  courage  to  look  up  at  her  mother,  whom  no 
instructions  of  mine  could  persuade  to  a  perfect  recon- 
ciliation ;  for  women  have  a  much  stronger  sense  of 
female  error  than  men.    *  Ah  Madam,'  cried  her  mother, 

*  this  is  but  a  poor  place  you  are  come  to  after  so  much 

*  finery.    My  daughter  Sophy  and  I  can  afford  but  Httle 
'  entertainment  to  persons  who  have  kept  company  only 

*  with  people  of  distinction.    Yes,  Miss  Livy,  your  poor 


338  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD      ch.  xxn 

*  father  and  I  have  suffered  very  much  of  late  ;  but 
'  I  hope  heaven  will  forgive  you.' ^During  this  recep- 
tion the  unhappy  victim  stood  pale  and  trembling,  unable 
to  weep  or  to  reply ;  but  I  could  not  continue  a  silent 
spectator  of  her  distress,  wherefore  assuming  a  degree 
of  severity  in  my  voice  and  manner,  which  was  ever 
followed  with  instant  submission,  '  I  entreat,  woman, 
'  that  my  words  may  be  now  marked  once  for  all :  I  have 

*  here  brought  you  back  a  poor  deluded  wanderer  ;  her 
'  return  to  duty  demands  the  revival  of  our  tenderness. 
'  The  real  hardships  of  life  are  now  coming  fast  upon 
'  us  ;   let  us  not  therefore  encrease  them  by  dissension 

*  among  each  other.  If  we  live  harmcMd5usly  together, 
'  we  may  yet  be  coi^teated,  as  there  are  enough  of  us  to 
'  shut  out  the  censuring  world,  and  keep  each  other  in 
'  countenance.  The  kindness  of  heaven  is  promised  to 
'  the  penitent,  and  let  ours  be  directed  by  the  example. 

*  Heaven,  we  are  assured,  is  much  more  pleased  to  view 
'  a  repentant  sinner  than  ninety-nine  persons  who  have 
'  supported  a  course  of  undeviating  rectitude.  And  this 
'  is  right ;  for  that  single  effort  by  which  we  stop  short 

*  in  the  down-hill  path  to  perdition,  is  itself  a  greater 

*  exertion  of  virtue  than  an  hundred  acts  of  justice.' 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
Nods  but  the  guilty  can  be  long  and  completely  miserable. 

SOME  assiduity  was  now  requic«d  to  make  our  preseat 
abode  as  convenient  as  possible,*  and  we  were  soon 
again  qualified  to  enjoy  our  former  serenity.  Being 
disabled  myaeli  from  assisting  mr  son  in  our  usual 
occupations,  I  read  to  my  family  from  the  few  books 
that  were  saved,'  and  particularly  from  eucb  as  by 
amusing  the  imagination  contributed  to  ease  the  heart. 
Our  good  neighbours,  too,  came  every  day  with  the 
kindest  condolence,  and  fixed  a  time  in  which  they  were 
all  to  assist  at  repairing  my  former  dwelling.     Honest 


340  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

farmer  Williams  was  not  last  among  these  visitors  ;  but 
heartily  offered  his  friendship.  He  would  even  have 
renewed  his  addresses  to  my  daughter  ;  but  she  rejected 
him  in  such  a  manner  as  totally  represt  his  future 
solicitations. — Her  grief  seemed  formed  for  continuing, 
and  she  was  the  only  person  of  our  little  society  that 
a  week  did  not  restore  to  chearfulness.  She  now  lost 
that  unblushing  innocence  which  had  once  taught  her  to 
respect  herself,  and  to  seek  pleasure  by  pleasing.  Anxiety 
now  had  taken  strong  possession  of  her  mind,  her  beauty 
began  to  be  impaired  with  her  constitution,  and  neglect 
still  im>re  contributed  to  diminish  it.  Every  tender 
epithet  bestowed  on  her  sister  brought  a  pang  to  ber 
heart  and  a  tear  to  her  eye ;  and  as  one  vice,  though 
cured,  ever  plants  others  where  it  has  been,  so  her  former 
guilt,  though  driven  out  by  repentance,  left  jealousy  and 
envy  behind.  I  strove  a  thousand  ways  to  lessen  her 
care,  and  even  forgot  my  own  pain  in  a  concern  for  hers, 
collecting  such  amusing  passages  of  history  as  a  strong 
memory  and  some  reading  could  suggest. — '  Our  happi- 
'  ness,  my  dear,'  I  would  say,  *  is  in  the  power  of  One 

*  who  can  bring  it  about  a  thousand  unforeseen  ways 

*  that  mock  our  foresight.    If  example  be  necessary  to 

*  prove  this,  I'll  give  you  a  story,  my  child,  told  us  by 

*  a  grave,  though  sometimes  a  romancing,  historian. 

*  Matilda  was  married  very  young  to  a  Neapolitan 
'  nobleman  of  the  first  quality,  and  found  herself  a  widow 

*  and  a  mother  at  the  age  of  fifteen.    As  she  stood  one 

*  day  caressing  her  infant  son  in  the  open  window  of  an 

*  apartment  which  hung  over  the  river  Volturna,  the 

*  child  with  a  sudden  spring  leaped  from  her  arms  into 

*  the  flood  below,  and  disappeared  in  a  moment.    The 

*  mother,  struck  with  instant  surprise,  and  making  an 

*  effort  to  save  him,  plunged  in  after  ;  but  far  from  being 

*  able  to  assist  the  infant,  she  herself  with  great  difficulty 


XXIII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  341 

escaped  to  the  opposite  shore,  just  when  some  French 
soldiers  were  plundering  the  country  on  that  side,  who 
immediately  made  her  their  prisoner. 

'  As  the  war  was  then  carried  on  between  the  French 
and  Italians  with  the  utmost  inhumanity,  they  were 
going  at  once  to  perpetrate  those  two  extremes  sug- 
gested by  appetite  and  cruelty.  This  base  resolution, 
however,  was  opposed  by  a  young  officer,  who,  though 
their  retreat  required  the  utmost  expedition,  placed  her 
behind  him,  and  brought  her  in  safety  to  his  native  city. 
Her  beauty  at  first  caught  his  eye,  her  merit  soon  after 
his  heart.  They  were  married  :  he  rose  to  the  highest 
posts  ;  they  lived  long  together,  and  were  happy.  But 
the  felicity  of  a  soldier  can  never  be  called  permanent : 
after  an  interval  of  several  years,  the  troops  which  he 
commanded  having  met  with  a  repulse,  he  was  obliged 
to  take  shelter  in  the  city  where  he  had  lived  with  his 
wife.  Here  they  suffered  a  siege,  and  the  city  at  length 
was  taken.  Few  histpries  can  produce  more  various 
instances  of  cruelty,  than  those  which  the  French  and 
Italians  at  that  time  exercised  upon  each  other.  It 
was  resolved  by  the  victors  upon  this  occasion,  to  put 
all  the  French  prisoners  to  death ;  but  particularly 
the  husband  of  the  unfortunate  Matilda,  as  he  was 
principally  instrumental  in  protracting  the  siege.  Their 
determinations  were  in  general  executed  almost  as  soon 
as  resolved  upon.  The  captive  soldier  was  led  forth, 
and  the  executioner  with  his  sword  stood  ready,  while 
the  spectators  in  gloomy  silence  awaited  the  fatal  blow, 
which  was  only  suspended  till  the  general,  who  pre- 
sided as  judge,  should  give  the  signal.  It  was  in  this 
interval  of  anguish  and  expectation,  that  Matilda  came 
to  take  her  last  farewell  of  her  husband  and  deliverer, 
deploring  her  wretched  situation,  and  the  cruelty  of 
fate,  that  had  saved  her  from  perishing  by  a  premature 


342  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

*  death  in  the  river  Volturna,  to  be  the  spectator  of  still 

*  greater  calamities.    The  general,  who  was  a  young  man, 

*  was  struck  with  surprise  at  her  beauty,  and  pity  at 

*  her  distress ;  but  with  still  stronger  emotions,  when  he 
'  heard  her  mention  her  former  dangers.     He  was  her 

*  son,  the  infant  for  whom  she  had  encountered  so  much 
'  danger.    He  acknowledged  her  at  once  as  his  mother, 

*  and  fell  at  her  feet.    The  rest  may  be  easily  supposed ; 

*  the  captive  was  set  free,  and  all  the  happiness  that  love, 

*  friendship,  and  duty  could  confer  on  each,  were  united.' 

In  this  manner  I  would  attempt  to  amuse  my  daughter ; 
but  she  listened  with  divided  attention ;  for  her  own 
misfortunes  engrossed  all  the  pity  she  once  had  for  those 
of  another,  and  nothing  gave  her  ease.  In  com'pany 
she  dreaded  contempt ;  and  in  solitude  she  only  found 
anxiety.  Such  was  the  colour  of  her  wretchedness,  when 
we  received  certain  information,  that  Mr.  Thomhill  was 
going  to  be  married  to  Miss  Wilmot,  for  whom  I  always 
suspected  he  had  a  real  passion,  though  he  took  every 
opportunity  before  me  to  express  his  contempt  both  of 
her  person  and  fortune.  This  news  only  served  to 
increase  poor  Olivia's  affliction  ;  such  a  flagrant  breach 
of  fidelity  was  more  than  her  courage  could  support. 
I  was  resolved,  however,  to  get  more  certain  informa- 
tion, and  to  defeat,  if  possible,  the  completion  of  his 
designs,  by  sending  my  son  to  old  Mr.  Wilmot's  with 
instructions  to  know  the  truth  of  the  rej)prt,  and  to 
deliver  Miss  Wilmot  a  letter  intimating  Mr.  Thomhill's 
conduct  in  my  family.  My  son  went,  in  pursuance  of 
my  directions,  and  in  three  days  returned,  assuring  us 
of  the  truth  of  the  account ;  but  that  he  had  found  it 
impossible  to  deliver  the  letter,  which  he  was  therefore 
obliged  to  leave,  as  Mr.  Thomhill  and  Miss  Wilmot  were 
visiting  round  the  country.  They  were  to  be  married,  he 
said,  in  a  few  days,  having  appeared  together  at  church 


xxra  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELIK  343 

the  Sunday  before  he  was  there,  in  great  splendour,  the 
bride  attended  by  six  young  ladies,  and  he  by  as  many 
gentlemen.  Their  approaching  nuptials  filled  the  whole 
country  with  rejoicing,  and  they  usually  rode  out  together 
in  the  grandest  equipage  that  had  been  seen  in  the 
country  for  many  years.  All  the  friends  of  both  families, 
he  said,  were  there,  particularly  the  'Squire's  uncle.  Sir 
William  Thornhill,  who  bore  so  good  a  character.  He 
added,  that  nothing  but  mirth  and  feasting  were  going 
forward  ;  that  all  the  country  praised  the  young  bride's 
beauty,  and  the  bridegroom's  fine  person,  and  that  they 
were  immensely  fond  of  each  other  ;  concluding  that  he 
could  not  help  thinking  Mr.  Thornhill  one  of  the  most 
happy  men  in  the  world. 

'  Why.  let  him  if  he  can,'  returned  I :  *  but,  my  son, 
observe  this  bed  of  straw  and  unsheltering  roof  ;  those 
mouldering  walls  and  humid  floor  ;  my  wretched  body 
thus  disabled  by  fire,  and  my  children  weeping  round 
me  for  bread ;  you  have  come  home,  my  child,  to  all 
this,  yet  here,  even  here,  you  see  a  man  that  would 
not  for  a  thousand  worlds  exchange  situations.  0,  my 
children,  if  you  could  but  learn  to  commune  with  your 
own  hearts,  and  know  what  noble  company  you  can 
make  them,  you  would  Uttle  regard  the  elegance  and 
splendour  of  the  worthless.  Almost  all  men  have 
been  taught  to  call  life  a  passage,  and  themselves  the 
travellers.  The  simihtude  still  may  be  improved  when 
we  observe  that  the  good  are  joyful  and  serene,  hke 
travellers  that  are  going  towards  home  ;  the  wicked 
but  by  intervals  happy,  like  travellers  that  are  going 
into  exile.' 

My  compassion  for  my  poor  daughter,  overpowered 
by  this  new.  disaster,  interrupted  what  I  had  farther  to 
observe.  I  bade  her  mother  support  her,  and  after  a 
short  time  she  recovered.    She  appeared  from  that  time 


344  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD     CH.xxin 

more  calm,  and  I  imagined  had  gained  a  new  degree  of 
resolution  :  but  appearances  deceived  me ;  for  her  tran- 
quillity was  the  languor  of  over-wrought  resentment. 
A  supply  of  provisions,  charitably  sent  us  by  my  kind 
parishioners,  seemed  to  diffuse  new  chearfulness  amongst 
the  rest  of  the  family,  nor  was  I  displeased  at  seeing 
them  once  more  sprightly  and  at  ease.  It  would  have 
been  unjust  to  damp  their  satisfactions,  merely  to  con- 
dole with  resolute  melancholy,  or  to  burthen  them  w^ith 
a  sadness  they  did  not  feel.  Thus  once  more  the  tale 
went  round,  and  the  song  was  demanded,  and  chearful- 
ness condescended  to  hover  round  our  little  habitation. 


i1.  had  I  not  Immediate!}'  InterpoMd, 
Ts  fiom  the  }aai»  ot  tlie  emigcd 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
Fresh  calamities. 

THE  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar  warmth 
for  the  season ;  so  that  we  agreed  to  breakfast 
together  on  the  honey-suckle  bank  :  where  while  we  sat, 
my  youngest  daughter  at  my  request  joined  her  voice  to 
the  concert  on  the  trees  about  us.  It  was  in  this  place 
my  poor  OUvia  first  met  her  seducer,  and  every  object 
served  to  recall  her  sadness.     But  that  melancholy  which 


346  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

is  excited  by  objects  of  pleasure,  or  inspired  by  sounds  of 
harmony,  soothes  the  heart  instead  of  corroding  it.  Her 
mother  too,  upon  this  occasion,  felt  a  pleasing  distress, 
and  wept,  and  loved  her  daughter  as  before.  '  Do,  my 
'  pretty  Olivia,'  cried  she,  '  let  us  have  that  little  melan- 
'  choly  air  your  pappa  was  so  fond  of  ;  your  sister  Sophy 

*  has  already  obliged  us.  Do  child,  it  will  please  your 
'  old  father.'  She  complied  in  a  manner  so  exquisitely 
pathetic  as  moved  me. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray. 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy. 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover. 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover. 
And  wring  his  bosom — ^is  to  die. 

As  she  was  concluding  the  last  stanza,  to  which  an  in- 
terruption in  her  voice  from  sorrow  gave  peculiar  softness, 
the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thomhill's  equipage  at  a  distance 
alarmed  us  all,  but  particularly  encreased  the  uneasiness 
of  my  eldest  daughter,  who,  desirous  of  shunning  her 
betrayer,  returned  to  the  house  with  her  sister.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  alighted  from  his  chariot,  and  making 
up  to  the  place  where  I  was  still  sitting,  inquired  alter 
my  health  with  his  usual  air  of  familiarity.  '  Sir,'  replied 
I,  *  your  present  assurance  only  serves  to  aggravate  the 

*  baseness  of  your  character  ;  and  there  was  a  time  when 
'  I  would  have  chastiaed  your  insolence  for  presuming 

*  thus  to  appear  before  me.  But  now  you  are  safe  ;  for 
'  aige  has  cooled  my  passions,  and  my  calling  restrains 
'  them.' 

'  I  vow,  my  dear  sir,'  returned  he,  '  I  am  amazed  at  all 
'  this  ;  nor  can  I  understand  what  it  means  !  I  hope  you 


XXIV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  347 

'  don't  think  your  daughter's  late  excursion  with  me  had 
'  any  thing  criminal  in  it.' 

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

'  If  she  or  you,'  returned  he,  '  are  resolved  to  be  miser- 
'  able,  I  cannot  help  it.  But  you  may  still  be  happy  :  and 
'  whatever  opinion  you  may  have  formed  of  me,  you  shall 

*  ever  find  me  ready  to  contribute  to  it.  We  can  marry 
^  her  to  another  in  a  short  time,  and  what  is  more,  she 
'  may  keep  her  lover  beside ;   for  I  protest  I  shall  ever 

*  continue  to  have  a  true  regard  for  her.' 

I  found  all  my  passions  alarmed  at  this  new  degrading 
proposal ;  for  though  the  mind  may  often  be  calm  under 
great  injuries,  little  villainy  can  at  any  time  get  within 

the  soul  and  sting  it  into  rage. '  Avoid  my  sight,  thou 

reptile,*  cried  I,  'nor  continue  to  insult  me  with  thy 
presence.  Were  my  brave  son  at  home  he  would  not 
suffer  this  ;  but  I  am  old  and  disabled,  and  every  way 
undone.* 

'  I  find,'  cried  he,  *  you  are  bent  upon  obliging  me  to 
talk  in  a  hcu*sher  manner  than  I  intended.  But  as  I 
have  shewn  you  what  may  be  hoped  from  my  friendship, 
it  may  not  be  improper  to  represent  what  may  bo  the 
consequences  of  my  resentment.  My  attorney,  to  whom 
your  late  bond  has  been  transferred,  threatens  hard,  nor 
do  I  know  how  to  prevent  the  course  of  justiije,  except  by 
paying  the  money  myself,  which,  as  I  have  been  at  some 
expences  lately,  previous  to  my  intended  marriage,  is 
not  so  easy  to  be  done.  And  then  my  steward  talks  of 
driving  for  the  rent :  it  is  certain  he  knows  his  duty  ; 


348  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch 

'  for  I  never  trouble  myself  with  affairs  of  that  nature. 

*  Yet  still  I  could  wish  to  serve  you,  and  even  to  have  you 
'  and  your  daughter  present  at  my  marriage,  which  is 
'  shortly  to  be  solemnized  with  Miss  Wilmot ;  it  is  even 
'  the  request  of  my  charming  Arabella  herself,  whom  I 
'  hope  you  will  not  refuse.' 

'  Mr.  Thomhill,'  rephed  I,  *  hear  me  once  for  all :  as 
'  to  your  marriage  with  any  but  my  daughter,  that  I 
'  never  will  consent  to  ;  and  though  your  friendship 
'  could  raise  me  to  a  throne,  or  your  resentment  sink  me 
'  to  the  grave,  yet  would  I  despise  both.  Thou  hast 
'  once  wofully,  irreparably  deceived  me.     I  reposed  my 

*  heart  upon  thine  honour,  and  have  found  its  baseness. 
'  Never  more  therefore  expect  friendship  from  me.  Go, 
'  and  possess  what  fortune  has  given  thee,  beauty,  riches, 

*  health,  and  pleasure.  Gk),  and  leave  me  to  want, 
'infamy,  disease,  and  sorrow*  Yet  humbled  as  I  am, 
'  shall  my  heart  still  vindicate  its  dignity,  and  though 
'  thou  hast  my  forgiveness,  thou  shalt  ever  have  my 
'  contempt.' 

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

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

We  soon  however  found  that  he  had  not  threatened  in 


XXIV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  349 

vain ;  for  the  very  next  morning  his  steward  came  to 
demand  my  annual  rent,  which,  by  the  train  of  accidents 
already  related,  I  was  unable  to  pay.  The  consequence  of 
my  incapacity  was  his  driving  my  cattle  that  evening,  and 
their  being  appraised  and  sold  the  next  day  for  less  than 
half  their  value.  My  wife  and  children  now  therefore 
entreated  me  to  comply  upon  any  terms,  rather  than  incur 
certain  destruction.  They  even  begged  of  me  to  admit 
his  visits  once  more,  and  used  all  their  Httle  eloquence  to 
paint  the  calamities  I  w  as  going  to  endure  :  the  terrors 
of  a  prison,  in  so  rigorous  a  season  as  the  present,  with 
the  danger  that  threatened  my  health  from  the  late 
accident  that  happened  by  the  fire.  But  I  continued 
inflexible. 

'  Why,  my  treasures,'  cried  I,  '  why  will  you  thus 
'  attempt  to  persuade  me  to  the  thing  that  is  not  right  ? 

*  My  duty  has  taught  me  to  forgive  him ;  but  my 
'  conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  approve.  Would  you 
'  have  me  applaud  to  the  world  what  my  heart  must 

*  internally  condemn  ?    Would  you  have  me  tamely  sit 

*  down  and  flatter  our  infamous  betrayer  ;  and  to  avoid 

*  a  prison  continually  suffer  the  more  galling  bonds  of 
'  mental  confinement  ?    No,  never.    If  we  are  to  be  taken 

*  from  this  abode,  only  let  us  hold  to  the  right,  and  where- 

*  ever  we  are.  thrown  we  can  still  retire  to  a  charming 

*  apartment,  when  we  can  look  round  our  own  hearts 

*  with  intrepidity  and  with  pleasure  ! ' 

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

Just  as  he  spoke  they  came  in,  and  approaching  the 


350  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD    ch.  xsxv. 

bed  where  I  lay,  after  pfevionsly  informing  me  of  their 
employment  and  business,  made  me  their  piscMier, 
bidding  me  prepare  to  go  with  them  to  the  county  gaol, 
which  was  eleven  mfles  off. 

*  My  friends,'  said  I,  ^  this  is  severe  weather  in  which 

*  you  have  come  to  take  me  to  a  prison  ;  and  it  is  particu- 

*  larly  unfortunate  at  this  time,  as  one  of  my  arms  has 

*  lately  been  burnt  in  a  terrible  manner,  and  it  has  thrown 

*  me  into  a  shght  fever,  and  I  want  clothes  to  cover  me, 

*  and  I  am  now  too  weak  and  old  to  walk  far  in  such 

*  deep  snow  :  but  if  it  must  be  so * 

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


CHAPTER  XXV 

No  situatioD,  however  wretehed  it  seems,  but  haa  some  sort 
of  comfort  attending  it. 

WE  Betforwardfromthispeacefulneij;hbourliood  and 
walked  on  slowly.  My  eldest  daughter  being  en- 
feebled by  a  slow  fever,  which  had  begun  for  some  days  to 
undermine  her  constitution,  one  of  the  officers,  who  had 
an  horse,  kindly  took  her  behind  him  ;  for  even  these  men 


362  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  C5H. 

cannot  entirely  divest  themselves  of  humanity.  My  son 
led  one  of  the  little  ones  by  the  hand,  and  my  wife  the 
other,  while  I  leaned  upon  my  youngest  girl,  whose  tears 
fell  not  for  her  own  but  my  distresses. 

We  were  now  got  from  my  late  dwelling  about  two 
miles,  when  we  saw  a  crowd  running  and  shouting  behind 
us  consisting  of  about  fifty  of  my  poorest  parishioners. 
These,  with  dreadful  imprecations,  soon  seized  upon  the 
two  officers  of  justice,  and  swearing  they  would  never 
see  their  minister  go  to  a  gaol  while  they  had  a  drop  of 
blood  to  shed  in  his  defence,  were  going  to  use  them 
with  great  severity.  The  consequence  might  have  been 
fatal,  had  I  not  immediately  interposed,  and  with  some 
difficulty  rescued  the  officers  from  the  hands  of  the 
enraged  multitude.  My  children,  who  looked  upon  my 
delivery  now  as  certain,  appeared  transported  with  joy, 
and  were  incapable  of  containing  their  raptures.  But 
they  were  soon  undeceived,  upon  hearing  me  address  the 
poor  deluded  people  who  came,  as  they  imagined,  to  do 
me  service. 

*  What !  my  friends,'  cried  I,  *  and  is  this  the  way  you 
'  love  me  !  Is  this  the  manner  you  obey  the  instructions 
'  I  have  given  you  from  the  pulpit !  Thus  to  fly  in  the 
'  face  of  justice,  and  bring  down  ruin  on  yourselves  and 

*  me  !  Which  is  your  ringleader  ?  Shew  me  the  man  that 
'  has  thus  seduced  you.  As  sure  as  he  lives  he  shall  feel  my 
'  resentment.  Alas !  my  dear  deluded  flock,  return  back  to 
'  the  duty  you  owe  to  God,  to  your  country,  and  to  me. 
'  I  shall  yet  perhaps  one  day  see  you  in  greater  felicity 
'  here,  and  contribute  to  make  your  lives  more  happy. 

*  But  let  it  at  least  be  my  comfort  when  I  pen  my  fold  for 

*  immortahty,  that  not  one  here  shall  be  wanting.* 

They  now  seemed  all  repentance,  and  melting  into  tears 
came  one  after  the  other  to  bid  me  farewell.  I  shook  each 
tenderly  by  the  hand,  and  leaving  them  my  blessing, 


XXV  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  353 

proceeded  forward  without  meeting  any  farther  interrup- 
tion. Some  hours  before  night  we  reached  the  town  or 
rather  village  ;  for  it  consisted  but  of  a  few  mean  houses, 
having  lost  all  its  former  opulence,  and  retaining  no  marks 
of  its  ancient  superiority  but  the  gaol. 

Upon  entering,  we  put  up  at  an  inn,  where  we  had 
such  refreshments  as  could  most  readily  be  procured,  and 
I  supped  with  my  family  with  my  usual  chearfulness- 
After  seeing  them  properly  accommodated  for  that  night,. 
I  next  attended  the  sheriff's  officers  to  the  prison,  which 
had  formerly  been  built  for  the  purposes  of  war,  and  con- 
sisted of  one  large  apartment,  strongly  grated  and  paved 
with  stone,  common  to  both  felons  and  debtors  at  certain 
hours  in  the  four  and  twenty.  Besides  this,  every  prisoner 
had  a  separate  cell  where  he  was  locked  in  for  the  night* 

I  expected  upon  my  entrance  to  find  nothing  but 
lamentations  and  various  sounds  of  misery ;  but  it  was 
very  different.  The  prisoners  seemed  all  employed  in 
one  common  design,  that  of  forgetting  thought  in  merri- 
ment or  clamour.  I  was  apprized  of  the  usual  perquisite 
required  upon  these  occasions,  and  immediately  complied 
with  the  demand,  though  the  little  money  I  had  was  very 
near  being  all  exhausted.  This  was  immediately  sent 
away  for  liquor,  and  the  whole  prison  soon  was  filled 
with  riot,  laughter  and  prophaneness. 

'  How,'  cried  I  to  myself,  '  shall  men  so  very  wicked 

*  be  chearful,  and  shall  I  be  melancholy  !  I  feel  only  the 
'  same  confinement  with  them,  and  I  think  I  have  more 

•  reason  to  be  happy.' 

With  such  reflections  I  laboured  to  become  chearful ; 
but  chearfulness  was  never  yet  produced  by  effort,  which 
is  itself  painful.  As  I  was  sitting  therefore  in  a  comer  of 
the  gaol>  in  a  pensive  posture,  one  of  my  fellow-prisoners 
came  up,  and  sitting  by  me,  entered  into  conversation. 
It  was  my  constant  rule  in  life  never  to  avoid  the  oon- 

OOI.D8MITB.      II  N 


354  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

versation  of  any  man  who  seemed  to  desire  it :  for  if  good 
I  might  profit  by  his  instruction ;  if  bad  he  might  be 
assisted  by  mine.  I  found  this  to  be  a  knowing  man  of 
strong  unlettered  sense ;  but  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  world  as  it  is  called,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  of 
human  nature  on  the  wrong  side.  He  asked  me  if  I  had 
taken  care  to  provide  myself  with  a  bed,  which  was 
a  circumstance  I  had  never  once  attended  to. 

'  That 's  unfortunate,'  cried  he,  '  as  you  are  allowed 
'  here  nothing  but  straw,  and  your  apartment  is  very 

*  large  and  cold.  However  you  seem  to  be  something  of 
'  a  gentleman,  and  as  I  have  been  one  myself  in  my  time, 
'  part  of  my  bed-clothes  are  heartily  at  your  service. 

I  thanked  him,  professing  my  surprise  at  finding  such 
humanity  in  a  gaol  in  misfortunes ;  adding,  to  let  him  see 
that  I  was  a  scholar,  '  That  the  sage  ancient  seemed  to 

*  imderstand  the  value  of  company  in  affliction  when  he 
'  said.  Ton  kosmon  aire,  ei  dos  ton  etairon  ;  and  in  fact,' 
continued  I,  '  what  is  the  World  if  it  affords  only  soli- 
'tude?' 

'You  talk  of  the  World,  Sir,'  returned  my  fellow- 
prisoner  ;  '  the  vxyrld  is  in  its  dotage,  and  yet  the  cosmogony 
'  or  creation  of  the  world  has  puzzled  the  philosophers  of 
'  every  age.  What  a  medley  of  opinions  have  they  not 
'  broached  upon  the  creation  of  the  vx/rld,    Sanconiathon, 

*  Manetho,  Berosus,  and  Ocellus  Lucanus  have  aU  attempted 
'  it  in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words,  Anarchon  ara 
'  kai  ateltUaion  to  pan,  which  implies '- *  I  ask  pardon, 

*  Sir,'  cried  I,  *  for  interrupting  so  much  learning  ;  but 

*  I  think  I  have  heard  all  this  before.     Have  I  not  had 

*  the  pleasure  of  once  seeing  you  at  Welbridge  fair, 
'  and  is  not  your  name  Ephraim  Jenkinson  ?  '  At  this 
demand  he  only  sighed.  '  I  suppose  you  must  recollect,' 
resumed  I, '  one  Doctor  Primrose,  from  whom  you  bought 

*  a  horse.' 


XXV  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  356 

He  now  at  once  recollected  me  ;  for  the  gloominess  of 
the  place  and  the  approaching  night  had  prevented  his 
distinguishing  my  features  before. '  Yes,  Sir,'  re- 
turned Mr.  Jenkinson,  '  I  remember  you  perfectly  well ; 
I  bought  a  horse  but  forgot  to  pay  for  him.  Your 
neighbour  Flamborough  is  the  only  prosecutor  I  am  any 
way  a&aid  of  at  the  next  assizes  :  for  he  intends  to 
swear  positively  against  me  as  a  coiner.  I  am  heartily 
sorry,  Sir,  I  ever  deceived  you,  or  indeed  any  man  ;  for 
you  see,'  continued  he,  shewing  his  shackles,  '  what  my 
tricks  have  brought  me  to.' 

'  Well,  Sir,'  replied  I,  '  your  kindness  in  offering  me 
assistance  when  you  could  expect  no  return,  shall  be 
repaid  with  my  endeavours  to  soften  or  totally  suppress 
Mr.  Flamborough's  evidence,  and  I  will  send  my  son 
to  him  for  that  purpose  the  first  opportunity  ;  nor  do 
I  in  the  least  doubt  but  he  will  comply  with  my  request, 
and  as  to  my  own  evidence  you  need  be  under  no 
uneasiness  about  that.' 

'  Well,  Sir,'  cried  he,  '  all  the  return  I  can  make  shall 
be  yours.  You  shall  have  more  than  half  my  bed- 
clothes to-night,  and  I'll  take  care  to  stand  your  friend 
in  the  prison,  where  I  think  I  have  some  influence.' 
I  thanked  him,  and  could  not  avoid  being  surprised  at 
the  present  youthful  change  in  his  aspect ;  for  at  the  time 
I  had  seen  him  before  he  appeared  at  least  sixty. — *  Sir,' 
answered  he,  '  you  are  little  acquainted  with  the  world; 
'  I  had  at  that  time  false  hair,  and  have  learnt  the  art  of 

*  counterfeiting  every  age  from  seventeen  to  seventy. 
'  Ah,  Sir,  had  I  but  bestowed  half  the  pains  in  learning 

*  a  trade  that  I  have  in  learning  to  be  a  scoundrel,  I  might 

*  have  been  a  rich  man  at  this  day.     But  rogue  as  I  am, 

*  still  I  may  be  your  friend,  and  that  perhaps  when  you 

*  least  expect  it.' 

We  were  now  prevented  from  further  conversation  by 


356  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD       ch.xxv 

the  arrival  of  the  gaoler's  servants,  who  came  to  call  over 
the  prisoners'  names,  and  lock  up  for  the  night.  A  fellow 
also,  with  a  bundle  of  straw  for  my  bed,  attended,  who 
led  me  along  a  dark  narrow  passage  into  a  room  paved 
like  the  common  prison,  and  in  one  comer  of  this  I  spread 
my  bed  and  the  clothes  given  me  by  my  fellow-prisoner ; 
which  done,  my  conductor,  who  was  civil  enough,  bade 
me  a  good  night.  After  my  usual  meditations,  and 
having  praised  my  heavenly  corrector,  I  laid  myself  down 
and  slept  with  the  utmost  tranquillity  till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  reformation  in  the  gaol.     To  make  laws  compleat  tbej  should 
reward  as  well  as  punish. 

THE  next  morning  early  I  was  awakened  by  my  family, 
whom  I  found  in  tears  at  my  bed-side.  The  gloomy 
strength  of  everything  about  u8,  it  seems,  had  daunted 
them.  I  gently  rebuked  their  sorrow,  assuring  them  I 
had  never  slept  with  greater  tranquillity,  and  next 
enquired  after  my  eldest  dai^bter,  who  was  not  among 
them.  They  informed  me  that  yesterday's  uneasiness 
and  fatigue  had  encreased  her  fever,  an4  it  was  judged 
proper  to  leave  her  behind.    My  next  care  was  to  send 


358  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIEW)  ch. 

my  son  to  procure  a  room  or  two  to  lodge  the  family  in, 
as  near  the  prison  as  conveniently  could  be  found.  He 
obeyed  ;  but  could  only  find  one  apartment,  which  was 
hired  at  a  small  expence  for  his  mother  and  sisters,  the 
gaoler  with  humanity  consenting  to  let  him  and  his  two 
little  brothers  lie  in  the  prison  with  me.  A  bed  was  there- 
fore prepared  for  them  in  a  comer  of  the  room,  which  I 
thought  answered  very  convem'ently.  I  was  willing, 
however,  previously  to  know  whether  my  little  children 
chose  to  lie  in  a  place  which  seemed  to  fright  them  upon 
entrance. 

*  Well,'  cried  I,  *  my  good  boys,  how  do  you  like  your 

*  bed  ?     I  hope  you  are  not  afraid  to  lie  in  this  room,  dark 

*  as  it  appears.' 

'  No,  papa,'  sajrs  Dick,  *  I  am  not  afraid  to  lie  anyiR^here 

*  where  you  are.' 

'  And  I,'  says  Bill,  who  was  yet  but  four  years  old, 

*  love  every  place  best  that  my  papa  is  in.' 

After  this  I  allotted  to  each  of  the  family  what  they 
were  to  do.  My  daughter  was  particularly  directed  to 
watch  her  declining  sister's  health ;  my  wife  was  to 
attend  me  ;  my  little  boys  were  to  read  to  me  :  '  And  as 
'  for  you  my  son,'  continued  I,  '  it  is  by  the  labour  of 
'  your  hands  we  must  all  hope  to  be  supported.  Your 
'  wages,  as  a  day-labourer,  will  be  fully  sufficient  with 

*  proper  frugality  to  maintain  us  all,  and  comfortably  too. 

*  Thou  art  now  sixteen  years  old,  and  hast  strength,  and 
'  it  was  given  thee,  my  son,  for  very  useful  purposes ;  for 

*  it  must  save  from  famine  your  helpless  parents  and 

*  family.  Prepare  then  this  evening  to  look  out  for  work 
'  against  to-morrow,  and  bring  home  every  night  what 

*  money  you  earn,  for  our  support.' 

Having  thus  instructed  him,  and  settled  the  rest,  I 
walked  down  to  the  common  prison,  where  I  could  enjoy 
more  air  and  room.     But  I  was  not  long  there  when  the 


XXVI         THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  359 

execrations,  lewdness,  and  brutality  that  invaded  me  on 
every  side  drove  me  back  to  my  apartment  again.  Here 
I  sate  for  some  time  pondering  upon  the  strange  infatua- 
tion of  wretches  who,  finding  all  mankind  in  open  arms 
against  them,  were  labouring  to  make  themselves  a  future 
and  a  tremendous  enemy. 

Their  insensibility  excited  my  highest  compassion,  and 
blotted  my  own  uneasiness  from  my  mind.  It  even 
appeared  a  duty  incumbent  upon  me  to  attempt  to 
reclaim  them.  I  resolved  therefore  once  more  to  return, 
and  in  spite  of  their  contempt  to  give  them  my  advice, 
and  conquer  them  by  perseverance.  Going  therefore 
among  them  again,  I  informed  Mr.  Jenkinson  of  my 
design,  at  which  he  laughed  heartily,  but  communicated 
it  to  the  rest.  The  proposal  was  received  with  the 
greatest  good-humour,  as  it  promised  to  afford  a  new 
fund  of  entertainment  to  persons  who  had  now  no  other 
resource  for  mirth,  but  what  could  be  derived  from 
ridicule  or  debauchery. 

I  therefore  read  them  a  portion  of  the  service  with  a 
loud  unaffected  voice,  and  found  my  audience  perfectly 
merry  upon  the  occasion.  Lewd  whispers,  groans  of 
contrition  burlesqued,  winking  and  coughing  alternately 
excited  laughter.  However,  I  continued  with  my  natural 
solemnity  to  read  on,  sensible  that  what  I  did  might  mend 
some,  but  could  itself  receive  no  contamination  from  any. 

After  reading,  I  entered  upon  my  exhortation,  which 
was  rather  calculated  at  first  to  amuse  them  than  to 
reprove.  I  previously  observed,  that  no  other  motive 
but  their  welfare  could  induce  me  to  this  ;  that  I  was 
their  fellow  prisoner,  and  now  got  nothing  by  preaching. 
I  was  sorry,  I  said,  to  hear  them  so  very  profane  ;  because 
they  got  nothing  by  it,  but  might  lose  a  great  deal:  *For 
'  be  assured,  my  friends,'  cried  I,  'for  you  are  my  friends, 
'  however  the  world  may  disclaim  your  friendship,  though 


360  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

you  swore  twelre  thousand  oaths  in  a  day,  it  would  not 
put  one  penny  in  your  purse.  Then  what  signifies  caOing 
every  moment  upon  the  devil,  and  oourtang  his  ineodr 
ship,  since  you  find  how  scurvily  he  uses  you.  He  has 
given  you  nothing  here,  you  find,  but  a  mouthful  of  oaths 
and  an  empty  belly  ;  and  by  the  best  accounts  I  have 
of  him,  he  will  give  you  nothing  that 's  good  h«:eaffcer. 

'  If  used  ill  in  our  dealings  with  one  man  we  naturaDy 
go  dsewheie.  Were  it  not  worth  your  while  then  just 
to  try  how  you  may  like  the  usage  of  another  master, 
who  gives  you  fair  promises  at  least  to  come  to  him  ? 
Surely,  my  friends,  of  all  stupidity  in  the  world,  his 
must  be  the  greatest,  who  after  robbing  a  house  runs  to 
the  thieftakers  for  protection.  And  yet  how  are  yon 
more  wise  ?  You  are  all  seeking  comfort  from  one  that 
has  already  betrayed  you,  applying  to  a  mcH^  malicioas 
being  than  any  thi^taker  of  them  all ;  for  they  only 
decoy  and  then  hang  you ;  but  he  decoys  and  hangs, 
and  what  is  worst  of  all,  will  not  let  you  loose  after  the 
hangman  has  done.' 
When  I  had  concluded,  I  received  the  compliments  of 
my  audience,  some  of  whom  came  and  shook  me  by  the 
hand,  swearing  that  I  was  a  very  honest  fellow,  and  that 
they  desired  my  further  acquaintance.  I  therefore 
promised  to  repeat  my  lecture  next  day,  and  actually 
conceived  some  hopes  of  making  a  reformation  here; 
for  it  had  ever  been  my  opinion  that  no  man  was  past  the 
hour  of  amendment,  every  heart  lying  open  to  the  shafts 
of  reproof  if  the  archer  could  but  take  a  proper  aim. 
When  I  had  thus  satisfied  my  mind,  I  went  back  to  my 
apartment,  where  my  wife  prepared  a  frugal  meal,  while 
Mr.  Jenkinson  begged  leave  to  add  his  dinner  to  ours  and 
partake  of  the  pleasure,  as  he  was  kind  enough  to  express 
it,  of  my  conversation.  He  had  not  yet  seen  my  family, 
for  as  they  came  to  my  apartment  by  a  door  in  the  narrow 


XXVI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  361 

passage  already  described,  by  this  means  they  avoided 
the  common  prison.  Jenkinson  at  the  first  interview 
therefore  seemed  not  a  little  struck  with  the  beauty  of 
my  youngest  daughter,  which  her  pensive  air  contributed 
to  heighten,  and  my  little  ones  did  not  pass  unnoticed. 
'  Alas,  Doctor,'  cried  he,  '  these  children  are  too  hand- 

*  some  and  too  good  for  such  a  place  as  this  ! ' 

*  Why,  Mr.  Jenkinson,'  replied  I,  *  thank  heaven  my 

*  children  are  pretty  tolerable  in  morals,  and  if  they  be 

*  good,  it  matters  little  for  the  rest.' 

*  I  fancy.  Sir,'  returned  my  fellow-prisoner,  *  that  it 
'  must  give  you  great  comfort  to  have  this  little  family 
'  about  you.' 

'  A  comfort,  Mr.  Jenkinson,'  replied  I ;  *  yes  it  is  indeed 

*  a  comfort,  and  I  would  not  be  without  them  for  all  the 
'  world ;  for  they  can  make  a  dungeon  seem  a  palace. 
'  There  is  but  one  way  in  this  life  of  wounding  my  happi- 
'  ness,  and  that  is  by  injuring  them.' 

*  I  am  afraid  then.  Sir,'  cried  he,  *  that  I  am  in  some 

*  measure  culpable  ;  for  I  think  I  see  here  '  (looking  at 
my  son  Moses)  '  one  that  I  have  injured,  and  by  whom 
'  I  wish  to  be  forgiven.' 

My  son  immediately  recollected  his  voice  and  features, 
though  he  had  before  seen  him  in  disguise,  and  taking 
him  by  the  hand,  with  a  smile  forgave  him.  '  Yet,'  con- 
tinued he,  *  I  can't  help  wondering  at  what  you  could 

*  see  in  my  face  to  think  me  a  proper  mark  for  deception.' 

*  My  dear  Sir,'  returned  the  other,  *  it  was  not  your 

*  face,  but  your  white  stockings  and  the  black  ribband 
'  in  your  hair  that  allured  me.  But  no  disparagement 
'  to  your  parts,  I  have  deceived  wiser  men  than  you  in 
'  my  time  ;   and  yet  with  all  my  tricks,  the  blockheads 

*  have  been  too  many  for  me  at  last.' 

'I  suppose,'  cried  my  son,  'that  the  narrative  of  such  a 

*  life  as  yours  must  be  extremely  instructive  and  amusing.' 

n3 


362  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEMELD       ch.xxvi 

'  Not  much  of  either,'  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson.    *  Those 
relations  which  describe  the  tricks  and  vices  only  of 
mankind,  by  increasing  our  suspicion  in  life,  retard  our 
success.    The  traveller  that  distrusts  every  person  he 
meets,  and  turns  back  upon  the  appearance  of  every 
man  that  looks  like  a  robber,  seldom  arrives  in  time  at 
his  journey's  end. 
'  Indeed  I  think  from  my  own  experience,  that  the 
knowing  one  is  the  silliest  fellow  under  the  sun.    I  was 
thought  cunning  from  my  very  childhood ;   when  but 
seven  years'old  the  ladies  would  say  that  I  was  a  perfect 
little  man  ;   at  fourteen  I  knew  the  world,  cocked  my 
hat,  and  loved  the  ladies ;    at  twenty,  though  I  was 
perfectly  honest,  yet  every  one  thought  me  so  cunning 
that  not  one  would  trust  me.    Thus  I  was  at  last  obliged 
to  turn  sharper  in  my  own  defence,  and  have  lived  ever 
since,  my  head  throbbing  with  schemes  to  deceive,  and 
my  heart  palpitating  with  fears  of  detection.     I  used 
often  to  laugh  at  your  honest  simple  neighbour  Flam- 
borough,  and  one  way  or  another  generally  cheated  him 
once  a  year.    Yet  still  the  honest  man  went  forward 
without  suspicion,  and  grew  rich  while  I  still  continued 
tricksy  and  cunning,  and  was  poor,  without  the  con- 
solation of  being  honest.      However,'    continued   he, 
let  me  know  your  case,  and  what  has  brought  you 
here  ;  perhaps,  though  I  have  not  skill  to  avoid  a  gaol 
myself,  I  may  extricate  my  friends.' 
In  compliance  with  this  curiosity,  I  informed  him  of^ 
the  whole  train  of  accidents  and  follies  that  had  plunged 
me  into  my  present  troubles,  and  my  utter  inability  to 
get  free. 

After  hearing  my  story,  and  pausing  some  minutes, 
he  slapt  his  forehead  as  if  he  had  hit  upon  something 
material,  and  took  his  leave,  sa3ang  he  would  try  what 
oould  be  done. 


Uy  deaign  nwrecded,  uid  In  len  tban  bIi  diys  book  ware  petiiteiit.  and 

»ll  »tteiitive.-PAOE  3«, 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

The  same  Bnbject  continned. 

THE  next  morning  I  commanicated  to  my  vtife  and 
children  the  scheme  I  had  planned  of  reforming  the 
prisoners,  which  they  received  with  universal  dieappro- 
bation,  alleging  the  impossibility  and  impropriety  of  it ; 
adding,  that  my  endeavours  would  no  way  contribute 
to  their  amendment,  but  might  probably  disgrace  my 
calling. 

'  Excuse  me,'  i;etumed  I, '  these  people,  however  fallen, 
'  are  still  men,  and  that  is  a  very  good  title  to  my  aflec- 
'  tions.     Good  counsel  rejected  returns  to  enrich^  the 


364  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

*  giver's  bosom  ;  and  though  the  instniction  I  communi- 
'  Gate  may  not  mend  them,  yet  it  will  assuredly  mend 
'  myself.    If  these  wretches,  my  children,  were  princes, 

*  there  would  be  thousands  ready  to  offer  their  ministry  ; 

*  but  in  my  opinion,  the  heart  that  is  buried  in  a  dungeon 
'  is  as  precious  as  that  seated  upon  a  throne.    Yes,  my 

*  treasures,  if  I  can  mend  them  I  will ;  perhaps  they  -will 
'  not  all  despise  me.  Perhaps  I  may  catch  up  even  one 
'  from  the  gulph,  and  that  will  be  great  gain ;  for  is  there 
'  upon  earth  a  gem  so  precious  as  the  human  soul  ?  ' 

Thus  saying  I  left  them,  and  descended  to  the  common 
prison,  where  I  found  the  prisoners  very  merry,  expecting 
my  arrival ;  and  each  prepared  with  some  gaol  trick  to 
play  upon  the  doctor.  Thus,  as  I  was  going  to  begin, 
one  turned  my  wig  awry,  as  if  by  accident,  and  then 
asked  my  pardon.  A  second,  who  stood  at  some  dis- 
tance, had  a  knack  of  spitting  through  his  teeth,  which 
fell  in  showers  upon  my  book.  A  third  would  cry  Amen 
in  such  an  affected  tone  as  gave  the  rest  great  delight. 
A  fourth  had  slily  picked  my  pocket  of  my  spectacles. 
But  there  was  one  whose  trick  gave  more  universal 
pleasure  than  all  the  rest ;  for  observing  the  manner  in 
which  I  had  disposed  my  books  on  the  table  before  me, 
he  very  dextrously  displaced  one  of  them,  and  put  an 
obscene  jest-book  of  his  own  in  the  place.  However, 
I  took  no  notice  of  all  that  this  mischievous  group  of 
little  beings  could  do  ;  but  went  on,  perfectly  sensible 
that  what  was  ridiculous  in  my  attempt  would  excite 
mirth  only  the  first  or  second  time,  while  what  was 
serious  would  be  permanent.  My  design  succeeded,  and 
in  less  than  six  days  some  were  penitent,  and  all  attentive. 

It  was  now  that  I  applauded  my  perseverance  and 
address,  at  thus  giving  sensibility  to  W7*etches  divested 
of  every  moral  feeling,  and  now  began  to  think  of  doing 
them  temporal  services  also,  by  rendering  their  situation 


xxvn         THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  365 

somewhat  more  comfortable.  Their  time  had  hitherto 
been  divided  between  famine  and  excess,  tumultuous 
riot  and  bitter  repining.  Their  only  employment  was 
quarrelling  among  each  other,  playing  at  cribbage,  and 
cutting  tobacco  stoppers.  From  this  last  mode  of  idle  in- 
dustry I  took  the  hint  of  setting  such  as  chose  to  work  at 
cutting  pegs  for  tobacconists  and  shoemakers,  the  proper 
wood  being  bought  by  a  general  subscription,  and  when 
manufactured,  sold  by  my  appointment ;  so  that  each 
earned  something  every  day  :  a  trifle  indeed,  but  suffi- 
cient to  maintain  him. 

I  did  not  stop  here,  but  instituted  fines  for  the  punish-\ 
ment  of  immorality,  and  rewards  for  peculiar  industry.  \ 
Thus  in  less  than  a  fortnight  I  had  formed  them  into 
something  social  and  humane,  and  had  the  pleasure  of 
regarding  myself  as  a  legislator,  who  had  brought  men 
from  their  native  ferocity  into  friendship  and  obedience. 

And  it  were  highly  to  be  wished,  that  legislative  power 
would  thus  direct  the  law  rather  to  reformation  than 
severity :  that  it  would  seem  convinced  that  the  work 
of  eradicating  crimes  is  not  by  making  punishments 
familiar,  but  formidable.  Then  instead  of  our  present 
prisons,  which  find  or  make  men  guilty,  which  enclos^^f  j 
wretches  for  the  commission  of  one  crime,  and  return 
them,  if  returned  alive,  fitted  for  the  perpetration  of 
thousands  ;  we  should  see,  as  in  other  parts  of  Europe, 
places  of  penitence  and  solitude,  where  the  accused  might 
be  attended  by  such  as  could  give  them  repentance  if 
guilty,  or  new  motives  to  virtue,  if  innocent.  And  this, 
but  not  the  increasing  punishments,  is  the  way  to  mend 
a  state ;  nor  can  I  avoid  even  questioning  the  validity 
of  that  right  which  social  combinations  have  assumed  of 
capitally  punishing  offences  of  a  slight  nature.  In  cases 
of  murder  their  right  is  obvious,  as  it  is  the  duty  of  us 
all,  from  the  law  of  self-defence,  to  cut  off  that  man  who 


AV 


366  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

has  shewii  a  disregard  for  the  Bfe  of  another.  Against 
such  all  nature  rises  in  arms ;  but  it  is  not  so  against 
him  who  steals  my  property.  Natural  law  gives  me  no 
right  to  take  away  his  life,  as  by  that  the  horse  he  steals 
is  as  much  his  property  as  mine.  If  then  I  have  any 
right,  it  must  be  from  a  compact  made  between  us,  that 
he  who  deprives  the  other  of  his  horse  shall  die.  But 
this  is  a  false  compact ;  because  no  man  has  a  right  to 
barter  his  life  any  more  than  to  take  it  away,  as  it 
is  not  his  own.  And  besides,  the  compact  is  inadequate, 
and  would  be  set  aside  even  in  a  court  of  modem  equity, 
as  there  is  a  great  penalty  for  a  very  trifling  convenience, 
since  it  is  far  better  that  two  men  should  live  than  that 
one  man  should  ride.  But  a  compact  that  is  false 
between  two  men  is  equally  so  between  an  hundred,  or 
an  hundred  thousand  ;  for  as  ten  millions  of  circles  can 
never  make  a  square,  so  the  united  voice  of  Tnyri&ds 
cannot  lend  the  smallest  foundation  to  falsehood.  It  is 
thus  that  reason  speaks,  and  untutored  nature  says  the 
same  thing.  Savages  that  are  directed  by  natural  law 
*  alone  are  very  tender  of  the  lives  of  each  other  ;  they 
seldom  shed  blood  but  to  retaliate  former  cruelty. 

Our  Saxon  ancestors,  fierce  as  they  were  in  war,  had 
but  few  executions  in  times  of  peace ;  and  in  all  com- 
mencing governments  that  have  the  print  of  nature  still 
strong  upon  them,  scarce  any  crime  is  held  capital. 

It  is  among  the  citizens  of  a  refined  community  that 
;  penal  laws,  which  are  in  the  hands  of  the  rich,  are  laid 
(  upon  the  poor.  Government,  while  it  grows  older,  seems 
to  acquire  the  moroseness  of  age ;  and  as  if  our  property 
were  become  dearer  in  proportion  as  it  increased,  as  if  the 
more  enormous  our  wealth,  the  more  extensive  our  fears, 
all  our  possessions  are  paled  up  with  new  edicts  every  day, 
and  hung  round  with  gibbets  to  scare  every  invader. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  from  the  numb^  of  our 


a- 


XXVII  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  367 

penal  laws,  or  the  licentiousness  of  our  people,  that  this 
country  should  shew  more  convicts  in  a  year  than  half 
the  dominions  of  Europe  united.  Perhaps  it  is  owing 
to  both  ;  for  they  mutually  produce  each  other.  When 
by  indiscriminate  penal  laws  a  nation  beholds  the  same  \ 
punishment  affixed  to  dissimilar  degrees  of  guilt,  from 
perceiving  no  distinction  in  the  penalty  the  people  are 
led  to  lose  all  sense  of  distinction  in  the  crime,  and  this 
distinction  is  the  bulwark  of  all  morality ;  thus  the 
multitude  of  laws  produce  new  vices,  and  new  vices 
call  for  fresh  restraints. 

It  were  to  be  wished  then  that  jwwer,  instead  of  con- 
triving new  laws  to  punish  vice,  instead  of  drawing  hard 
the  cords  of  society  till  a  convulsion  come  to  burst  them, 
instead  of  cutting  away  wretches  as  useless  before  we 
have  tried  their  utility,  instead  of  converting  correction 
into  vengeance,  it  were  to  be  wished  that  we  tried  the 
restrictive  arts  of  government,  and  made  law  the  pro- 
tector, but  not  the  tyrant  of  the  people.  We  should 
then  find  that  creatures,  whose  souls  are  held  as  dross, 
only  wanted  the  hand  of  a  refiner  ;  we  should  then  find 
that  creatures,  now  stuck  up  for  long  tortures,  lest  luxury 
should  feel  a  momentary  pang,  might,  if  properly  treated, 
serve  to  sinew  the  state  in  times  of  danger  ;  that  as  their 
faces  are  like  ours,  their  hearts  are  so  too  ;  that  few 
minds  are  so  base  as  that  perseverance  cannot  amend ; 
that  a  man  may  see  his  last  crime  without  dying  for  it ; 
and  that  very  little  blood  will  serve  to  cement  our 
security. 


m  drive  on,  «o  Uiat  tbej 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Happineaa  and  misery  rather  the  result  of.  produce  than  of 
virtue  ia  this  life.  Temporal  evils  or  felicities  being  tc- 
garded  by  heaven  aa  things  merely^  in  themselves  tiiBing, 
and  unworthy  its  care  in  the  distribution. 

I  HAD  now  been  confined  more  than  a  fortnight,  but 
had  not  since  my  arrival  been  visited  by  my  dear  Olivia 
and  I  greatly  longed  to  see  her.  Having  communicated 
my  wishes  to  my  wife,  the  next  morning  the  poor  girl 


OH,  xxvm   THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  369 

entered  my  apartment  leaning  on  her  sister's  arm.  The 
change  which  I  saw  in  her  countenance  struck  me.  The 
numberless  graces  that  once  resided  there  were  now 
fled,  and  the  hand  of  death  seemed  to  have  molded  every 
feature  to  alarm  me.  Her  temples  were  sunk,  her  fore- 
head was  tense,  and  a  fatal  paleness  sate  upon  her  cheek. 
'  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  my  dear,'  cried  I ;  *  but  why 
this  dejection,  Livy  ?  I  hope,  my  love,  you  have  too 
great  a  regard  for  me  to  permit  disappointment  thus 
to  undermine  a  life  which  I  prize  as  my  own.  Be 
chearful,  child,  and  we  yet  may  see  happier  days.' 

*  You  have  ever.  Sir,'  repUed  she,  '  been  kind  to  me, 
and  it  adds  to  my  pain  that  I  shall  never  have  an 
opportunity  of  sharing  that  happiness  you  promise. 
Happiness,  I  fear,  is  no  longer  reserved  for  me  here ; 
and  I  long  to  be  rid  of  a  place  where  I  have  only  found 
distress.  Indeed,  Sir,  I  wish  you  would  make  a  proper 
submission  to  Mr.  Thornhill ;  it  may  in  some  measure 
induce  him  to  pity  you,  and  it  will  give  me  relief  in 
dying.' 

'  Never,  child,'  replied  I,  *  never  will  I  be  brought  to 
acknowledge  my  daughter  a  prostitute  ;  for  though  the 
world  may  look  upon  your  offence  with  scorn,  let  it  be 
mine  to  regard  it  as  a  mark  of  credulity,  not  of  guilt. 
My  dear,  I  am  no  way  miserable  in  this  place,  however 
dismal  it  may  seem ;  and  be  assured  that  while  you 
continue  to  bless  me  by  living,  he  shall  never  have  my 
consent  to  make  you  more  wretched  by  marrying 
another.' 

After  the  departure  of  my  daughter,  my  fellow- 
prisoner,  who  was  by  at  this  interview,  sensibly  enough 
expostulated  upon  my  obstinacy  in  refusing  a  submission 
which  promised  to  give  me  freedom.  He  observed,  that 
the  rest  of  my  family  was  not  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
peace  of  one  child  alone,  and  she  the  only  one  who  had 


370  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

offended  me.  '  Beside,'  added  he,  *  I  don't  know  if  it 
be  just  thus  to  obstruct  the  union  of  man  and  wife, 
which  you  do  at  present  by  refusing  to  consent  to 
a  match  you  cannot  hinder,  but  may  render  unhappy.' 
'  Sir,'  replied  I,  '  you  are  unacquainted  with  the  man 
that  oppresses  us.  I  am  very  sensible  that  no  submis- 
sion I  can  make  could  procure  me  liberty  even  for  an 
hour.  I  am  told  that  even  in  this  very  room  a  debtor 
of  his  no  later  than  last  year  died  for  want.  But  though 
my  submission  and  approbation  could  transfer  me  from 
hence  to  the  most  beautiful  apartment  he  is  possessed 
of  ;  yet  I  would  grant  neither,  as  something  whispers 
me  that  it  would  be  giving  a  sanction  to  adultery. 
While  my  daughter  lives,  no  other  marriage  of  his  shall 
ever  be  legal  in  my  eye.  Were  she  removed,  indeed, 
I  should  be  the  basest  of  men,  from  any  resentment 
of  my  own,  to  attempt  putting  asunder  those  who  wish 
for  an  union.  No,  villain  as  he  is,  I  should  then  wish 
him  married  to  prevent  the  consequences  of  his  future 
debaucheries.  But  now  should  I  not  be  the  most  cruel 
of  all  fathers,  to  sign  an  instrument  which  must  send 
my  child  to  the  grave,  merely  to  avoid  a  prison  myself : 
and  thus  to  escape  one  pang  break  my  child's  heart 
with  a  thousand  ?  ' 
He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  this  answer,  but  could 
not  avoid  observii^,  that  he  feared  my  daughter's  life 
was  already  too  much  wasted  to  keep  me  long  a  prisoner. 

*  However,'  continued  he,  *  though  you  refuse  to  submit 

*  to  the  nephew,  I  hope  you  have  no  objections  to  laying 

*  your  case  before  the  uncle,  who  has  the  first  character 

*  in  the  kingdom  for  every  thing  that  is  just  and  good. 
*'  I  would  advise  you  to  send  him  a  letter  by  the  post, 
'  intimating  all  his  nephew's  ill  usage,  and  my  life  for  it, 
'  that  in  three  days  you  shall  have  an  answer.'  I  thanked 
him  for  the  hint,  and  instantly  set  about  complying; 


xxvra        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  371 

but  I  wanted  paper,  and  unluckily  all  our  money  had 
been  laid  out  that  morning  in  provisions  :  however,  ho 
supplied  me. 

For  the  three  ensuing  days  I  was  in  a  state  of  anxiety 
to  know  what  reception  my  letter  might  meet  with  ;  but 
in  the  mean  time  was  frequently  solicited  by  my  wife 
to  submit  to  any  conditions  rather  than  remain  here, 
and  every  hour  received  repeated  accounts  of  the  decline 
of  my  daughter's  health.  The  third  day  and  the  fourth 
arrived,  but  I  received  no  answer  to  my  letter  ;  the  com- 
plaints of  a  stranger  against  a  favourite  nephew  were  no 
way  likely  to  succeed  ;  so  that  these  hopes  soon  vanished 
like  all  my  former.  My  mind,  however,  still  supported 
itself,  though  confinement  and  bad  air  began  to  make 
a  visible  alteration  in  my  health,  and  my  arm  that  had 
suffered  in  the  fire  grew  worse.  My  children  however 
sate  by  me,  and  while  I  was  stretched  on  my  straw  read 
to  me  by  turns,  or  listened  and  wept  at  my  instructions. 
But  my  daughter's  health  declined  faster  than  mine ; 
every  message  from  her  contributed  to  encrease  my  appre- 
hensions and  pain.  The  fifth  morning  after  I  had  written 
the  letter  which  was  sent  to  Sir  William  Thomhill,  I  was 
alarmed  with  an  account  that  she  was  speechless.  Now 
it  was,  that  confinement  was  truly  painful  to  me ;  my 
soul  was  bursting  from  its  prison  to  be  near  the  pillow 
of  my  child,  to  comfort,  to  strengthen  her,  to  receive 
her  last  wishes,  and  teach  her  soul  the  way  to  heaven  ! 
Another  account  came.  She  was  expiring,  and  yet  I  was 
debarred  the  small  comfort  of  weeping  by  her.  My 
fellow-prisoner    some    time  after  came  with  the  last 

account.    He  bade  me  be  patient.    She  was  dead !- 

The  next  nioming  he  returned,  and  found  me  with  my 
two  little  ones,  now  my  only  companions,  who  were 
using  all  their  innocent  efforts  to  comfort  me.  They 
entreated  to  read  to  me,  and  bade  me  not  to  cry,  for 


372  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

I  was  now  too  old  to  weep.     *  And  is  not  my  sister  an 

*  angel  now,  papa  ? '  cried  the  eldest,  *  and  why  then  are 
'  you  sorry  for  her  ?    I  wish  I  were  an  angel  out  of  this 

*  frightful  place,  if  my  papa  were  with  me.*  '  Yes,' 
added  my  youngest  darling,  *  Heaven,  where  my  sister 
VJis,  is  a  finer  place  than  this,  and  there  are  none  but 
'  good  people  there,  and  the  people  here  are  very  bad.' 

Mr.  Jenkinson  interrupted  their  harmless  prattle,  by 
observing  that  now  my  daughter  was  no  more,  I  should 
seriously  think  of  the  rest  of  my  family,  and  attempt  to 
save  my  own  life,  which  was  every  day  declining  for 
want  of  necessaries  and  wholesome  air.  He  added,  that 
it  was  now  incumbent  on  me  to  sacrifice  any  pride  or 
resentment  of  my  own,  to  the  welfare  of  those  who 
depended  on  me  for  support ;  and  that  I  was  now,  both 
by  reason  and  justice,  obliged  to  try  to  reconcile  my 
landlord. 

'  Heaven  be  praised,'  replied  I,  *  there  is  no  pride  left 

*  me  now,  I  should  detest  my  own  heart  if  I  saw  either 

*  pride  or  resentment  lurking  there.     On  the  contrary, 

*  as  my  oppressor  has  been  once  my  parishioner,  I  hope 
'  one  day  to  present  him  up  an  unpolluted  soul  at  the 
'  eternal  tribunal.    No,  Sir,  I  have  no  resentment  now, 

*  and  though  he  has  taken  from  me  what  I  held  dearer 
'  than  all  his  treasures,  though  he  has  wrung  my  heart, 
'  for  I  am  sick  almost  to  fainting,  very  sick,  my  fellow 
'  prisoner,  yet  that  shall  never  inspire  me  with  vengeance. 
'  I  am  now  willing  to  approve  his  marriage,  and  if  this 
'  submission  can  do  him  any  pleasure,  let  him  know, 

*  that,  if  I  have  done  him  any  injury,  I  am  sorry  for  it.' 

Mr.  Jenkinson  took  pen  and  ink  and  wrote  down  my 
submission  nearly  as  I  have  expressed  it,  to  which  I 
signed  my  name.  My  son  was  employed  to  carry  the 
letter  to  Mr.  Thornhill,  who  was  then  at  his  seat  in  the 
country.    He  went,  and  in  about  six  hours  returned  with 


xxvin        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  373 

a  verbal  answer.  He  had  some  difficulty,  he  said,  to  get 
a  sight  of  his  landlord,  as  the  servants  were  insolent  and 
suspicious  ;  but  he  accidentally  saw  him  as  he  was  going 
out  upon  business,  preparing  for  his  marriage,  which 
was  to  be  in  three  days.  He  continued  to  inform  us 
that  he  stept  up  in  the  humblest  manner  and  delivered 
the  letter,  which,  when  Mr.  Thornhill  had  read,  he  said 
that  all  submission  was  now  too  late  and  unnecessary ; 
that  he  had  heard  of  our  application  to  his  uncle,  which 
met  with  the  contempt  it  deserved  ;  and  as  for  the  rest, 
that  all  future  applications  should  be  directed  to  his 
attorney,  not  to  him.  He  observed,  however,  that  as 
he  had  a  very  good  opinion  of  the  discretion  of  the  two 
young  ladies,  they  might  have  been  the  most  agreeable 
intercessors. 

*  Well,  Sir,'  said  I  to  my  fellow  prisoner,  '  you  now 
discover  the  temper  of  the  man  who  oppresses  me.    He  •  \  s^  v 

can  at  once  be  facetious  and  cruel ;  but  let  him  use  me  v 

V. 

as  he  will,  I  shall  soon  be  free,  in  spite  of  all  his  bolts         s>' 
to  restrain  me.    I  am  now  drawing  towards  an  abode      'v 
that  looks  brighter  as  I  approach  it ;   this  expectation    ^'^  ^ 
chears  my  afflictions,  and  though  I  leave  an  helpless  •f' 
family  of  orphans  behind  me,  yet  they  will  not  be 
utterly  forsaken ;    some  friend  perhaps  will  be  found 
to  assist  them  for  the  sake  of  their  poor  father,  and 
some  may  charitably  relieve  them  for  the  sake  of  their 
heavenly  Father.' 
Just  as  I  spoke,  my  wife,  whom  I  had  not  seen  that 
day  before,  appeared  with  looks  of  terror,  and  making 
efforts,  but  unable  to  speak.     *  Why,  my  love,'  cried 
I,  *why  will  you  thus  encrease  my  afflictions  by  your 
*  own,  what  though  no  submissions  can  turn  our  severe 
'  master,  though  he  has  doomed  me  to  die  in  this  place 
'  of  wretchedness,  and  though  we  have  lost  a  darling 
'child,  yet  still  you  will  find  comfort  in  your  other 


374  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  children  when  I  shall  be  no  more.'     '  We  have  indeed 

*  lost/  returned  she,  '  a  darling  child.  My  Sophia, 
'  my  dearest  is  gone,  snatched  from  as,  carried  off  by 
'  mfSans ! ' 

'  How,  madam,'  cried  my  fellow-prisoner, '  Miss  Sophia 

*  carried  off  by  villains,  sore  it  cannot  be  ?  * 

She  could  only  answer  with  a  fixed  look  and  a  flood  of 
tears.  But  one  of  the  prisoner's  wives  who  was  pres^it, 
and  came  in  with  her,  gave  us  a  more  distinct  account : 
she  informed  us  that  as  my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  her- 
self were  taking  a  walk  together  on  the  great  road  a  little 
way  out  of  the  village,  a  post-chaise  and  pair  drove  up 
to  them  and  instantly  stopt.  Upon  which  a  well-drest 
man,  but  not  Mr.  Thomhill,  stepping  out,  clasped  my 
daughter  round  the  waist,  and  forcing  her  in,  bid  the 
postillion  drive  on,  so  that  tiiey  were  out  of  sight  in 
a  moment. 

'  Now,'  cried  I,  '  the  sum  oi  my  miseries  is  made  up, 
^  nor  is  it  in  the  power  of  any  thing  on  earth  to  give  me 
'  another  pang.  What !  not  one  left !  not  to  leave  me 
'  one  !  the  monster  1  the  child  that  was  next  my  heart ! 
^  she  had  the  beauty  of  an  angel,  and  almost  the  wisdom 
'  of  an  angel.    But  support  that  woman,  nor  let  her  fall. 

*  Not  to  leave  me  one  ! ' 

'  Alas !  my  husband,'  said  my  wife,  '  you  seem  to 
'  want  comfort  even  more  than  I.  Our  distresses  are 
'  great ;  but  I  could  bear  this  and  more,  if  I  saw  you 
*"  but  easy.     They  may  take  away  my  children,  and  all 

*  the  world,  if  they  leave  me  but  you.' 

My  son,  who  was  present,  endeavoured  to  moderate 
our  grief  ;   he  bade  us  take  comfort,  for  he  hoped  that 

we  might  still  have  reason  to  be  thankful. '  My  child,' 

cried  I,  '  look  round  the  world,  and  see  if  there  be  any 

*  happiness  left  me  now.     Is  not  every  ray  of  comfoit 

*  shut  out ;  while  all  our  bright  prospects  only  lie  beyond 


3xvra        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  376 

the  grave  ! ' '  My  dear  father,*  returned  he,  *  I  hope 

there  is  still  something  that  will  give  you  an  interval 
of  satisfaction ;   for  I  have  a  letter  from  my  brother 

George.' *  What  of  him,  child,'  interrupted  I,  *  does 

he  know  our  misery  ?  I  hope  my  boy  is  exempt 
from  any  part  of  what  his  wretched  family  suffers  ?  ' — 
Yes,  Sir,'  returned  he,  '  he  is  perfectly  gay,  chearful, 
and  happy.  His  letter  brings  nothing  but  good  news  ; 
he  is  the  favourite  of  his  colonel,  who  promises  to 
procure  him  the  very  next  Ueutenancy  that  becomes 
vacant ! ' 
'  And  are  you  sure  of  all  this,'  cried  my  wife,  *  are 

you  sure  that  nothing  ill  has  befallen  my  boy  ?  ' 

Nothing  indeed,  Madam,'  returned  my  son,  *  you  shall 
see  the  letter,  which  will  give  you  the  highest  pleasure  ; 
and  if  any  thing  can  procure  you  comfort  I  am  sure 
that  will.'  '  But  are  you  sure,'  still  repeated  she,  '  that 
the  letter  is  from  himself,  and  that  he  is  reaUy  so 

happy  ?  ' *  Yes,  Madam,'  replied  he,  *  it  is  certainly 

his,  and  he  will  one  day  be  the  credit  and  the  support 

of  our  family ! ' *  Then  I  thank  Providence,'  cried 

she,  *  that  my  last  letter  to  him  has  miscarried. — Yes, 
my  dear,'  continued  she,  turning  to  me,  *  I  will  now 
confess,  that  though  the  hand  of  heaven  is  sore  upon 
us  in  other  instances,  it  has  been  favourable  here.  By 
the  last  letter  I  wrote  my  son,  which  was  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  anger,  I  desired  him,  upon  his  mother's  blessing, 
and  if  he  had  the  heart  of  a  man,  to  see  justice  done 
his  father  and  sister,  and  avenge  our  cause.  But  thanks 
be  to  Him  that  directs  all  things,  it  has  miscarried,  and 
I  am  at  rest.*  'Woman,*  cried  I,  '  thou  hast  done  very 
ill,  and  at  another  time  my  reproaches  might  have  been 
more  severe.  Oh  !  what  a  tremendous  gulph  hast  thou 
escaped,  that  would  have  buried  both  thee  and  him  in 
endless  ruin.    Providence  indeed,  has  here  been  kinder 


376  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

^  to  us  than  we  to  ourselves.  It  has  reserved  that  son  to 
'  be  the  father  and  protector  of  my  children  when  I  shall 

*  be  away.     How  unjustly  did  I  complain  of  being  stript 

*  of  every  comfort,  when  still  I  hear  that  he  is  happy 

*  and  insensible  of  our  afflictions ;  still  kept  in  reserve 
'  to  support  his  widowed  mother,  and  to  protect  his 

*  brothers  and  sisters.  But  what  sisters  has  he  left  ?  he 
'  has  no  sisters  now,  they  are  all  gone,  robbed  from  me, 
'  and  I  am  undone.' '  Father,'  interrupted  my  son, 

*  I  beg  you  will  give  me  leave  to  read  this  letter,  I  know 

*  it  will  please  you.'  Upon  which,  with  my  permission,, 
he  read  as  follows. 

HoNouBBD  Sib, 

I  have  called  off  my  imagination  a  few  moments  from 
the  pleasures  that  surround  me,  to  fix  it  upon  objects 
that  are  still  more  pleasing,  the  dear  Uttle  fire-side  at 
home.  My  fancy  draws  that  harmless  groupe  as  Ustening 
to  every  Kne  of  this  with  great  composure.  I  view  those 
faces  with  delight  which  never  felt  the  deforming  hand 
of  ambition  or  distress  !  But  whatever  your  happiness 
may  be  at  home,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  some  addition  to 
it  to  hear  that  I  am  perfectly  pleased  with  my  situation, 
and  every  way  happy  here. 

Our  regiment  is  countermanded,  and  is  not  to  leave 
the  kingdom ;  the  colonel,  who  professes  himseK  my 
friend,  takes  me  with  him  to  all  companies  where  he  is 
acquainted,  and  after  my  first  visit  I  generally  find  my- 
self received  with  encreased  respect  upon  repeating  it. 

I  danced  last  night  with  Lady  G ,  and  could  I  forget 

you  know  whom,  I  might  be  perhaps  successful.  But  it 
is  my  fate  still  to  remember  others  while  I  am  myself 
forgotten  by  most  of  my  absent  friends,  and  in  this 
number  I  fear,  Sir,  that  I  must  consider  you  ;  for  I  have 
long  expected  the  pleasure  of  a  letter  from  home,  to  no 


xxvin        THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  377 

purpose.  Olivia  and  Sophia  too  promised  to  write,  but 
seem  to  have  forgotten  me.  Tell  them  they  are  t^wo 
arrant  little  baggages,  and  that  I  am  this  moment  in 
a  most  violent  passion  with  them  :  yet  still  I  know 
not  how ;  though  I  want  to  bluster  a  little,  my  heart 
is  respondent  only  to  softer  emotions.  Then  tell  them. 
Sir,  that  after  all,  I  love  them  affectionately,  and  be 
assured  of  my  ever  remaining 

Your  dutiful  son. 

'  In  all  our  miseries,'  cried  I,  '  what  thanks  have  we 
*  not  to  return,  that  one  at  least  of  our  family  is  exempted 
'  from  what  we  suffer.  Heaven  be  his  guard,  and  keep 
'  my  boy  thus  happy  to  be  the  support  of  his  widowed 
'  mother,  and  the  father  of  these  two  babes,  which  is  all 
'  the  patrimony  I  can  now  bequeath  him.  May  he  keep 
'  their  innocence  from  the  temptations  of  want,  and  be 
'  their  conductor  in  the  paths  of  honour.'  I  had  scarce 
said  these  words  when  a  noise,  like  that  of  a  tumult, 
seemed  to  proceed  from  the  prison  below  ;  it  died  away 
soon  after,  and  a  clanking  of  fetters  was  heard  along  the 
passage  that  led  to  my  apartment.  The  keeper  of  the 
prison  entered,  holding  a  man  all  bloody,  wounded  and 
fettered  with  the  heaviest  irons.  I  looked  with  com- 
passion on  the  wretch  as  he  approached  me,  but  with 

horror  when  I  found  it  was  my  own  son. *  My  George  ! 

'  My  George  !  and  do  I  behold  thee  thus.  Wounded  ! 
'  Fettered  !  Is  this  thy  happiness  ?  Is  this  the  manner 
'  you  return  to  me  ?  O  that  this  sight  could  break  my 
'  heart  at  once  and  let  me  die  ! ' 

*  Where,  Sir,  is  your  fortitude  ?  '  returned  my  son  with 
^n  intrepid  voice.  *  I  must  suffer,  my  life  is  forfeited, 
'  and  let  them  take  it.' 

X  tried  to  restrain  my  passions  for  a  few  minutes  in 
silence,  but  I  thought  I  should  have  died  with  the  effort. 


378  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 
*  O,  my  boy,  my  heart  weeps  to  behold  thee  thus. 


and  I  cannot,  cannot  help  it.  In  the  moment  that 
I  thought  thee  blest,  and  prayed  for  thy  safety,  to 
behold  thee  thus  again  !  Chained,  wounded !  And  yet 
the  death  of  the  youthful  is  happy.  But  I  am  old. 
a  very  old  man,  and  have  hved  to  see  this  day.  To 
see  my  children  all  untimely  falling  about  me,  while 
I  continue  a  wretched  survivor  in  the  midst  of  ruin ! 
May  all  the  curses  that  ever  sunk  a  soul  fall  heavy 
upon  the  murderer  of  my  children.  May  he  live,  like 
me,  to  see ' 

*  Hold,  Sir,'  replied  my  son,  *  or  I  shall  blush  for  thee. 
How,  Sir,  forgetful  of  your  age,  your  holy  calling,  thus 
to  arrogate  the  justice  of  heaven,  and  fling  those  curses 
upward  that  must  soon  descend  to  crush  thy  own  grey 
head  with  destruction !  No,  Sir,  let  it  be  your  care 
now  to  fit  me  for  that  vile  death  I  must  shortly  sufFer, 
to  arm  me  with  hope  and  resolution,  to  give  me  courage 
to  drink  of  that  bitterness  which  must  shortly  be  my 
portion.' 

*  My  child,  you  must  not  die  :  I  am  sure  no  offence  of 
thine  can  deserve  so  vile  a  punishment.  My  George 
could  never  be  guilty  of  any  crime  to  make  his  ancestors 
ashamed  of  him.' 

*  Mine,  Sir,'  returned  my  son,  *  is  I  fear  an  unpardon- 
able one.  When  I  received  my  mother's  letter  from 
home,  I  immediately  came  down,  determined  to  punish 
the  betrayer  of  our  honour,  and  sent  him  an  order  to 
meet  me,  which  he  answered  not  in  person,  but  by 
his  dispatching  four  of  his  domestics  to  seize  me. 
I  wounded  one  who  first  assaulted  me,  and  I  fear 
desperately ;  but  the  rest  made  me  their  prisoner. 
The  coward  is  determined  to  put  the  law  in  execution 
against  me  ;  the  proofs  are  undeniable  ;  I  have  sent 
a  challenge,  and  as  I  am  the  first  transgressor  upon 


xxvin       THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  379 

'  the  statute,  I  see  no  hopes  of  pardon.    But  you  have 

*  often  charmed  me  with  your  lessons  of  fortitude,  let 
'  me  now,  Sir,  find  them  in  your  example.' 

'  And,  my  son,  you  shall  find  them.  I  am  now  raised 
'  above  this  world,  and  all  the  pleasures  it  can  produce. 
'  From  this  moment  I  break  from  my  heart  all  the  ties 

*  that  held  it  down  to  earth,  and  will  prepare  to  fit  us 
'  both  for  eternity.     Yes,  my  son,  I  will  point  out  the 

*  way,  and  my  soul  shall  guide  yours  in  the  ascent,  for 

*  we  will  take  our  flight  together.     I  now  see  and  am 

*  convinced  you  can  expect  no  pardon  here,  and  I  can 

*  only  exhort  you  to  seek  it  at  that  greatest  tribunal 

*  where  we  both  shall  shortly  answer.  But  let  us  not 
'  be  niggardly  in  our  exhortation,  but  let  all  our  fellow 
'  prisoners  have  a  share  :  good  gaoler,  let  them  be  per- 
'  mitted  to  stand  here  while  I  attempt  to  improve  them.' 
Thus  saying,  I  made  an  effort  to  rise  from  my  straw, 
but  wanted  strength,  and  was  able  only  to  recline  against 
the  wall.  The  prisoners  assembled  themselves  according 
to  my  directions,  for  they  loved  to  hear  my  counsel ; 
my  son  and  his  mother  supported  me  on  either  side  ; 
I  looked  and  saw  that  none  were  wanting,  and  then 
addressed  them  with  the  following  exhortation. 


MeordinBto  ibt  direetlons,  tar  ibtT 


I  iBT  direetlons,  fOr  tW 
irtod  ■■«  oa  eitber  wk.- 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

The  equal  dealings  of  Providence  demonstrated  with  regard  to 
the  happy  and  the  miserable  here  below.  That  from  the 
nature  of  pleasure  and  pain,  the  wretched  must  be  repaid 
the  balance  of  their  sufEeringB  in  the  life  hereafter. 

MY  friends,  my  children,  and  fellow  sufferers,  when  I 
reflecfcon  the  distribution  of  good  andevilhere  below, 
I  find  that  much  has  been  given  man  to  enjoy,  yet  still 
more  to  suffer.  Though  we  should  examine  the  whole 
world,  we  shall  not  find  one  man  so  happy  as  to  hare 
nothing  left  to  wish  for ;  but  we  daily  see  thousands 
who  by  suicide  shew  us  they  have  nothing  left  to  hope. 


CH.  XXIX    THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  381 

In  this  life  then  it  appears  that  we  cannot  be  entirely 
blest,  but  yet  we  may  be  completely  miserable. 

Why  man  should  thus  feel  pain,  why  our  wretchedness 
should  be  requisite  in  the  formation  ot  universal  felicity  ; 
why,  when  all  other  systems  are  made  perfect  by  .the 
perfection  of  their  subordinate  parts,  the  great  system 
should  require  for  its  perfection  parts  that  are  not  only 
subordinate  to  others,  but  imperfect  in  themselves  ;  these 
are  questions  that  never  can  be  explained,  and  might 
be  useless  if  known.  On  this  subject  Providence  has 
thought  fit  to  elude  our  curiosity,  satisfied  with  granting 
us  motives  to  consolation. 

In  this  situation,  man  has  called  in  the  friendly  assist- 
ance of  philosophy,  and  heaven,  seeing  the  incapacity  of 
that  to  console  him,  has  given  him  the  aid  of  religion. 
The  consolations  of  philosophy  are  very  amusing,  but 
often  fallacious.  It  tells  us  that  life  is  filled  with  com- 
forts, if  we  will  but  enjoy  them  ;  and  on  the  other  hand, 
that  though  we  unavoidably  have  miseries  here,  life  is 
short,  and  they  will  soon  be  over.  Thus  do  these  con- 
solations destroy  each  other ;  for  if  life  is  a  place  of 
comfort,  its  shortness  must  be  misery,  and  if  it  be  long, 
our  griefs  are  protracted.  Thus  philosophy  is  weak ; 
but  religion  comforts  in  an  higher  strain.  Man  is  here, 
it  tells  us,  fitting  up  his  mind,  and  preparing  it  for 
another  abode.  When  the  good  man  leaves  the  body, 
and  is  all  a  glorious  mind,  he  will  find  he  has  been 
making  himself  a  heaven  of  happiness  here ;  while  the 
wretch  that  has  been  maimed  and  contaminated  by  his 
vices,  shrinks  from  his  body  with  terror,  and  finds  that 
he  has  anticipated  the  vengeance  of  heaven.  To  religion 
then  we  must  hold  in  every  circumstance  of  life  for  our 
truest  comfort ;  for  if  already  we  are  happy,  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  think  that  we  can  make  that  happiness 
unending  ;   and  if  we  are  miserable,  it  is  very  consoling 


<^ 


^f 


382  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

to  think  that  there  is  a  place  of  rest.  Thus  to  the 
fortunate  religion  holds  out  a  continuance  of  bliss,  to 
the  wretched  a  change  from  pain. 

But  though  religion  is  very  kind  to  all  men,  it  has 
promised  peculiar  rewards  to  the  unhappy  ;  the  sick,  the 
naked,  the  houseless,  the  heavy-laden,  and  the  prisoner, 
have  ever  most  frequent  promises  in  our  sacred  law.  The 
Author  of  our  reUgion  everywhere  professes  himself  the 
wretch's  friend,  and  unlike  the  false  ones  of  this  world, 
bestows  all  his  caresses  upon  the  forlorn.  The  unthinking 
have  censured  this  as  partiality,  as  a  preference  without 
merit  to  deserve  it.  But  they  never  reflect  that  it  is  not 
in  the  power  even  of  Heaven  itself  to  make  the  offer  of  un- 
ceasing felicity  as  great  a  gift  to  the  happy  as  to  the  miser- 
able. To  the  first  eternity  is  but  a  single  blessing,  since 
at  most  it  but  encreases  what  they  already  possess.  To 
the  latter  it  is  a  double  advantage;  for  it  diminishes  their 
pain  here,  and  rewards  them  with  heavenly  bliss  hereafter. 

But  Providence  is  in  another  respect  kinder  to  the 
poor  than  the  rich ;  for  as  it  thus  makes  the  life  after 
death  more  desirable,  so  it  smoothes  the  passage  there. 
The  wretched  have  had  a  long  familiarity  with  every 
face  of  terror.  The  man  of  sorrows  lays  himself  quietly 
down,  without  possessions  to  regret,  and  but  few  ties  to 
stop  his  departure  :  he  feels  only  nature's  pang  in  the 
final  separation,  and  this  is  no  way  greater  than  he  has 
often  fainted  under  before  ;  for  after  a  certain  degree 
of  pain,  every  new  breach  that  death  opens  in  the  con- 
stitution, nature  kindly  covers  with  insensibility. 

Thus  Providence  has  given  the  wretched  two  advan- 
tages over  the  happy  in  this  life,  greater  felicity  in  dying, 
and  in  heaven  all  that  superiority  of  pleasure  which  arises 
from  contrasted  enjoyment.  And  this  superiority,  my 
friends,  is  no  small  advantage,  and  seems  to  be  one  of 
the  pleasures  of  the  poor  man  in  the  parable  ;  for  though 


xxTX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  383 

he  was  already  in  heaven,  and  felt  all  the  raptures  it 
could  give,  yet  it  was  mentioned  as  an  addition  to  his 
happiness,  that  he  had  once  been  wretched,  and  now  f 
was  comforted ;   that  he  had  known  what  it  was  to  be 
miserable,  and  now  felt  what  it  was  to  be  happy. 

Thus,  my  friends,  you  see  religion  does  what  philo- 
sophy could  never  do  :  it  shews  the  equal  dealings  of 
heaven  to  the  happy  and  the  unhappy,  and  levels  all 
human  enjoyments  to  nearly  the  same  standard.  It  \ 
gives  to  both  rich  and  poor  the  same  happiness  here- 
after, and  equal  hopes  to  aspire  after  it ;  but  if  the  rich 
have  the  advantage  of  enjoying  pleasure  here,  the  poor 
have  the  endless  satisfaction  of  knowing  what  it  was 
once  to  be  miserable,  when  crowned  with  endless  felicity 
hereafter  ;  and  even  though  this  should  be  called  a  small 
adviBintage,  yet  being  an  eternal  one,  it  must  make  up 
by  duration  what  the  temporal  happiness  of  the  great 
may  have  exceeded  by  intenseness. 

These  are  therefore  the  consolations  which  the  wretched 
have  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  in  which  they  are  above 
the  rest  of  mankind ;  in  other  respects  they  are  below 
them.  They  who  would  know  the  miseries  of  the  poor, 
must  see  life  and  endure  it.  To  declaim  on  the  temporal 
advantages  they  enjoy  is  only  repeating  what  none  either 
believe  or  practise.  The  men  who  have  the  necessaries 
of  living  are  not  poor,  and  they  who  want  them  must 
be  miserable.  Yes  my  friends,  we  must  be  miserable. 
No  vain  efforts  of  a  refined  imagination  can  soothe 
the  wants  of  nature,  can  give  elastic  sweetness  to  the 
dank  vapour  of  a  dungeon,  or  ease  the  throbbings  of  a 
broken  heart.  Let  the  philosopher  from  his  couch  of 
softness  tell  us  that  we  can  resist  all  these.  Alas  !  the 
effort  by  which  we  resist  them  is  still  the  greatest  pain  i 
Death  is  slight,  and  any  man  may  sustain  it ;  but  tor- 
ments are  dreadful,  and  these  no  man  can  endure. 


384  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

To  us  then  my  friends  the  promises  of  happiness  in 
heaven  should  be  peculiarly  dear  ;  for  if  our  reward  be 
in  this  life  alone,  we  are  then  indeed  of  all  men  the  most 
miserable.  When  I  look  round  these  gloomy  walls,  made 
to  terrify  as  well  as  to  confine  us ;  this  light  that  only 
serves  to  show  the  horrors  of  the  place,  those  shackles 
that  tyranny  has  imposed  or  crime  made  necessary; 
when  I  survey  these  emaciated  looks,  and  hear  those 
groans,  0  I  my  friends,  what  a  glorious  exchange  would 
heaven  be  for  these.  To  fly  through  regions  unconfined 
as  air,  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  eternal  bliss,  to  carol 
over  endless  hymns  of  praise,  to  have  no  master  to 
threaten  or  insult  us,  but  the  form  of  Goodness  himself 
for  ever  in  our  eyes ;  when  I  think  of  these  things, 
death  becomes  the  messenger  of  very  glad  tidings  ;  when 
I  think  of  these  things  his  sharpest  arrow  becomes  the 
staflF  of  my  support ;  when  I  think  of  these  things,  what 
is  there  in  life  worth  having  ?  when  I  think  of  these 
things  what  is  there  that  should  not  be  spurned  away  ? 
kings  in  their  palaces  should  groan  for  such  advantages ; 
but  we,  humbled  as  we  are,  should  yearn  for  them. 

And  shall  these  things  be  ours  ?  Ours  they  will  cer- 
tainly be  if  we  but  try  for  them ;  and  what  is  a  comfort, 
we  are  shut  out  from  many  temptations  that  would 
retard  our  pursuit.  Only  let  us  try  for  them  and  they 
will  certainly  be  ours,  and  what  is  still  a  comfort,  shortly 
too ;  for  if  we  look  back  on  a  past  life  it  appears  but 
a  very  short  span,  and  whatever  we  may  think  of  the 
rest  of  life,  it  will  yet  be  found  of  less  duration;  as  we 
grow  older  the  days  seem  to  grow  shorter,  and  our 
intimacy  with  time  ever  lessens  the  perception  of  his 
stay.  Then  let  us  take  comfort  now,  for  we  shall  soon  be 
at  our  journey's  end ;  we  shall  soon  lay  down  the  heavy 
burthen  laid  by  heaven  upon  us ;  and  though  death, 
the  only  friend  of  the  wretched,  for  a  little  while  mocks 


XXIX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  385 

the  weary  traveller  with  the  view,  and,  like  his  horizon 
Btill  flies  before  him ;  yet  the  time  will  certainly  and 
shortly  come  when  we  shall  cease  from  our  toil ;  when 
the  luxuriant  great  ones  of  the  world  shall  no  more 
tread  us  to  the  earth  ;  when  we  shall  think  with  pleasure 
on  our  suflerings  below;  when  we  shall  be  surrounded 
with  all  our  friends,  or  such  as  deserved  our  friendship  ; 
when  our  bliss  shall  be  unutterable,  and  still  to  crown 
all,  unending. 


GOLDSMITH.     U 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Happier  prospects  begin  to  appear.     Let  ub  be  inflexible,  and 
fortune  ivill  at  laat  change  in  our  favonr. 

WHEN  I  had  thus  finished,  and  my  audience  waa 
retired,  the  gaoler,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
humane  of  his  profession,  hoped  I  would  not  be  dis- 
pleased, as  what  he  did  was  but  his  duty,  observing  that 
he  must  be  obliged  to  remove  my  son  into  a  stronger 
cell,  but  that  he  should  be  permitted  to  visit  me  every 
morning.  I  thanked  him  for  his  clemency,  and  grasping 
my  boy's  hand  bade  him  farewell,  and  be  mindful  of  the 
great  duty  that  was  before  him. 


CH.  XXX      THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  387 

I  again  therefore  laid  me  down,  and  one  of  my  little 
ones  sate  by  my  bed  side  reading,  when  Mr.  Jenkinson 
entering,  informed  me  that  there  was  news  of  my 
daughter  ;  for  that  she  was  seen  by  a  person  about  two 
hears  before  in  a  strange  gentleman's  company,  and  that 
they  had  stopt  at  a  neighbouring  village  for  refreshment, 
and  seemed  as  if  returning  to  town.  He  had  scarcely 
delivered  this  news,  when  the  gaoler  came  with  looks  of 
haste  and  pleasure  to  inform  me  that  my  daughter  was 
found.  Moses  came  running  in  a  moment  after,  crying 
out  that  his  sister  Sophy  was  below,  and  coming  up 
with  our  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell. 

Just  as  he  deUvered  this  news  my  dearest  girl  entered, 
and  with  looks  almost  wild  with  pleasure  ran  to  kiss 
me  in  a  transport  of  affection.  Her  mother's  tears  and 
silence  also  shewed  her  pleasure. — 'Here,  papa,'  cried 
the  charming  girl,   'here  is  the  brave  man  to  whom 

*  I  owe  my  delivery ;    to  this  gentleman's  intrepidity 

'  I  am  indebted  for  my  happiness  and  safety '    A  kiss 

from  Mr.  Burchell,  whose  pleasure  seemed  even  greater 
than  hers,  interrupted  what  she  was  going  to  add. 

'  Ah,  Mr.  Burchell,'  cried  I,  *  this  is  but  a  wretched 
'  habitation  you  now  find  us  in  ;   and  we  are  now  very 

*  different  from  what  you  last  saw  us.  You  were  ever 
'  our  friend :  we  have  long  discovered  our  errors  with 
'  regard  to  you,  and  repented  of  our  ingratitude.  After 
^  the  vile  usage  you  then  received  at  my  hands,  I  am 

*  almost  ashamed  to  behold  your  face  ;  yet  I  hope  you'll 
^forgive  me,  as  I  was  deceived  by  a  base  ungenerous 
^  wretch,  who  under  the  mask  of  friendship    has  un- 

*  done  me.' 

'  It  is  impossible,'  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  *  that  I  should 
'forgive  you,  as  you  never  deserved  my  refeentment. 

*  I  partly  saw  your  delusion  then,  and  as  it  was  out  of 

*  my  power  to  restrain,  I  could  only  pity  it  I ' 


388 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


*  It  was  ever  my  conjecture,'  cried  I,  *  that  your  mind 
was  noble,  but  now  I  find  it  so.  But  tell  me,  my  dear 
child,  how  hast  thou  been  relieved,  or  who  the  ruffians 
were  who  carried  thee  away.' 

*  Indeed,  Sir,'  replied  she,  *  as  to  the  villain  who  carried 
me  off,  I  am  yet  ignorant.  For  as  my  mamma  and 
I  were  walking  out,  he  came  behind  us,  and  almost 
before  I  could  call  for  help,  forced  me  into  the  post- 
chaise,  and  in  an  instant  the  horses  drove  away.  I  met 
several  on  the  road  to  whom  I  cried  out  for  assistance ; 
but  they  disregarded  my  entreaties.  In  the  mean  time 
the  ruffian  himself  used  every  art  to  hinder  me  from 
crying  out :  he  flattered  and  threatened  by  turns,  and 
swore  that  if  I  continued  but  silent  he  intended  no 
harm.  In  the  mean  time  I  had  broken  the  canvas  that 
he  had  drawn  up,  and  whom  should  I  perceive  at  some 
distance  but  your  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell,  walking  along 
with  his  usual  swiftness,  with  the  great  stick  for  which 
we  used  so  much  to  ridicule  him.  As  soon  as  we  came 
within  hearing,  I  called  out  to  him  by  name  and 
entreated  his  help.  I  repeated  my  exclamation  several 
times,  upon  which  with  a  very  loud  voice  he  bid  the 
postillion  stop  ;  but  the  boy  took  no  notice,  but  drove 
on  with  still  greater  speed.  I  now  thought  he  could 
never  overtake  us,  when  in  less  than  a  minute  I  saw 
Mr.  Burchell  come  running  up  by  the  side  of  the  horses, 
and  with  one  blow  knock  the  postillion  to  the  ground. 
The  horses  when  he  was  fallen  soon  stopt  of  themselves, 
and  the  ruffian,  stepping  out,  with  oaths  and  menaces 
drew  his  sword,  and  ordered  him  at  his  peril  to  retire  ; 
but  Mr.  Burchell  running  up  shivered  his  sword  to 
pieces,  and  then  pursued  him  for  near  a  quarter  of 
a  mile ;  but  he  made  his  escape.  I  was  at  this  time 
come  out  myself,  willing  to  assist  my  deliverer;  but 
he  soon  returned  to  me  in  triumph.     The  postillion, 


.-I* 


XXX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  389 

who  was  recovered,  was  going  to  make  his  escape  too  ; 
but  Mr.  Burchell  ordered  him  at  his  peril  to  mount 
again  and  drive  back  to  town.  Finding  it  impossible 
to  resist,  he  reluctantly  complied,  though  the  wound 
he  had  received  seemed,  to  me  at  least,  to  be  dangerous. 
He  continued  to  complain  of  the  pain  as  we  drove 
along,  so  that  he  at  last  excited  Mr.  Burchell's  com- 
passion, who  at  my  request  exchanged  him  for  another 
at  an  inn  where  we  called  on  our  return.' 

*  Welcome,  then,'  cried  I,  *  my  child,  and  thou  her 
gallant  deliverer,  a  thousand  welcomes.  Though  our 
chear  is  but  wretched  yet  our  hearts  are  ready  to  receive 
you.  And  now,  Mr.  Burchell,  as  you  have  delivered 
my  girl,  if  you  think  her  a  recompence  she  is  yours ;  if 
you  can  stoop  to  an  alliance  with  a  family  so  poor  as 
mine,  take  her,  obtain  her  consent,  as  I  know  you  have 
her  heart,  and  you  have  mine.  And  let  me  tell  you, 
Sir,  that  I  give  you  no  small  treasure ;  she  has  been 
celebrated  for  beauty  it  is  true,  but  that  is  not  my 
meaning,  I  give  you  up  a  treasure  in  her  mind.' 

*  But  I  suppose.  Sir,'  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  *  that  you 
are  apprized  of  my  circumstances,  and  of  my  incapacity 
to  support  her  as  she  deserves  ?  ' 

*  If  your  present  objection,'  replied  I,  *  be  meant  as  an 
evasion  of  my  offer,  I  desist :  but  I  know  no  man  so 
worthy  to  deserve  her  as  you  :  and  if  I  could  give  her 
thousands,  and  thousands  sought  her  from  me,  yet 
my  honest  brave  Burchell  should  be  my  dearest 
choice.' 

To  all  this  his  silence  alone  seemed  to  give  a  mortify- 
ing refusal,  and  without  the  least  reply  to  my  offer, 
he  demanded  if  he  could  not  be  furnished  with  refresh- 
ments from  the  next  inn,  to  which  being  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  he  ordered  them  to  send  in  the  best 
dinner  that  could  be  provided  upon  such  short  notice. 


390  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD        .     ch. 

He  bespoke  also  a  dozen  of  their  best  wine,  and  some 
cordials  for  me,  adding,  with  a  smile,  that  he  would 
stretch  a  little  for  once,  and  though  in  a  prison  asserted 
he  was  never  better  disposed  to  be  merry.  The  waiter 
soon  made  his  appearance  with  preparations  for  dinner ; 
a  table  was  lent  us  by  the  gaoler,  who  seemed  remarkably 
assiduous,  the  wine  was  disposed  in  order,  and  two  very 
well-drest  dishes  were  brought  in. 

My  daughter  had  not  yet  heard  of  her  poor  brother's 
melancholy  situation,  and  we  all  seemed  unwilling  to 
damp  her  chearfulness  by  the  relation.  But  it  was  in 
vain  that  I  attempted  to  appear  chearful,  the  circum- 
stances of  my  unfortunate  son  broke  through  all  efforts 
to  dissemble  ;  so  that  I  was  at  last  obUged  to  damp  our 
mirth  by  relating  his  misfortunes,  and  wishing  that  he 
might  be  permitted  to  share  with  us  in  this  little  interval 
of  satisfaction.  After  my  guests  were  recovered  from 
the  consternation  my  account  had  produced,  I  requested 
also  that  Mr.  Jenkinson,  a  fellow  prisoner,  might  be 
admitted,  and  the  gaoler  granted  my  request  with  an 
air  of  unusual  submission.  The  clanking  of  my  son's 
irons  was  no  sooner  heard  along  the  passage  than  his 
sister  ran  impatiently  to  meet  him  ;  while  Mr.  Burchell 
in  the  mean  time  asked  me  if  my  son's  name  were  George, 
to  which  replying  in  the  affirmative  he  still  continued 
silent.  As  soon  as  my  boy  entered  the  room,  I  could 
perceive  he  regarded  Mr.  Burchell  with  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment and  reverence.     '  Come  on,'  cried  I,   *  my  son, 

*  though  we  are  fallen  very  low,  yet  Providence  has  been 

*  pleased  to  grant  us  some  small  relaxation  from  pain. 
'  Thy  sister  is  restored  to  us,  and  there  is  her  dehverer  : 
'  to  that  brave  man  it  is  that  I  am  indebted  for  yet 

*  having  a  daughter ;    give  him,  my  boy,  the  hand  of 

*  friendship,  he  deserves  our  warmest  gratitude.' 

My  son  seemed  all  this  while  regardless  of  what  I  said. 


XXX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  391 

and  still  continued  fixed  at  a  respectful  distance. *My 

'  dear  brother,'  cried  his  sister,  'why  don't  you  thank  my 

*  good  deliverer  ?  the  brave  should  ever  love  each  other.' 

He  still  continued  his  silence  and  astonishment,  till 
our  guest  at  last  perceived  himself  to  be  known,  and 
assuming  all  his  native  dignity  desired  my  son  to  come 
forward.  Never  before  had  I  seen  any  thing  so  truly 
majestic  as  the  air  he  assumed  upon  this  occasion.  The 
greatest  object  in  the  universe,  says  a  certain  philo- 
sopher»  is  a  good  man  struggling  with  adversity ;  yet 
there  is  still  a  greater,  which  is  the  good  man  that  comes 
to  relieve  it.  After  he  had  regarded  my  son  for  some 
time  with  a  superior  air,  *"  I  again  find,'  said  he,  '  un- 
'  thinking  boy,  that  the  same  crime  '-:-But  here  he  was 
interrupted  by  one  of  the  gaoler's  servants,  who  came 
to  inf prm  us  that  a  person  of  distinction,  who  had  driven 
into  town  with  a  chariot  and  several  attendants,  sent 
his  respects  to  the  gentleman  that  was  with  us  and 
begged  to  know  when  he  should  think  proper  to  be 

waited  upon. '  Bid  the  fellow  wait,'  cried  our  guest, 

'  till  I  shall  have  leisure  to  receive  him ;  *  and  then 
turning  to  my  son,  *  I  again  find.  Sir,'  proceeded  he, 
'  that  you  are  guilty  of  the  same  offence,  for  which  you 
'  once  had  my  reproof,  and  for  which  the  law  is  now 
'  preparing  its  justest  punishments.  You  imagine,  per- 
'  haps,  that  a  contempt  for  your  own  life  gives  you 
'  a  right  to  take  that  of  another  :  but  where.  Sir,  is  the 
'  difference  between  a  duellist  who  hazards  a  life  of  no 
'  value,  and  the  murderer  who  acts  with  greater  security  ? 
'  Is  it  any  diminution  of  the  gamester's  fraud  when  he 
'  alleges  that  he  has  staked  a  counter  ?  ' 

'  Alas,  Sir,'  cried  I,  '  whoever  you  are,  pity  the  poor 
'  misguided  creature ;    for  what  he  has  done  was  in 

*  obedience  to  a  deluded  mother,  who  in  the  bitterness 

*  of  her  resentment  required  him  upon  her  blessing  to 


392  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

*  avenge  her  quarrel.     Here,  Sir,  is  the  letter  which  will 

*  serve  to  convince  you  of  her  imprudence  and  diminish 
'  his  guilt.' 

He  took  the  letter  and  hastily  read  it  over.  *  This,' 
says  he,  *  though  not  a  perfect  excuse,  is  such  a  paUiation 
of  his  fault,  as  induces  me  to  forgive  him.  And  now. 
Sir,'  continued  he,  kindly  taking  my  son  by  the  hand, 
I  see  you  are  surprised  at  finding  me  here  ;  but  I  have 
often  visited  prisons  upon  occasions  less  interesting. 
I  am  now  come  to  see  justice  done  a  worthy  man,  for 
whom  I  have  the  most  sincere  esteem.  I  have  long 
been  a  disguised  spectator  of  thy  father's  benevolence. 
I  have  at  his  httle  dwelling  enjoyed  respect  uncon- 
taminated  by  flattery,  and  have  received  that  happi- 
ness that  courts  could  not  give,  from  the  amusing 
simplicity  round  his  fire-side.  My  nephew  has  been 
apprized  of  my  intentions  of  coming  here,  and  I  find 
is  arrived ;  it  would  be  wronging  him  and  you  to 
condemn  him  without  examination  :  if  there  be  injury 
there  shall  be  redress ;  and  this  I  may  say  without 
boasting,  that  none  have  ever  taxed  the  injustice  o{ 
Sir  WiUiam  ThomhiU.' 
We  now  found  the  personage  whom  we  had  so  long 
entertained  as  an  harmless  amusing  companion  was  no 
other  than  the  celebrated  Sir  William  Thomhill,  to  whose 
virtues  and  singularities  scarce  any  w^re  strangers. 
The  poor  Mr.  Burchell  was  in  reality  a  man  of  large 
fortune  and  great  interest,  to  whom  senates  listened 
with  applause,  and  whom  party  heard  with  conviction ; 
who  was  the  friend  of  his  country,  but  loyal  to  his  king. 
My  poor  wife  recollecting  her  former  familiarity  seemed 
to  shrink  with  apprehension ;  but  Sophia,  who  a  few 
moments  before  thought  him  her  own,  now  perceiving 
the  immense  distance  to  which  he  was  removed  by 
fortune^  was  unable  to  conceal  her  tears. 


'^. — r 


XXX  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEMELD  393 

*  Ah,  Sir,'  cried  my  wife  with  a  piteous  aspect,  '  how 
'  is  it  possible  that  I  can  ever  have  your  forgiveness  ?  The 
'  slights  you  received  from  me  the  last  time  I  had  the 

*  honour  oC  seeing  you  at  our  house,  and  the  jokes  which 

*  I  audaciously  threw  out,  these  jokes,  Sir,  I  fear  can 
'  never  be  forgiven.' 

'  My  dear  good  lady,'  returned  he  with  a  smile,  '  if 
'  you  had  your  joke  I  had  my  answer :  I'll  leave  it  to 
'  all  the  company  if  mine  were  not  as  good  as  yours. 
'  To  say  the  truth  I  know  nobody  whom  I  am  disposed 
'  to  be  angry  with  at  present  but  the  fellow  who  so 
'  frighted  my  little  girl  here.  I  had  not  even  time  to 
'  examine  the  rascal's  person  so  as  to  describe  him  in  an 
'  advertisement.  Can  you  tell  me,  Sophia,  my  dear, 
'  whether  you  should  know  him  again  ?  ' 

*  Indeed,  Sir,'  repUed  she,  '  I  can't  be  positive  ;  yet 
'  now  I  recollect  he  had  a  large  mark  over  one  of  his 
'  eye-brows.'  *  I  ask  pardon.  Madam,'  interrupted  Jen- 
kinson,  who  was  by,  '  but  be  so  good  as  to  inform  me 

*  if  the  fdUiow  wore  his  own  red  hair  ?  ' — *  Yes,  I  think 
'  so,'  cried  Sophia. — '  And  did  your  honour,'  continued 
he,  turning  to  Sir  William,  '  observe  the  length  of  his 

*  legs  ?  ' — '  I  can't  be  sure  of  their  length,'  cried  the 
Baronet,  *  but  I  am  convinced  of  their  swiftness ;    for 

*  he  outran  me,  which  is  what  I  thought  few  men  in 
'  the  kingdom  could  have  done.' — '  Rease  your  honour,' 
cried  Jenkinson,  '  I  know  the  man  :  it  is  certainly  the 
'  same  ;  the  best  runner  in  England ;  he  has  beaten 
'  Pinwire  of  Newcastle,  Timothy  Baxter  is  his  name, 
'  I  know  him  perfoptly,  and  the  very  place  of  his  retreat 

*  this  moment.  If  your  honour  will  bid  Mr.  Gaoler  let 
'  two  of  his  men  go  with  me,  I'll  engage  to  produce  him 
'  to  you  in  an  hour  at  farthest.'  Upon  this  the  gaoler 
was  called,  who  instantly  appearing,  Sir  William  de- 
manded if  he  knew  him.     *  Yes,  please  your  honour,' 

o3 


\» 


394  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD        ch.  xxx 

replied  the  gaoler,  *  I  know  Sir  William  Thornhill  well, 
'  and  everybody  that  knows  any  thing  of  him  will  desire  to 

'  know  more  of  him.' '  Well,  then,'  said  the  Baronet, 

'  my  request  is,  that  you  will  permit  this  man  and  two 
'  of  your  servants  to  go  upon  a  message  by  my  authority, 
'  and  as  I  am  in  the  Commission  of  the  Peace,  I  undertake 

'  to  secure  you.' *  Your  promise  is  sufficient,'  replied 

'  the  other,  'and  you  may  at  a  minute's  warning  send 
'  them  over  England  whenever  your  honour  thinks  fit.' 

In  pursuance  of  the  gaoler's  compliance,  Jenkinson 
was  dispatched  in  search  of  Timothy  Baxter,  while  we 
were  amused  with  the  assiduity  of  our  youngest  boy  Bill, 
who  had  just  come  in  and  climbed  up  to  Sir  William's  neck 
in  order  to  kiss  him.  His  mother  was  immediately  going 
to  chastise  his  familiarity,  but  the  worthy  man  prevented 
her ;  and  taking  the  child,  all  ragged  as  he  was,  upon 
his  knee,  *  What,  Bill,  you  chubby  rogue,'  cried  he,  *  do 
*  you  remember  your  old  friend  Burchell  ?  and  Dick  too, 
'  my  honest  veteran,  are  you  here  ?  you  shall  find  I  have 
'  not  forgot  you.'  So  saying,  he  gave  eax)h  a  large  piece  of 
gingerbread,  which  the  poor  fellows  ate  very  heartily,  as 
they  had  got  that  morning  but  a  very  scwity  breakfast. 

We  now  sate  down  to  dinner,  which  was  almost  cold  ; 
but  previously,  my  arm  still  continuing  painful,  Sir  Wil- 
liam wrote  a  prescription,  for  he  had  made  the  study  of 
^  c'  /  physic  his  amusement,  and  was  more  than  moderately 
skilled  in  the  profession  :  this  being  sent  to  an  apothecary 
who  hved  in  the  place,  my  arm  was  dressed,  and  I  found 
almost  instantaneous  relief.  We  were  waited  upon  at 
dinner  by  the  gaoler  himself,  who  wi(^  willing  to  do  our 
guest  all  the  honour  in  his  power.  But  before  we  had 
well  dined,  another  message  was  brought  from  his  nephew, 
desiring  permission  to  appear  in  order  to  vindicate  his 
innocence  and  honour,  with  which  request  the  Baronet 
complied,  and  desired  Mr.  Thornhill  to  be  introduced. 


ruth,  here  b  tfae  UcenM 

CHAPTER  XXXI 
rormer  benevolence  now  repaid  with  unexpected  interest. 

MB.  THOBNHILL  made  bia  appearance  with  a 
smile,  which  he  seldom  wanted,  and  was  going 
to  embrace  bia  uncle,  which  the  other  repulsed  with  an 
air  of  disdain.  '  No  fawning,  Sir,  at  present,'  cried  the 
Baronet,  with  a  look  of  severity,  '  the  only  way  to  my 
'  heart  la  by  the  road  of  honour ;  but  here  I  only  see 
'  compbcated  instances  of  falsehood,  cowardice,  and 
'  oppression.  How  is  it.  Sir,  that  this  poor  man,  for 
'  whom  I  know  you  professed  a  friendship,  is  used  thus 
'  hardly  ?    His  daughter  vilely  seduced,  as  a  recompence 


396 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


for  hia  hospitality,  and  he  himself  thrown  into  a  prison, 
perhaps  but  for  resenting  the  insult  ?  His  son  too 
whom  you  feared  to  face  as  a  man ' 

*  Is  it  possible.  Sir,'  interrupted  his  nephew,  '  that  my 
uncle  could  object  that  as  a  crime,  which  his  repeated 
instructions  alone  have  persuaded  me  to  avoid.' 

'  Your  rebuke,'  cried  Sir  William,  '  is  just :  you  have 
acted  in  this  instance  prudently  and  well,  though  not 
quite  as  your  father  would  have  done  :  my  brother 
indeed  was  the  soul  of  honour ;  but  thou — yes  you 
have  acted  in  this  instance  perfectly  right,  and  it  has 
my  warmest  approbation.' 

'  And  I  hope,'  said  his  nephew,  *  that  the  rest  of  my 
conduct  will  not  be  found  to  deserve  censure.  I  ap- 
peared, Sir,  with  this  gentleman's  daughter  at  some 
places  of  public  amusement :  thus,  what  was  levity, 
scandal  called  by  a  harsher  name,  and  it  was  reported 
that  I  had  debauched  her.  I  Waited  on  her  father  in 
person,  willing  to  clear  the  thing  to  his  satisfaction,  and 
he  received  me  only  with  insult  and  abuse.  As  for  the 
rest,  with  regard  to  his  being  here,  my  attorney  and 
steward  can  best  inform  you,  as  I  commit  the  manage- 
ment of  business  entirely  to  them.  If  he  has  contracted 
debts  and  is  unwilhng  or  even  unable  to  pay  them,  it 
is  their  business  to  proceed  in  this  manner,  and  I  see 
no  hardship  or  injustice  in  pursuing  the  most  legal 
means  of  redress.' 

'  If  this,'  cried  Sir  William,  *  be  as  you  have  stated  it, 
there  is  nothing  unpardonable  in  your  offence ;  and 
though  your  conduct  might  have  been  more  generous 
in  not  suffering  this  gentleman  to  be  oppressed  by 
subordinate  tyranny,  yet  it  has  been  at  least  equitable.' 

^  He  cannot  contradict  a  single  particular,'  replied  the 

Sijuire  ;  '  I  defy  him  to  do  so,  and  several  of  my  servants 

are  ready  to  attest  what  I  say.    Thus,  Sir,'  continued 


XXXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  397 

he,  finding  that  I  was  silent,  for  in  fact  I  could  not  con- 
tradict him,  *  thus,  Sir,  my  own  innocence  is  vindicated  ; 
but  though  at  your  entreaty  I  am  ready  to  forgive  this 
gentleman  every  other  offence,  yet  his  attempts  to 
lessen  me  in  your  esteem  excite  a  resentment  that 
I  cannot  govern.  And  this  too  at  a  time  when  his 
son  was  actually  preparing  to  take  away  my  life  ;  this 
I  say  was  such  guilt  that  I  am  determined  to  let  the 
law  take  its  course.  I  have  here  the  challenge  that 
was  sent  me,  and  two  witnesses  to  prove  it ;  one  of 
my  servants  has  been  wounded  dangerously,  and  even 
though  my  uncle  himself  should  dissuade  me,  which 
I  know  he  will  not,  yet  I  will  see  public  justice  done, 
and  he  shall  suffer  for  it/ 

'  Thou  monster,'  cried  my  wife,  *  hast  thou  not  had 
vengeance  enough  already,  but  must  my  poor  boy  feel 
thy  cruelty  ?  I  hope  that  good  Sir  William  will  pro'tect 
us,  for  my  son  is  as  innocent  as  a  child ;  I  am  sure  he 
is  and  never  did  harm  to  man.' 

^  Madam,'  replied  the  good  man,  *  your  wishes  for  his 
safety  are  not  greater  than  mine ;    but  I  am  sorry  to 

find  hia  guilt  too  plain ;  and  if  my  nephew  persists ' 

But  the  appearance  of  Jenkinson  and  the  gaoler's  two 
servants  now  called  off  our  attention,  who  entered  hauling 
in  a  tall  man  very  genteelly  drest,  and  answering  the 
description  already  given  of  the  ruffian  who  had  carried 

off  my  daughter '  Here,'  cried  Jenkinson,  pulling  him 

in,  '  here  we  have  him  ;  and  if  ever  there  was  a  candi- 
'  date  for  Tyburn  this  is  one.' 

The  moment  Mr.  Thornhill  perceived  the  prisoner,  and 
Jenkinson  who  had  him  in  custody,  he  seemed  to  shrink 
back  with  terror.  His  face  became  pale  with  conscious 
guilt,  and  he  would  have  withdrawn ;    but  Jenkinson, 

who  perceived  his  design,  stopt  him. '  What,  'Squire,' 

cried  he,  *  are  you  ashamed  of  your  two  old  acquain- 


398  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

tances,  Jenkinson  and  Baxter  ?  but  this  is  the  way 
that  all  great  men  forget  their  friends,  though  I  am 
resolved  we  will  not  forget  you.  Our  prisoner,  please 
your  honour,'  continued  he,  turning  to  Sir  William, 
has  already  confessed  all.  This  is  the  gentleman  re- 
ported to  be  so  dangerously  wounded  ;  he  declares  that 
it  was  Mr.  Thornhill  who  first  put  him  upon  this  affair, 
that  he  gave  him  the  clothes  he  now  wears  to  appear 
like  a  gentleman,  and  furnished  him  with  the  post- 
chaise.  The  plan  was  laid  between  them  that  he 
should  carry  off  the  young  lady  to  a  place  of  safety, 
and  that  there  he  should  threaten  and  terrify  her; 
but  Mr.  Thornhill  was  to  come  in  in  the  mean  time,  as 
if  by  accident,  to  her  rescue,  and  that  they  should 
fight  a  while,  and  then  he  was  to  run  off,  by  which 
Mr.  Thornhill  would  have  the  better  opportunity  of 
gaining  her  affections  himself  under  the  character  of 
her  defender.' 
Sir  William  remembered  the  coat  to  have  been  fre- 
quently worn  by  his  nephew,  and  all  the  rest  the  prisoner 
himself  confirmed  by  a  more  circumstantial  account; 
concluding,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  often  declared  to  him 
that  he  was  in  love  with  both  sisters  at  the  same  time. 

*  Heavens ! '  cried  Sir  William,  *  what  a  viper  have 
'  I  been  fostering  in  my  bosom  !    And  so  fond  of  public 

*  justice  too  as  he  seemed  to  be.  But  he  shall  have  it ; 
'  secure  him,  Mr.  Gaoler — ^yet  hold,  I  fear  there  is  not 
'  legal  evidence  to  detain  him.' 

Upon  this,  Mr.  Thornhill,  with  the  utmost  humiUty, 
entreated  that  two  such  abandoned  wretches  might  not 
be  admitted  as  evidences  against  him,  but  that  his  ser- 
vants should  be  examined. *  Your  servants  ! '  replied 

Sir  WiUiam,  '  wretch,  call  them  yours  no  longer :   but 

*  come,  let  us  hear  what  those  fellows  have  to  say,  let 

*  his  butler  be  called.' 


XXXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  399 

When  the  butler  was  introduced,  he  soon  perceived 
by  his  former  master's  looks  that  all  his  power  was  now 
over.  *  Tell  me,'  cried  Sir  William  sternly,  *  have  you 
ever  seen  your  master  and  that  fellow  drest  up  in  his 
clothes  in  company  together  ?  '  '  Yes,  please  your 
honour,'  cried  the  butler,  *  a  thousand  times  :  he  was 
the  man  that  always  brought  him  his  ladies.' — '  How,' 

interrupted  young  Mr.  Thornhill,  '  this  to  my  face  ! ' 

Yes,'  replied  the  butler,  *  or  to  any  man's  face.  To  tell 
you  a  truth,  Master  Thornhill,  I  never  either  loved  you 
or  liked  you,  and  I  don't  care  if  I  tell  you  now  a  piece 

of  my  mind.' 'Now  then,'  cried  Jenkinson,  *  tell  his 

honour  whether  you  know  any  thing  of  me.' *  I  can't 

say,'  replied  the  butler,  '  that  I  know  much  good  of 
you.     The  night  that  gentleman's  daughter  was  deluded 

to  our  house  you  were  one  of  them.' *  So  then,' 

cried  Sir  WiUiam,  *  I  find  you  have  brought  a  very 
fine  witness  to  prove  your  innocence  :  thou  stain  to 
humanity  !  to  associate  with  such  wretches  ! '  (But 
continuing  his  examination)  '  You  tell  me,  Mr.  Butler, 
that  this  was  the  person  who  brought  him  this  old 
gentleman's  daughter.' — *  No,  please  your  honour,' 
replied  the  butler,  *  he  did  not  bring  her,  for  the  'Squire 
himself  undertook  that  business ;  but  he  brought  the 
priest  that  pretended  to  marry  them.' — '  It  is  but  too 
true,'  cried  Jenkinson,  *  I  cannot  deny  it ;  that  was 
the  employment  assigned  me,  and  I  confess  it  to  my 
confusion.' 
*  Good  heavens  ! '  exclaimed  the  Baronet,  *  how  every 
new  discovery  of  his  villainy  alarms  me.  All  his  guilt 
is  now  too  plain,  and  I  find  his  prosecution  was  dictated 
by  tyranny,  cowardice,  and  revenge ;  at  my  request, 
Mr.  Gaoler,  set  this  young  officer,  now  your  prisoner, 
free,  and  trust  to  me  for  the  consequences.  I'll  make 
it  my  business  to  set  the  affair  in  a  proper  light  to  my 


4M  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 


*  friend  the  magistrate  who  has  committed  him.  But 
*'  where  is  the  unfortunate  young  lady  herself  ?  let  her 
^  appear  to  confront  this  wretch ;  I  long  to  iaiow  hy 
^  what  arts  he  has  seduced  her.   Entreat  her  to  come  in. 

*  Where  is  she  ?  ' 

^  Ah,  Sir/  said  I,  '  that  qnesticm  stings  me  to  the 
'  heart :    I  was  ooce  indeed  happy  in  a  dai]^ht^,  hut 

*  her  miseries ^     Another  interruption  here  prevented 

me ;  for  who  should  make  her  appearance  hut  Miss 
Arabella  Wilmot,  who  was  next  day  to  have  been 
married  to  Mr.  Thomhill.  Nothing  could  equal  h^ 
surprise  at  seeing  Sir  William  and  his  nephew  here  before 
her  ;  for  her  arrival  was  quite  accidental.  It  happ^ied 
that  she  and  the  old  gentleman  her  father  were  passing 
through  the  town,  on  their  way  to  h^  aunt's,  who  had 
insisted  that  her  nuptials  with  Mr.  HiomhiU  should  be 
consummated  at  her  house ;  but  stopping  for  rrfresh- 
ment,  they  put  up  at  an  inn  at  the  other  end  of  the 
town.  It  was  there  from  the  window  that  the  young 
lady  happened  to  observe  one  of  my  little  boys  playing 
in  the  street,  and  instantly  sending  a  footman  to  hnog 
the  child  to  her,  she  learnt  from  him  some  account  of 
our  misfortunes ;  but  was  still  kept  igncnrant  of  young 
Mr.  Thomhill's  being  the  cause.  Though  her  father 
made  several  remonstrances  on  the  impropriety  of  going 
to  a  prison  to  visit  us,  yet  they  were  inefiEectuaT;  she 
desired  the  child  to  ccmduct  her,  which  he  cBd,  and  it 
was  thus  she  surprised  us  at  a  juncture  so  unexpected. 

Nor  can  I  go  on,  without  a  refledion  on  those  accidental 
meetings,  which,  though  they  happen  every  day,  seldom 
excite  our  surprise  but  upon  some  extraordinary  occasion. 
To  what  a  fortuitous  occurrence  do  we  mot  owe  every 
pleasure  and  convenience  c^  our  lives.  How  many 
seeming  accidents  must  unite  before  we  can  be  clothed 
or  fed.    The  peasant  must  be  disposed  to  labour,  the 


XXXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  401 

shower  must  fall,  the  wind  fill  the  merchant's  sail,  or 
numbers  mast  want  the  usual  supply. 

We  all  continued  silent  for  some  moments,  while  my 
charming  pupil,  which  was  the  name  I  generally  gave 
this  young  lady,  united  in  her  looks  compassion  and 
astonishment,  which  gave  new  finishings  to  her  beauty. 

*  Indeed,  my  dear  Mr.  Thomhill,'  cried  she  to  the  'Squire, 
who  she  supposed  was  come  here  to  succour  and  not  to 
oppress  us,  '  I  take  it  a  little  unkindly  that  you  should 

*  come  here  without  me,  or  never  inform  me  of  the 

*  situation  of  a  family  so  dear  to  us  both  :  you  know 
^  I  should  take  as  much  pleasure  in  contributing  to  the 
'  relief  of  my  reverend  old  master  here,  whom  I  shall 
'  ever  esteem,  as  you  can.  But  I  find  that,  like  your 
^  uncle,  you  take  pleasure  in  doing  good  in  secret.' 

'  He  find  pleasure  in  doing  good  ! '  cried  Sir  William, 
interrupting  her.  *  No,  my  dear,  his  pleasures  are  as 
base  as  he  is.  You  see  in  him,  madam,  as  compleat 
a  villain  as  ever  disgraced  humanity.  A  wretch,  who 
after  having  deluded  this  poor  man's  daughter,  after 
plotting  against  the  innocence  of  her  sister,  has  thrown 
the  father  into  prison,  and  the  eldest  son  into  fetters, 
because  he  had  courage  to  face  his  betrayer.  And  give 
me  leave,  madam,  now  to  congratulate  you  upon  an 
escape  from  the  embraces  of  such  a  monster.' 

'  Oh  goodness,'  cried  the  lovely  girl,  *  how  have  I  been 
deceived  !  Mr.  Thomhill  informed  me  for  certain  that 
this  gentleman's  eldest  son,  Captain  Primrose,  was  gone 
off  to  America  with  his  new-married  lady.' 

*  My  sweetest  miss,'  cried  my  wife,  *  he  has  told  you 
nothing  but  falsehoods.  My  son  George  never  left  the 
kingdom,  nor  never  was  married. — ^Though  you  have 
forsaken  him,  he  has  always  loved  you  too  well  to  think 
of  any  body  else  ;  and  I  have  heard  him  say  he  would 
die  a  bachelor  for  your  sake.'    She  then  proceeded  to 


402  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

expatiate  upon  the  sincerity  of  her  son's  passion,  she  set 
his  duel  with  Mr.  Thomhill  in  a  proper  light,  from  thence 
she  made  a  rapid  digression  to  the  'Squire's  debaucheries, 
his  pretended  marriages,  and  ended  with  a  most  insulting 
picture  of  his  cowardice. 

*  Good  heaven  ! '  cried  Miss  Wilmot,  '  how  very  near 
'  have  I  been  to  the  brink  of  ruin  !  But  how  great  is 
'  my  pleasure  to  have  escaped  it !  Ten  thousand  f alse- 
'  hoods  has  this  gentleman  told  me  !    He  had  at  last  art 

*  enough  to  persuade  me  that  my  promise  to  the  only 

*  man  I  esteemed  was  no  longer  binding,  since  he  had 

*  been  unfaithful.  By  his  falsehoods  I  was  taught  to 
'  detest  one  equally  brave  and  generous  ! ' 

But  by  this  time  my  son  was  freed  from  the  incum- 
brances of  justice,  as  the  person  supposed  to  be  wounded 
was  detected  to  be  an  impostor.  Mr.  Jenkinson  also, 
who  had  acted  as  his  valet  de  chambre,  had  drest  up 
his  hair,  and  furnished  him  with  whatever  was  necessary 
to  make  a  genteel  appearance.  He  now  therefore 
entered,  handsomely  drest  in  his  regimentals,  and, 
without  vanity  (for  I  am  above  it),  he  appeared  as 
handsome  a  fellow  as  ever  wore  a  military  dress.  As 
he  entered,  he  made  Miss  Wilmot  a  modest  and  distant 
bow,  for  he  was  not  as  yet  acquainted  with  the  change 
which  the  eloquence  of  his  mother  had  wrought  in  his 
favour.  But  no  decorums  could  restrain  the  impatience 
of  his  blushing  mistress  to  be  foi^given.  Her  tears,  her 
looks,  all  contributed  to  discover  the  real  sensations  of 
her  heart  for  having  forgotten  her  former  promise,  and 
having  suffered  herself  to  be  deluded  by  an  impostor. 
My  son  appeared  amazed  at  her  condescension,  and  could 
scarce  beheve  it  real. — '  Sure,  madam,'  cried  he,  *  this  is 

*  but  delusion  !   I  can  never  have  merited  this  !   To  be 

*  blessed  thus  is  to  be  too  happy.' '  No,  Sir,'  replied 

she,  *  I  have  been  deceived,  basely  deceived,  else  nothing 


XXXI.  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  403 

'  could  ever  have  made  me  unjust  to  my  promise.  You 
'  know  my  friendship,  you  have  long  known  it ;  but 
'forget  what  I  have  done,  and  as  you  once  had  my 
'  warmest  vows  of  constancy,  you  shall  now  have  them 
'  repeated  ;  and  be  assured  that  if  your  Arabella  cannot 
'  be  yours  she  shall  never  be  another's.' — '  And  no 
'  other's  you  shall  be,'  cried  Sir  WiUiam,  *  if  I  have  any 
'  influence  with  your  father.' 

This  hint  was  sufficient  for  my  son  Moses,  who  immedi- 
ately flew  to  the  inn  where  the  old  gentleman  was,  to 
inform  him  of  every  circumstance  that  had  happened. 
But  in  the  mean  time  the  'Squire  perceiving  that  he  was 
on  every  side  undone,  now  finding  that  no  hopes  were 
left  from  flattery  or  dissimulation,  concluded  that  his 
wisest  way  would  be  to  turn  and  face  his  pursuers. 
Thus  la3ring  aside  all  shame,  he  appeared  the  open  hardy 
villain.  *  I  find  then,'  cried  he,  *  that  I  am  to  expect 
'  no  justice  here  ;  but  I  am  resolved  it  shall  be  done  me. 
'  You  shall  know.  Sir,'  turning  to  Sir  William,  *  I  am  no 

*  longer  a  poor  dependant  upon  your  favours.  I  scorn 
'  them.  Nothing  can  keep  Miss  Wilmot's  fortune  from 
'  me,  which,  I  thank  her  father's  assiduity,  is  pretty 
'  large.  The  articles,  and  a  bond  for  her  fortune,  are 
'  signed,  and  safe  in  my  possession.  It  was  her  fortune, 
'  not  her  person,  that  induced  me  to  wish  for  this  match  ; 
'  and  possesst  of  the  one,  let  who  will  take  the  other.' 

This  was  an  alarming  blow  ;  Sir  William  was  sensible 
of  the  justice  of  his  claims,  for  he  had  been  instrumental 
in  drawing  up  the  marriage  articles  himself.  Miss  Wil- 
mot,  therefore,  perceiving  that  her  fortune  was  irre- 
trievably lost,  turning  to  my  son,  she  asked  if  the  loss 
of  fortune  could  lessen  her  value  to  him.  '  Though 
'  fortune,'  said  she,  *  is  out  of  my  power,  at  least  I  have 

*  my  hand  to  give.' 

*  And  that,  madam,'  cried  her  real  lover,  *  was  indeed 


/ 


404 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


'  all  that  you  ever  had  to  give  ;  at  least  all  that  I  ever 
'  thought  worth  the  acceptance.  And  I  now  protest,  my 
'  Arabella,  by  all  that 's  happy,  your  want  of  fortune 
'  this  moment  encreases  my  pleasure,  as  it  serves  to 
*  convince  my  sweet  girl  of  my  sincerity,' 

Mr.  Wilmot  now  entering,  he  seemed  not  a  little  pleased 
at  the  danger  his  daughter  had  just  escaped,  and  readily 
consented  to  a  dissolution  of  the  match.  But  £nding 
that  her  fortune,  which  was  secured  to  Mr.  ThomhiU  by 
bond,  would  not  be  given  up,  nothing  could  exceed  his 
disappointment.  He  now  saw  that  his  money  must  all 
go  to  enrich  one  who  had  no  fortune  of  his  own.  He 
could  bear  his  being  a  rascal,  but  to  want  an  equivalent 
to  his  daughter's  fortune  was  wormwood.  He  sate  there- 
fore for  some  minutes  employed  in  the  most  mortifying 
speculations,  till  Sir  William  attempted  to  lessen  his 
anxiety. — '  I  must  confess,  Sir,'  cried  he,  *  that  your 
present  disappointment  does  not  entirely  displease  me. 
Your  immoderate  passion  for  wealth  is  now  justly 
punished.  But  though  the  young  lady  cannot  be  rich, 
she  has  still  a  competence  sufiScient  to  give  ccmtent. 
Here  you  see  an  honest  young  soldier,  who  is  willing 
to  take  her  without  fortune ;  they  have  long  loved 
each  other,  and  for  the  friendship  I  bear  his  father,  my 
interest  shall  not  be  wanting  in  his  promotion.  Leave 
then  that  ambition  which  disappoints  you,  and  for  once 
admit  that  happiness  which  courts  your  acceptance.' 
'  Sir  William,'  replied  the  old  gentleman,  *  be  assured 
I  never  yet  forced  her  inclinations,  nor  will  I  now.  If 
she  still  c<^tinues  to  love  this  young  gentleman,  let 
her  have  him  with  all  my  heart. — ^There  is  still,  thank 
heaven,  some  fortune  left,  and  your  prcmiise  will  make 
it  something  more.  Only  let  my  old  friend  here 
(meaning  me)  give  me  a  promise  of  settling  six  thousand 
pounds  upon  my  girl  if  ever  he  should  come  to  his 


xxKi  THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  406 

'  fortune,  and  I  am  ready  this  night  to  be  the  first  to 
'  join  them  together.' 

As  it  now  remained  with  me  to  make  the  young  couple 
happy,  I  readily  gave  a  promise  of  making  the  settlement 
he  required,  which,  to  one  who  had  such  little  expecta- 
tions as  I,  was  no  great  favour. — We  had  now  therefore 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  them  fly  into  each  other's  arms 

in  a  transport. '  After  all  my  misfortunes,'  cried  my 

son  George,  '  to  be  thus  rewarded  !  Sure  this  is  more 
than  I  could  ever  have  presumed  to  hope  for.  To  be 
possesst  of  all  that 's  good,  and  after  such  an  interval 
of  pain  !  My  warmest  wishes  could  never  rise  so  high  ! ' 
'  Yes,  my  George,'  returned  his  lovely  bride,  '  now  let 
the  wretch  take  my  fortune  ;  since  you  are  happy  with- 
out it,  so  am  I.  Oh,  what  an  exchange  have  I  made, 
from  the  basest  of  men  to  the  dearest,  best ! — Let 
him  enjoy  our  fortune,  I  can  now  be  happy  even  in 

indigence.' '  And  I  promise  you,'  cried  the  'Squire, 

with  a  mahcious  grin,  '  that  I  shall  be  very  happy  with 
what  you  despise.'  *  Hold,  hold,  Sir,'  cried  Jenkinson, 
there  are  two  words  to  that  bargain.  As  for  that  lady's 
fortune,  Sir,  you  shall  never  touch  a  sia^e  stiver  of  it. 
Pray  your  honour,'  continued  he  to  Sir  William,  '  can 
ihe  'Squire  have  this  lady's  fortune  if  he  be  married 

to  another  ?  ' '  How  can  you  make  such  a  simple 

demand  ?  '  replied  the  Baronet ;  *  undoubtedly  he  can- 
not.'— '  I  am  sorry  for  that,'  cried  Jenkinson  ;  '  for  as 
this  gentleman  and  I  have  been  old  fellow-sporters, 
I  have  a  friendship  for  him.  But  I  must  declare,  well 
as  I  love  him,  that  his  contract  is  not  worth  a  tobacco 

stopper,  for  he  is  married  already.' *  You  lie,  like 

a  rascal,'  returned  the  'Squire,  who  seemed  roused  by 

this  insult ;  '  I  never  was  legally  married  to  any  woman.' 

*  Indeed,  beting  your  honour's  pardon,'  repUed  the 

other,  '  you  were  ;    and  I  hope  you  will  shew  a  proper 


406 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


*  return  of  friendship  to  your  own  honest  Jenldnson,  who 
'  brings  you  a  wife,  and  if  the  company  restrains  their 

*  curiosity  a  few  minutes,  they  shall  see  her.' So 

saying  he  went  off  with  his  usual  celerity,  and  left  us  all 
unable  to  form  luiy  probable  conjecture  as  to  his  design. 
-^ — '  Ay  let  him  go,'  cried  the  'Squire  ;   *  whatever  else 

I  may  have  done  I  defy  him  there.    I  am  too  old  now 
to  be  frightened  with  squibs.' 

'  I  am  surprised,'  said  the  Baronet,  *  what  the  fellow 
can  intend  by  this.  Some  low  piece  of  humour  I  sup- 
pose ! ' '  Perhaps,  Sir,'  repUed  I,  '  he  may  have  a 

more  serious  meaning.  For  when  we  reflect  on  the 
various  schemes  this  gentleman  has  laid  to  seduce  inno- 
cence, perhaps  some  one  more  artful  than  the  rest  has 
been  found  able  to  deceive  him.  When  we  consider 
what  numbers  he  has  ruined,  how  many  parents  now 
feel  with  anguish  the  infamy  and  the  contamination 
which  he  has  brought  into  their  f  amihes,  it  would  not 
surprise  me  if  some  one  of  them — ^Amazement !  Do 
I  see  my  lost  daughter  ?  Do  I  hold  her  ?  It  is,  it  is 
my  life,  my  happiness.  I  thought  thee  lost,  my  OUvia, 
yet  still  1  hold  thee — ^and  still  thou  shalt  Uve  to  bless 
me.'  The  warmest  transports  of  the  fondest  lover  were 
not  greater  than  mine  whei^  I  saw  him  introduce  my 
child,  and  held  my  daughter  in  my  arms,  whose  sOence 
only  spoke  her  raptures. 

'And  art  thou  returned  to  me,  my  darling,'  cried 

I,  *  to  be  my  comfort  in  age  ! ' '  That  she  is,'  cried 

Jenkinson,  '  and  make  much  of  her;  for  she  is  your  own 
'  honourable  child,  and  as  honest  a  woman  as  any  in  the 

*  whole  room,  let  the  other  be  who  she  will.  And  as  for 
'you,  'Squire,  as  sure  as  you  stand  there,  this  young 
'  lady  is  your  lawful  wedded  wife.  And  to  convince  you 
'  that  I  speak  nothing  but  truth,  here  is  the  hcence  by 
'  which  you  were  married  together.' So  saying  he 


XXXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  407 

put  the  licence  into  the  Baronet's  hands,  who  read  it 
and  found  it  perfect  in  every  respect.  *  And  now,  gentle- 
men,' continued  he,  *  I  find  you  are  surprised  at  all 
this  ;  but  a  few  words  will  explain  the  difficulty.  That 
there  'Squire  of  renown,  for  whom  I  have  a  great 
friendship,  but  that 's  between  ourselves,  has  often 
employed  me  in  doing  odd  little  things  for  him.  Among 
the  rest,  he  commissioned  me  to  procure  him  a  false 
licence  and  a  false  priest,  in  order  to  deceive  this  young 
lady.  But  as  I  was  very  much  his  friend,  what  did 
I  do  but  went  and  got  a  true  licence  and  a  true  priest, 
and  married  them  both  as  fast  as  the  cloth  could  make 
them  ?  Perhaps  you'll  think  it  was  generosity  that 
made  me  do  all  this.  But  no.  To  my  shame  I  con- 
fess it,  my  only  design  was  to  keep  the  licence  and  let 
the  'Squire  know  that  I  could  prove  it  upon  him  when- 
ever I  thought  proper,  and  so  make  him  come  down 
whenever  I  wanted  money.'  A  burst  of  pleasure  now 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  apartment ;  our  joy  reached 
even  to  the  common  room,  where  the  prisoners  them- 
selves sympathized, 

And  shook  their  chains 
In  transport  and  rude  harmony. 
Happiness  was  expanded  upon  every  face,  and  even 
Olivia's  cheek  seemed  flushed  with  pleasure.  To  be  thus 
restored  to  reputation,  to  friends  and  fortune  at  once, 
was  a  rapture  sufficient  to  stop  the  progress  pf  decay 
and  restore  former  health  and  vivacity.  But  perhaps 
among  all  there  wUs  not  one  who  felt  sincerer  pleasure 
than  I.  Still  holding  the  dear-loved  child  in  my  arms, 
I  asked  my  heart  if  these  transports  were  not  delusion. 
'  How  could  you,'  cried  I,  turning  to  Mr.  Jenkinson, 
'  how  could  you  add  to  my  miseries  by  the  story  of  her 
'  death  ?  But  it  matters  not ;  my  pleasure  at  finding 
'  her  again  is  more  than  a  recompence  for  the  pain.' 


40&  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

'  As  to  jour  question/  replied  Jenkinscm,  '  that  is 
'  easily  answered.  I  thought  the  only  probable  means 
'  of  freeing  you  from  prison,  was  by  submitting  to  the 
'  'Squire,  and  consenting  to  his  marriage  with  the  other 

*  young  lady.     But  these  you  had  vowed  never  to  grant 

*  while  your  daughter  -was  hving  ;  there  was  therefore 
'  no  other  method  to  bring  things  to  bear  but  by  per- 
'  suading  you  that  she  was  dead.  I  prevailed  on  your 
'  wife  to  join  in  the  deceit,  and  we  have  not  had  a  fit 

*  opportunity  of  undeceiving  you  till  now.' 

In  the  whole  assembly  now  there  only  appeared  two 
faces  that  did  not  glow  with  transport.  Mr.  Thomhill's 
assurance  had  entirely  forsaken  him :  he  now  saw  the 
gulph  of  infamy  and  want  before  him,  and  trembled  to 
take  the  plunge.  He  therefore  fell  on  his  knees  before 
his  uncle,  and  in  a  voice  of  piercing  misery  implored 
compassion.  Sir  William  was  going  to  spurn  him  away, 
but  at  my  request  he  raised  him,  and  after  pausing 
a  few  moments,  *  Thy  vices,  crimes,  and  ingratitude,' 
cried  he,  '  deserve  no  tenderness  ;  yet  thou  shalt  not  be 
'  entirely  forsaken,  a  bare  competence  shall  be  supplied 
'  to  support  the  wants  of  life,  but  not  its  follies.  This 
'  young  lady,  thy  wife,  shall  be  put  in  possession  of 
'  a  third  part  of  that  f  ortmie  which  once  was  thine,  and 
'  from  her  tenderness  alone  thou  art  to  expect  any  extra- 
'  ordinary  supplies  for  the  future.'  He  was  going  to 
express  his  gratitude  for  such  kindness  in  a  set  speech ; 
but  the  Baronet  prevented  him  by  bidding  him  not 
aggravate  his  meanness,  which  was  already  but  too 
apparent.  He  ordered  him  at  the  same  time  to  be  gone, 
and  from  all  his  former  domestics  to  chuse  one  such  as 
he  should  think  proper,  which  was  all  that  should  be 
granted  to  attend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  left  us,  Sir  William  very  poUtely  stept 
up  to  his  new  niece  with  a  smile  and  wished  her  joy. 


XXXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  409 

His. example  was  followed  by  Miss  Wilmot  and  her 
father ;  my  wife  too  kissed  her  daughter  with  much 
affection,  as,  to  use  her  own  expression,  she  was  now 
made  an  honest  woman  of.  Sophia  and  Moses  followed 
in  turn,  and  even  our  benefactor  Jenkinson  desired  to 
be  admitted  to  that  honour.  Our  satisfaction  seemed 
scarce  capable  of  encrease.  Sir  William,  whose  greatest 
pleasure  was  in  doing  good,  now  looked  round  with 
a  countenance  open  as  the  sun,  and  saw  nothing  but 
joy  in  the  looks  of  all  except  that  of  my  daughter  Sophia, 
who,  for  some  reasons  we  could  not  comprehend,  did 
not  seem  perfectly  satisfied.  '  I  think  now,'  cried  he 
with  a  smile,  *  that  all  the  company  except  one  or  two 

*  seem  perfectly  happy.    There  only  remains  an  act  of 

*  justice  for  me  to  do.  You  are  sensible.  Sir,'  continued 
he,   turning  to  me,   '  of  the  obhgations  we  both  owe 

*  Mr.  Jenkinson.  And  it  is  but  just  we  should  both 
^  reward  him  for  it.  Miss  Sophia  will,  I  am  sure,  make 
'  him  very  happy,  and  he  shall  have  from  me  five  hundred 
'  pounds  as  her  fortune,  and  upon  this  I  am  sure  they 

*  can  live  very  comfortably  together.   Come,  Miss  Sophia, 

*  what  say  you  to  this  match  of  my  making  ?    Will  you 

*  have  him  ? ' My  poor  gid  seemed  almost  sinking 

into  her  mother's  arms  at  the  hideous  proposal. — '  Have 

*  him,  Sir  ! '  cried  she  faintly.     *  No,  Sir,  never.' 

'  What,'  cried  he  again,  *  not  have  Mr.  Jenkinson,  your 

*  benefactor,  a  handsome  young  f eUow  with  five  hundred 
'  pounds  and  good  expectations  ! ' *  I  beg.  Sir,'  re- 
turned she,  scarce  able  to  speak,  ^  that  you'll  desist, 
and  not  make  me  so  very  wretched.' *  Was  ever  such 

*  obstinacy  known,'  cried  he  again,  *  to  refuse  a  man 
'  whom  the  family  has  such  infinite  obligations  to,  who 
'  has  preserved  your  sister  and  who  has  five  hundred 

*  pounds  !    What,  not  have  him  ! ' *  No,  Sir,  never,' 

replied  she  angrily,  *  I'd  sooner  die  first.' *  If  that  be 


410 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD 


CH. 


the  case  then,'  cried  he,  '  if  you  will  not  have  him — 
I  think  I  must  have  you  myself.'  And  so  saying  he 
caught  her  to  his  breast  with  ardour.  '  My  loveliest, 
my  most  sensible  of  girls,'  cried  he,  '  how  could  you 
ever  think  your  own  Burchell  could  deceive  you,  or 
that  Sir  William  Thomhill  could  ever  cease  to  admire 
a  mistress  that  loved  him  for  himself  alone  ?  I  have 
for  some  years  sought  for  a  woman,  who,  a  stranger 
to  my  fortune,  could  think  that  I  had  merit  as  a  man. 
After  having  tried  in  vain,  even  amongst  the  pert  and 
the  ugly,  how  great  at  last  must  be  my  rapture  to  have 
made  a  conquest  over  such  sense  and  such  heavenly 
beauty.'  Then  turning  to  Jenkinson,  *  As  I  cannot. 
Sir,  part  with  this  young  lady  myself,  for  she  has  taken 
a  fancy  to  the  cut  of  my  face,  all  the  recompence  I  can 
make  is  to  give  you  her  fortune,  and  you  may  call 
upon  my  steward  to-morrow  for  five  hundred  pounds.' 
Thus  we  had  all  our  compliments  to  repeat,  and  Lady 
ThornhiU  underwent  the  same  round  of  ceremony  that 
her  sister  had  done  before.  In  the  mean  time  Sir  Wil- 
liam's gentleman  appeared  to  tell  us  that  the  equipages 
were  ready  to  carry  us  to  the  inn,  where  every  thing 
was  prepared  for  our  reception.  My  wife  and  I  led  the 
van,  and  left  those  gloomy  mansions  of  sorrow.  The 
generous  Baronet  ordered  forty  pounds  to  be  distributed 
among  the  prisoners,  and  Mr.  Wilmbt,  induced  by  his 
example,  gave  half  that  sum.  We  were  received  below 
by  the  shouts  of  the  villagers,  and  I  saw  and  shook  by 
the  hand  two  or  three  of  my  honest  parishioners  who 
were  among  the  number.  They  attended  us  to  our  inn, 
where  a  sumptuous  entertainment  was  provided,  and 
coarser  provisions  were  distributed  in  great  quantities 
among  the  populace. 

After  supper,  as  my  spirits  were  exhausted  by  the 
alternation  of  pleasure  and  pain,  which  they  had  sus- 


XXXI  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  411 

r 

tained  during  the  day,  I  asked  permission  to  withdraw, 
and  leaving  the  company  in  the  midst  of  their  mirth, 
as  soon  as  I  found  myself  alone  I  poured  out  my  heart 
in  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of  joy  as  well  as  of  sorrow, 
and  then  slept  undisturbed  till  morning. 


.nied.'— Pmb  413. 

CHAPTER  XXXII 

The  Conclnsion. 
IHE  next  morning  as  soon  as  I  awaked  I  found 
my  eldest  son  sitting  by  my  bedside,  who  came  to 
encrease  my  joy  with  another  tnm  of  fortune  in  my 
favour.  First  having  released  me  from  the  settlement 
that  I  had  made  the  day  before  in  his  favour,  he  let  me 
know  that  my  merchant  who  had  failed  in  town  was 
arrested  at  Antwerp,  and  there  had  given  up  effects  to 


T 


CH.  xxxn     THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  413 

a  much  greater  amount  than  what  was  due  to  his  credi- 
tors. My  boy's  generosity  pleased  me  almost  as  much 
as  this  unlooked-for  good  fortune.  But  I  had  some 
doubts  whether  I  ought  in  justice  to  accept  his  offer. 
While  I  was  pondering  upon  this,  Sir  William  entered 
the  room,  to  whom  I  communicated  my  doubts.  His 
opinion  was,  that  as  my  son  was  already  possessed  of 
a  very  affluent  fortune  by  his  marriage,  I  might  accept 
his  offer  without  any  hesitation.  His  business,  however, 
w£U3  to  inform  me  that  as  he  had  the  night  before  sent  for 
the  licences,  and  expected  them  every  hour,  he  hoped 
that  I  would  not  refuse  my  assistance  in  making  all 
the  company  happy  that  morning.  A  footman  entered 
while  we  were  speaking,  to  tell  us  that  the  messenger 
was  returned,  and  as  I  was  by  this  time  ready  I  went 
down,  where  I  found  the  whole  company  as  merry  as 
affluence  and  innocence  could  make  them.  However  as 
they  were  now  preparing  for  a  very  solemn  ceremony, 
their  laughter  entirely  displeased  me.  I  told  them  of  the 
grave,  becoming,  and  subhme  deportment  they  should 
assume  upon  this  mystical  occasion,  and  read  them  two 
homilies  and  a  thesis  of  my  own  composing  in  order  to 
prepare  them.  Yet  they  still  seemed  perfectly  refractory 
and  ungovernable.  Even  as  we  were  going  along  to 
church,  to  which  I  led  the  way,  all  gravity  had  quite 
forsaken  them,  and  I  was  often  tempted  to  turn  back 
in  indignation.  In  church  a  new  dilemma  arose,  which 
promised  no  easy  solution.  This  was,  which  couple 
should  be  married  first ;  my  son's  bride  warmly  insisted 
that  Lady  Thornhill  (that  was  to  be)  should  take  the 
lead ;  but  this  the  other  refused  with  equal  ardour, 
protesting  she  would  not  be  guilty  of  such  rudeness  for 
the  world.  The  argument  was  supported  for  some  time 
between  both  with  equal  obstinacy  and  good  breeding. 
But  as  I  stood  all  this  time  with  my  book  ready,  I  was 


414  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  ch. 

at  last  quite  tired  of  the  contest,  and  shutting  it,  *  I  per- 
'  ceive,'  cried  I,  '  that  none  of  you  have  a  mind  to  be 
'  married,  and  I  think  we  had  as  good  go  back  again  ; 
'  for  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  business  done  here 
'  to-day.'-- — This  at  once  reduced  them  to  reason.  The 
Baronet  and  his  lady  were  first  married,  and  then  my 
son  and  his  lovely  partner. 

I  had  previously  that  morning  given  orders  tbat  a 
coach  should  be  sent  for  my  honest  neighbour  flam- 
borough  and  his  family,  by  which  means,  upon  our  return 
to  the  inn,  we  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  the  two  Miss 
Flamboroughs  alighted  before  us.  •  Mr.  Jenkinson  gave 
his  hand  to  the  eldest,  and  my  son  Moses  led  up  the 
other  ;  (and  I  have  since  found  that  he  has  taken  a  real 
liking  to  the  girl,  and  my  consent  and  bounty  he  shall 
have,  whenever  he  thinks  proper  to  demand  them.)    We 
were  no  sooner  returned  to  the  inn,  but  numbers  of  my 
parishioners,  hearing  of  my  success,  came  to  congratulate 
me,  but  among  the  rest  were  those  who  rose  to  rescue 
me,  and  whom  I  formerly  rebuked  with  such  sharpness. 
I  told  the  story  to  Sir  William,  my  son-in-law,  who  went 
out  and  reproved  them  with  great  severity  ;  but  finding 
them  quite  disheartened  by  his  harsh  reproof,  he  gave 
them  half  a  guinea  a  piece  to  drink  his  health  and  raise 
their  dejected  spirits. 

Soon  after  this  we  were  called  to  a  very  genteel  enter- 
tainment, which  was  drest  by  Mr.  Thomhill's  cook. 
And  it  may  not  be  improper  to  observe  with  respect  to 
that  gentleman,  that  he  now  resides  in  quality  of  com- 
panion, at  a  relation's  house,  being  very  well  liked  and 
seldom  sitting  at  the  side-table,  except  when  there  is  no 
room  at  the  other ;  for  they  make  no  stranger  of  him. 
His  time  is  pretty  much  taken  up  in  keeping  his  relation, 
who  is  a  httle  melancholy,  in  spirits,  and  in  learning  to 
blow  the  French  horn.    My  eldest  daughter,  however. 


THE  VICAR  AND  HIS  FAMILY 


xxxn  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  415 

still  remembers  him  with  regret ;  and  she  has  even  told 
me,  though  I  make  a  great  secret  of  it,  that  when  he 
reforms  she  may  be  brought  to  relent. 

But  to  return,  for  I  am  not  apt  to  digress  thus,  when  we 
were  to  sit  down  to  dinner  our  ceremonies  were  going  to  be 
renewed.   The  question  was  whether  my  eldest  daughter, 
as  being  a  matron  should  not  sit  above  the  two  young 
brides,  but  the  debate  was  cut  short  by  my  son  George,  who 
proposed  that  the  company  should  sit  indiscriminately, 
every  gentleman  by  his  lady.     This  was  received  with 
great  approbation  by  all,  excepting  my  wife,  who  I  could 
perceive  was  not  perfectly  satisfied,  as  she  expected  to 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table 
and  carving  all  the  meat  for  all  the  company.     But 
notwithstanding  this,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  our 
good  humour.     I  can't  s|ay  whether  we  had  more  wit 
amongst  us  now  than  usual,  but  I  am  certain  we  had 
more  laughing,  which  answered  the  end  as  well.     One 
jest  I  particularly  remember  ;   old  Mr.  Wilmot  drinking 
to  Moses,  whose  heQ.d  was  turned  another  way,  my  son 
replied,  *  Madam,  I  thank  you.'     Upon  which  the  old 
gentleman,   winking  upon   the  rest   of   the  company, 
observed  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  mistress.    At  which 
jest  I  thought  the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  would  have 
died  with  laughing.     As  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  accord- 
ing to  my  old  custom,  I  requested  that  the  table  might 
be  taken  away  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  my 
family  ^.ssembled  once  more  by  a  chearful  fire-side.    My 
two  little  ones  sat  upon  each  knee,  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany by  their  partners.     I  had  nothing  now  on  this  side 
of  the  grave  to  wish  for ;   all  my  cares  were  over,  my 
pleasure  was  unspeakable.    It  now  only  remained  that 
my  gratitude  in  good  fortune  should  exceed  my  former 
submission  in  adversity. 

FINIS. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

A'.  Dialect  form  of  *  he ',  very  widely  distributed  throughout 
England,  except  in  the  north.  Sh>e  Stoops,  103.  See  Eng. 
Dialect  Did,,  s.v.  A,  v,  I,  and  He,  pron. 

Abensbebq,  Count,  on  Henry  II's  progress  through  Ger- 
many, presents  his  thirty-two  children  to  their  sovereign. 
Vicar,  189. 

Academy,  '  a  place  of  education,  in  contradistinction  to  the 
universities  or  publick  schools'  (Johnson).  Vicar,  309.  Cp. 
Lord  Auchinleck's  description  of  Johnson  as  *  a  dominie,  mon — 
an  auld  dominie ;  he  keeped  a  schule,  and  cau'd  it  an  acaadamy  * 
(Birkbeck  Hill's  Johnson,  i.  96  n). 

AcTOBS:  their  starts  and  attitudes.  Vicar,  296,  323.  Cp. 
The  Bee,  Oct.  13,  1759 ;  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  21 ;  and 
TJie  Present  State  of  Polite  Leaming,  chap.  xi. 

Dr.   Primrose's  son  among  the.     Vicar,  306.     See  also 
Strolling  Compitny. 

Adulation,  the  dangers  of.     Vicar,  202. 

Adventitious,  casual,  coming  unexpectedly.     Vicar,  323. 

Adventures  of  Catsldn,    See  Catskin. 

*  Assop '  AND  HIS  Basket  of  Bread.  Vicar,  319.  '  A  new 
and  beautiful  edition  of  Aesop^s  Fables,  with  instructive  morals, 
adorned  with  cuts'  was  published  by  Francis  Newbery  about 
1779.  The  so-called  *  Fables  of  Aesop '  are  now  supposed  to 
be  all  spurious. 

Age.  '  I  must  not  tell  my  age.  They  say  women  and  music 
should  never  be  dated.'     She  Stoops,  135. 

AoiTATOBS.    See  Leveller,  and  Appendix,  Note  22. 

ATTtTEiffATCT.ia  Stabet  Club.    See  Ladies'  Qub. 

Alb.  '  There  is  no  business  "  for  us  that  sell  ale  ".'  The 
quotation  marks  seem  to  show  that  Hardcastle  was  repeating 
a  phrase  understood  at  the  time,  perhaps  with  a  political  meaning. 
She  Stoops^  110.  ^ 

GOLDSMITH   II  P 


418  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

All  but,   nearly,   almost.     *A11  but   the   whining   end   of 
a  modem  novel/    She  Stoops,  167. 

Allegory  of  Guilt  and  Shame.     Vicar,  275. 

Alleicande,  the  name  of  a  German  dance.     Grumbler,  176. 

Ally  Cawk,  i.e.  Ali  Khan,  Subah  of  Bengal  She  Stoops,  111. 
Khan  =»  Lord  or  Prince.  In  Persia  and  Afgjhanistan  a  common 
affix  to,  or  part  of,  the  name  of  Hindustanis  out  of  every 
rank;  properly,  however,  of  those  claiming  a  Pathan  desc^it. 
Other  forms  are  Casunas  Channa  =  (Khan  of  Khans)  Oingi ; 
The  Cawn  of  Chengie,  &c.  {Hobson-Jcbaon.)  The  affairs  of 
the  Nawab  Jaffier  Ali  Khan  and  his  son-in-law  Mir  Cossin  Khan, 
with  the  deposition  of  the  one  from  the  Subahship  and.  the 
usurpation  of  the  other,  occupied  a  good  deal  of  the  attention 
of  the  Directors  of  the  East  India  Company  in  1760  and  following 
years,  as  appears  from  various  articles  in  the  Universal  Museum 
for  1764  (pp.  84-6,  135-9,  207-8). 

Ally  Croaker,  a  popular  Irish  song.    She  Stoops,  111. 

Albiack's,  a  suite  of  assembly  rooms  in  King  Street,  St.  James, 
so  called  after  the  original  proprietor.    Chod-Natur^d  Man,  17. 

Amazons:  in  Greek  legend,  a  race  in  Asia  Minor  said  to  consist 
entirely  of  women,  who  excluded  men  from  their  territory, 
and  waged  war  on  their  own  behalf;  hence,  a  female  warrior. 
Vicar,  278.  The  term  is  now  usually  appUed  to  a  bold,  masculine 
woman ;   a  virago.     Cp.  Goldsmith's  Essay,  '  Female  Warriors '. 

Ambition,  the  Heights  of.  '  The  heights  of  ambition,  and  the 
vale  of  misery.*     Vicar,  294. 

Ames'ACE,  the  lowest  possible  throw  at  dice  (from  O.  French 
through  Latin  ^  both  aces),  the  double  ace ;  hence  fig.  bad 
luck,  worthlessness,  naught.  * Marlow,  My  old  luck:  I  never 
nicked  seven  that  I  did  not  throw  ames-ace  three  times  follow- 
ing.* She  Stoops,  137.  Cp.  AWs  WeU,  ii.  iii.  85,  '  I  had  rather 
be  in  this  choice  than  throw  ames-ace  for  my  life ' ;  Fielding, 
Lottery  (1755),  *  If  I  can  but  nick  this  time,  ames-ace,  I  defy  thee.' 

Amhehst.  Jeffery,  Baron  Amherst  (1717-97),  oonmiander  of 
the  troops  in  North  America,  and  Field  Marshal.  Oood-Naiur'd 
Man,  41. 

Animals,  contrasted  with  *  the  vermin  race '.     Vicar,  274. 

Anodyne  Necklace.  Vicar,  309.  This  was  a  charm  for 
children  against   convulsions,   fits,  &c.,  whilst   teething.    Cp» 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  419 

Johnson's  Idler,  No.  40 :  '  The  true  pathos  of  advertisements 
must  have  sunk  deep  into  the  heart  of  every  man  that  remembers 
the  zeal  shewn  by  the  seller  of  the  Anodyne  Necklace,  for  the 
ease  and  safety  of  poor  toothing  infants  ;  and  the  affection  with 
which  he  warned  every  mother,  that  she  would  never  forgive 
herself  if  her  infant  should  perish  without  a  necklace.' 

Anon,  at  your  service,  sir.  She  Stoops,  126.  *  Like  a  call 
without  Anon,  sir.  Or  a  question  without  an  answer,'  Witts 
Recreations,    See  1  Henry  IV,  ii.  iv. 

Anothes-gubss,  of  another  kind,  a  corruption  of  another  guise, 
*  Another-guess  lover,'  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  24.  *  Another-guess 
manner,'  Vicar,  299. 

Antichambeb,  Fr.  antichambre,  an  outer  chamber  or  waiting- 
room.  '  It  is  generally  written,  improperly,  antichambre ' 
(Johnson).      Oood-Natur'd  Man,  77. 

Antiqxja  Mateb  of  Grub  Street.     Vicar,  310. 

April,  Fibst  of,  exercise  of  wit  on.     Vicar,  206. 

Abqub  down,  to  overcome  in  argument.  *  All  I  can  say  will 
never  argue  down  a  single  button  from  his  clothes.'  She  Stoops, 
121.  Cp.  downarg,  to  contradict  in  an  overbearing  manner  {Eng, 
Dialect  Did,). 

Ariadne,  an  opera  by  Handel;  at  the  end  of  the  overture 
occurs  the  well-known  minuet.     She  Stoops,  99. 

AsFismo  Begoaby.     Vicar,  198. 

Assyria,  Kings  op.     Vicar,  267.    See  Berosus. 

Auctions.  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  16 ;  Vicar,  314,  321.  Attend- 
ing auction-sales  was  a  fashionable  method  of  killing  time  in 
Goldsmith's  day. 

Avditor,  The,  a  short-lived  paper  edited  by  Arthur  Murphy. 
Vicar,  299.  This  paper  was  established  in  opposition  to  the 
North  Briton,  in  order  to  vindicate  the  administration  of  Lord 
Bute.  The  first  number  appeared  on  June  10,  1762,  and  was 
continued  weekly  until  February  8,  1763,  when  it  ceased  to 
exist.  The  allusion  to  this  paper  seems  to  show  that  the  Vicar 
must  have  been  written  in  1762. 

Authors,  disappointed.     Vicar,  313. 

Back.  '  Back  to  back,  my  pretties,  that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see 
you.'     She  Stoops,  122.     Compare  the  similar  incident  in  the 


420  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Vicar,  277  :  '  She  thought  him  [Thomhill]  and  Olivia  extremely 
of  a  size,  and  would  bid  both  stand  up  to  see  which  was  tallest.' 

Backgammon,  '  a  twopenny  hit  at.'     Vicar,  194.     See  Hit  (2). 

Baq  and  Baqqaoe,  one's  whole  belongings.  Vicar,  328. 
Cp.  As  You  Like  It,  lu.  iL  171,  ^Though  not  with  bag  and  baggage, 
yet  with  scrip  and  scrippage.' 

Baggages,  young  girls  of  but  Uttle  character ;  sometimes 
used,  as  here,  in  a  tone  of  mock  censure  as  a  term  of  affection. 
Vicar,  377. 

Bagnio,  '  a  house  for  bathing  and  sweating '  (Johnson) ; 
hence  applied  to  houses  of  ill  fame.     Vicar,  217. 

Bailiffs.  '  The  scene  of  the  bailiffs  was  retrenched  in  repre- 
sentation.' Oood'Natur'd  Man,  Preface,  3.  This  scene  (the 
opening  of  Act  ui,  pp.  37seq.)  was  omitted  after  the  first 
performance,  at  the  desire  of  the  manager.  It  was  restored  in 
preparing  the  play  for  publication,  and  eventually  took  its 
legitimate  place  in  the  acting  version  (see  Appendix,  p.  490). 
Cp.  the  story  of  Steele  and  hia  bailifb,  Austin  Dobson's  Richard 
Steele,  p.  222. 

Balderdash,  confused  speech  or  writing,  jargon.  Good- 
Natur'd  Man,,  20. 

Bandbox,  used  derisively :  '  Bandbox !  She 's  all  a  made-up 
thing,  mun.'     She  Stoops,  125.     Cp.  '  Bandbox  thing  '  in  O.E.D. 

Barbara  Alien,  The  Cruelty  of,  an  old  English  ballad.  The 
story  tells  how  a  young  man  died  of  love  for  Barbara,  and  bow 
the  maid  afterwards  died  of  remorse.  Goldsmith  wrote  in 
The  Bee,  October  13,  1759,  *  The  music  of  the  finest  singer  is 
dissonance  to  what  I  felt  when  our  old  dairymcud  sung  me  into 
tears  with  **  Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Good-night ",  or  the 
cruelty  of  "Barbara  Allen".'  The  latter  ballad  is  printed  in 
the  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse,  No.  389. 

Basket  (1),  a  wicker-work  protection  for  the  hand  on  a  sword- 
stick,  in  the  form  of  a  small  basket.    SJte  Stoops,  150. 

Basket  (2),  the  overhanging  back  compartment  on  the 
outside  of  a  stage  coach.     She  Stoops,  91,  157. 

Bayes,  a  character  in  Buckingham's  Rehearsal,  originally 
intended  for  Dryden,  afterwards  applied  to  poets  generally. 
She  Stoops,  170.  Bowe  was  sometimes  called  'Mr.  Bayes  the 
Younger ' ;   see  Dryden,  ed.  Scott  and  Saintsbury,  L  384  n. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  421 

Beaux*  Stratagem,  a  comedy  by  George  Farquhar,  produced  in 
1707.  Cherry  in  that  play  is  an  innkeeper's  daughter.  She 
Stoops,  133.    See  Farquhar. 

Bedlam,  the  hospital  of  St.  Mary  Bethlehem  for  lunatics  in 
St.  George's  Fields  ;  hence  applied  to  any  great  uproar,  as  here, 
'  Bedlam  broke  loose.'     She  Stoopa,  151. 

Bed-time.  *  Would  it  were  bed-time  and  all  were  well.*  She 
Stoops,  98.  FalstafiTs  exclamation  on  the  eve  of  the  battle 
of  Shrewsbury,  1  Henry  IV,  v.  i.  125. 

Bees,  dialect  form  of  the  verb  Be  (see  Eng,  Dialect  Diet.,  Be, 
I.  1).     She  Stoops,  99. 

Beqgabs,  doors  of  the  nobility  beset  with.     Vicar,  315. 

BEiiORADB,  battle  of.  This  was  fought  in  1717,  when  Belgrade 
was  retaken  from  the  Turks  by  Prince  Eugene.    She  Stoops,  111. 

Benevolence  :  Human,  Vicar,  290.  Universal,  Qood-Natur'd 
Man,  8,  66 ;  Vicar,  202 ;  cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letters  23 
and  27.     Untutored,  Vicar,  337. 

Benslsy,  Mb.  Oood-Naiur'd  Man,  4.  Robert  Bensley  (1738- 
1817),  who  took  the  part  of  Leontine.  His  ponderous  delivery 
of  Johnson's  lines  is  said  to  have  dashed  the  spirits  of  the  audience 
at  the  outset  (Forster's  Life,  Book  IV,  chap.  i). 

Bebosus.  Vicar,  267.  Berosus  was  a  Babylonian  priest  who 
wrote  a  History  of  Babylonia,  which  is  lost,  though  considerable 
fragments  are  preserved  in  Josephus,  Eusebius,  Syncellus,  and 
the  Christian  Fathers.  See  Pattison's  Essays,  i.  644  seq.,  and 
notes  on  the  Eu6d>ian  Chronicle. 

Best  Thinos.  *  The  best  things  remained  to  be  said  on  the 
wrong  side.'     Vicar,  310. 

Biddy  Buckskin,  old  Miss.  She  Stoops,  136.  This  hit  was 
intended  tor  Miss  Bachael  Lloyd,  foundress  of  the  Ladies'  Club. 
See  Walpole's  Letters,  viii.  263-4  (March  27,  1773) :  '  Miss  Loyd 
is  in  the  new  play  by  the  name  of  Bachael  Buckskin,  though  he 
[Goldsmith]  has  altered  it  in  the  printed  copies.  Somebody  wrote 
for  her  a  very  sensible  reproof  to  him. . . .  However,  the  fool  took 
it  seriously,  and  wrote  a  most  dull  and  scurrilous  answer ;  but, 
luckily  for  him,  Mr.  Beauclerk  and  Mr.  Garrick  intercepted  it.' 

Blade,  '  a  brisk  man  either  fierce  or  gay,  so  called  in  contempt' 
(Johnson).     She  Stoops,  103,  171  and  passim. 

Blenkinsop   Family.     *  The   Blenkinshop   mouth   to  a  T.' 


422  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

She  Stoops,  122.  Prior  records  as  a  coincidence  that  there  was 
an  old  family  of  this  name  living  in  Yorkshire,  not  far  from  the 
scene  where  the  action  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  was  laid* 

Bund  Man's  Buff,  the  game  of.     Vicar,  247. 

Blown  up,  destroyed,  rendered  void.     Vicar,  318. 

Blowzed,  disordered  in  dress  or  hair.     Vicar,  244,  247. 

Blue  Bed  to  the  Bbown.    See  Migrations. 

Bobs,  pendants,  ear-rings.  She  Stoops,  128.  Cp.  Citizen  of 
the  World,  Letter  52 :  '  Resembling  those  Indians,  who  are  found 
to  wear  all  the  gold  they  have  in  the  world,  in  a  bob  at  the  nose.' 

Body,  sensibility  of  the.     Vicar,  202. 

Books,  the  reputation  of.  Vicar,  273;  *  sweet  unreproaching 
companions  to  the  miserable,'  ib.  335. 

Bookseller,  the  philanthropic.  Vicfzr,  294.  iSeeNewbery,  John. 

Borough,  the,  a  short  name  for  the  Borough  of  Southwark. 
She  Stoops,  121. 

BoTS,  small  worms  in  the  entrails  of  horses.  Vicar,  264. 
Cp.  Shakespeare,  1  Henry  /F,  n.  i.  9 :  *  Sec.  Carrier.  Peas  and 
becuis  are  as  dank  here  ai^  a  dog,  and  that  is  the  next  way  to 
give  poor  jades  the  bots.'  Commenting  on  this  Mr.  Madden 
writes :  '  If  carriers  on  the  Kentish  road  were  ignorant  of  the 
natural  history  of  the  bot  (which  we  know  to  be  the  of5spring 
of  eggs,  attached  to  certain  leaves  and  swallowed  by  the  horse), 
they  erred  in  good  company.'  See  further  in  Madden's  Diary  of 
MasUr  WiUiam  Silence,  p.  267,  ed.  1907. 

Box,  to  fight,  spar.  '  Setting  the  little  ones  to  box,  to  make 
them  sharp.'     Vicar,  277. 

Brass,  a  person  of  brazen  manners.  She  Stoops,  126.  Cp. 
Bronze. 

Brbadstitch,  properly  '  brede-stitch ',  'applied  by* poets  to 
things  that  show  or  suggest  interweaving  of  colours,  or  em- 
broidery' (O.E.D.,  S.V.  Brede,  sb.»  4).  Vicar,  251.  Since  the 
seventeenth  century  the  variant  Brede  has  been  used  poetically 
in  the  sense  of  plait,  and  by  modem  writers  also  in  various  vague 
senses. 

Bronze.  *  0,  there  indeed  I'm  in  bronze.'  Oood-Natur^d 
Man,  30.  Le  Bronze  was  Lofty's  original  stage  name,  afterwards 
withdrawn. 

Buck  of  Beverland,  story  of.     Vicar,  216. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  423 

BiroLES,  long  slender  glass  beads,  attached  in  ornamental 
manner  to  various  articles  of  apparel.  Vicar,  207.  Steele, 
Toiler,  No.  45,  writes  of  *  Adam  and  Eve  in  Bugle- Work,  curiously 
wrought '. 

BuiiKLEY,  Mes.  (d.  1792),  an  actress,  who  took  the  part  of 
Miss  Richland  in  The  Good-Nalur^d  Man  (see  p.  6),  and  that  of 
Miss  Hardcastle  in  She  Stoope  to  Conquer.  In  both  plays  she 
spoke  the  Epilogue  (pp.  82,  169).  Indeed,  in  the  latter  play  she 
threatened  to  throw  up  her  part  unless  she  were  permitted  to 
speak  it  (see  Forster's  Life,  Book  IV,  chap.  xv).     The  song, 

*  Ah  me  !  when  shall  I  marry  me  ?  '  (see  Poems,  94)  was  written 
for  the  character  of  Miss  Hardcastle  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer, 
but  was  eventually  omitted,  because  Mrs.  Bulkley,  who  per- 
formed the  part,  did  not  sing. 

Bully,  the  protector  of  a  prostitute.     Vicar,  315. 

Bully  Dawson,  a  notorious  London  sharper  of  Whitefriars 
and  a  contemporary  of  Etherege ;  he  lived  and  died  in  the 
seventeenth  century.    She  Stoops,  127.   'See  Speclaior,  No.  2: 

*  Sir  Roger  .  .  .  kicked  Bully  Dawson  in  a  public  coffee-house  for 
calling  him  youngster.' 

BuRCHELL,  Mb.  :  his  philosophical  disputes  with  Dr.  Primrose, 
Vicar,  201 ;  his  nickname,  ib.  216.  See  also  Thomhill,  Sir 
William. 

BuBNiNG  Nuts  on  Michaelmas  Eve.  Vicar,  246.  See  Nut- 
burning. 

Bt  Jikoo,  used  as  a  mild  oath.    She  Stoops,  158. 

By  the  Laws,  used  as  a  mild  oath.  She  Stoops,  104, 132, 150. 
The  Dialect  Did.,  s.v.  By,  gives  this  phrase  from  Wexford  only, 
quoting  Kennedy,  Banks  of  Boro  (1867)  29 :  '  Be. the  laws  if  you 
don't  make  haste  we'll  give  you  a  cobbing.' 

Canopy  of  Heaven,  the  overhanging  firmament.  Vicar^  269. 
Cp.  Hamlet,  n.  ii.  317-18,  'This  most  excellent  canopy,  the  air, .  . . 
this  brave  o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majestical  roof  fretted  with 
golden  fire.'  Sir  Thomas  Browne  quotes  from  Lucan's  PAar^ia, 
vii.  819  '  Caelo  tegitur  qui  non  habet  umam '. 

Capital  Punishment,  Dr.  Primrose  on.     Vicar,  365-6. 

Cabicatuba,  a  satirical  picture,  now  spelt  '  caricature '.  She 
Stoops,  145. 


424  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Cartesian  System,  the  system  of  philosophy  taught  by 
Descartes  (1596-1660).  Vicar,  302.  Cp.  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning,  chap,  y,  where  Goldsmith  speaks  of  it  as  '  aa  exploded 
system '. 

Gat  and  Fiddle.  Used  here  as  a  tenn  of  contempt,  perhaps 
with  the  nursery  rime  in  mind.    She  Stoops,  93. 

Cat-out,  a  coarse  cloth  formed  of  thick  cord,  woven  widely, 
and  used  in  the  eighteenth  century  for  lining  and  stiffening 
dress,  particularly  the  skirts  and  sleeves.  Vicar,  207,  242,  251. 
See  '  ruffles  of  catgut  \  N,  dt  Q,  10th  S.  xi.  January  2,  1909. 

Cathbkinb- WHEEL,  a  firework  in  the  shape  of  a  wheel,  which 
revolves  rapidly  while  burning.    She  Stoops,  131. 

Catskin,  The  Adventures  of.  Vicar,  216.  This  was  an  old 
ballad,  entitled  The  Catskins*  Oarkmd,  or  the  Wandering  Young 
OenUewoman,  The  heroine  is  made  a  souUery-maid  and  reduced 
to  dress  in  catskins.  It  is  a  form  of  the  well-known  fairy-tale  of 
Cinderella.    See  Century  BncffC.  of  Names. 

Centaury,  a  popuhir  name  of  a  widely  distributed  plant, 
anciently  said  to  have  been  disoovered  by  Chiron  the  Centaur. 
Lat.  Centaurea.  Vicar,  211.  See  CSiouoer,  Nonne  Priestes  Tale, 
B.  4153,  *  Of  lauriol,  centaure,  and  fumetore.' 

Centikel,  an  oki  spelling  of  'sentinel'.  Vioar,  214.  The 
derivation  from  centenaria,  'a  oenturion's  post,'  seems  to  be  now 
generally  accepted     See  O.B.D. 

Chapman,  one  who  buys  and  ^elis,  a  dealer.     Vicar,  264. 

Che  Faro.  *  And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson,  for  Ghe  Faro.' 
She  Stoops,  170.  Che  farb  sema  Euridice,  a  beautiful  lament  from 
Gluck's  Orfeo  ed  Euridice,  was  very  popular  in  England  at  the 
time  this  Epilogue  was  spoken:  the  opera  had  been  first 
produced  in  1762,  and  printed  in  1764  (see  Grove's  DictUmary 
of  Music,  ii.  184,  ed.  1906). 

Chiokasaw  Indians,  a  tribe  of  the  Apallachian  nation, 
occupying  the  territory  between  the  Ohio  and  Tennessee  Rivers, 
now  reduced  to  a  few  thousands,  and  settled  in  the  Indian 
Territory.  Vicar,  317.  The  CSiickasaws  were  hostile  in  the 
early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  (see  A  Paladin  of  Philan- 
thropy, Gen.  Oglethorpe,  by  Austin  Dobson,  p.  10) ;  but  after- 
wards grew  more  friendly.  See  the  Universal  Museum  (1764), 
43 :   *  American  news.     Charlestown,  November  23  [1763].    The 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  425 

Chickesaws,  we  hear,  remain  steady  in  their  assurances  of  friend- 
ship, which  this  province  in  particular  has  had  repeated 
proofs  of.' 

Chief,  the  best,  most  select,  of  the  first  order.  *  The  com- 
pany was  incontestably  the  chief  of  the  place.*  Vicar,  306. 
Cp.  Miss  Austen's  Works. 

Chit,  a  child,  infant ;  hence  applied  disrespectfully  to  a  young 
woman.     Vicar,  250. 

Choice  Spibit  (cp.  Julius  Caesar,  iii.  i.  163,  *  The  choice  and 
master  spirits  of  this  age'):  here  used  ironically,  'Dull  as 
a  choice  spirit.'  Good-Natur'd  Man,  47.  See  Goldsmith's 
sketch  of  Tim  Syllabub  in  Letter  20  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World : 
*  He  sometimes  shines  as  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude  among 
the  choice  spirits  of  the  age:  he  is  reckoned  equally  well  at 
a  rebus,  a  riddle,  a  bawdy  song,  and  an  hymn  for  the  Tabernacle. 
You  will  know  him  by  his  shabby  finery,  his  powdered  wig, 
dirty  shirt,  and  broken  silk  stockings.'  See  also  *  Description  of 
Various  Clubs '  in  the  Essays :  '  The  first  club  I  entered  upon 
coming  to  town  was  that  of  the  Choice  Spirits.' 

Chbistmas  Carols,  in  Yorkshire.     Vicar,  206. 

Chronide,  The,  i.e.  The  London  Chronicle.     Vicar,  299. 

CiBCuifBENDiBUS,  a  circuit.  She  Stoops,  168.  Cp.  Dryden, 
Spanish  Friar,  v.  ii :  '  Let  him  alone ;  I  shall  fetch  him  back  with 
a  circumbendibus '  (Dryden's  Works,  ed.  Scott  and  Saintsbury, 
vi.  516) ;  Pope,  Art  of  Sinking,  100,  *  The  Periphrasis,  which  the 
modems  call  the  circumbendibus.' 

Coal  Mines  in  Cornwall  are  a  figment  of  the  Butler's 
imagination.     Vicar,  299,  303. 

Cockatrice,  anything  venomous  or  deadly ;  here  used  as  an 
exclamation  of  disUke.     Grumbler,  179. 

Coffee-house.  In  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries 
coffee-houses  were  the  resort  of  all  classes  for  friendly  intercourse 
as  well  as  refreshment.  Vicar,  311.  See  Macaulay's  History, 
chap,  iii,  •  as  to  the  importance  of  coffee-houses  as  a  political 
institution. 

Coonoscento,  a  connoisseur,  an  expert.  Vicar,  321.  See 
Connoisseurship. 

Coiner,  a  maker  of  base  money.  Vicar,  366.  The  West 
Riding  of  Yorkshire  was  a  noted  place  for  this  criminal  industry. 

p3 


426  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

CoiMAX,  GiiOBaB  (1792-1794),  dramatist,  and  manager  of 
Covent  Garden  Theatre  from  1767  to  1774.  Good-Natur^d  Man, 
3,  82 ;   S?ie  Stoops,  87.     See  Appendix,  pp.  488  seq.,  499  seq. 

CoMBDT.  French,  Chod-NcUur'd  Mem,  3.  Genteel,  Oood- 
Natur^d  Man,  3.  Low,  Oood-Naiur*d  Man,  3 ;  cp.  She  Stoops, 
99.     Sentimental,  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  3 ;   She  Stoops,  87,  88. 

CoMMENCiNO  Author.  Vicar,  310.  The  story  told  here  and 
in  the  following  pages  is  largely  reminiscent  of  Goldsmith's  own 
struggles  as  an  author. 

CoMMBBCB  AND  INDUSTRY,  Dr.  Primroso  on.  Vicar,  301.  Cp. 
Deserted  Village,  11.  309  seq. 

CoBOfissiON,  a  warrant,  conferring  rank  and  authority  upon 
an  officer  in  the  army.  '  Procured  him  an  ensign's  commission . .  • 
for  which  he  had  promised  hut  one  hundred  pounds.'  Vicar,  326. 
To  purchase  a  commission,  and  to  follow  Uiat  up  by  purchasing 
successive  steps  in  rank,  was  formerly  the  rule  in  the  army. 
The  custom  was  abolished  by  royal  warrant  on  July  20,  1871 ; 
the  Army  Reform  Bill  of  Mr.  Edward  Caidwell  had  sought  to 
make  the  change,  but  the  proposals  were  rejected  by  the  House 
of  Lords,  on  which  the  royal  prerogative  was  invoked. 

Compleat  Housewife,  The,    She  Stoops,  123. 

Con,  Cousin.  She  Stoops,  147.  It  has  been  suggested  by 
Mr.  Austin  Dobson  that  Goldsmith  was  thinking  of  his  cousin, 
Jane  Contarine,  when  he  penned  this  description  {Life  of  Gold- 
smith, p.  88,  ed.  1888). 

CoNCATBNATiON,  a  scrics  of  links ;  a  suooession  of  things  in 
a  series,  dependent  on  each  other.  *  If  so  be  that  a  gentleman 
bees  in  a  concatenation  accordingly,'  She  Stoops,  99 ;  *  The 
concatenation  of  self-existenoe,  proceeding  in  a  reciprocal 
duplicate  ratio,'  Vicar,  222. 

CoNCBALBD,  hidden,  disguised.  *  I  have  been  now  for  some 
time  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies.'  Good-Natur'd  Man,  8. 
Cp.  Romeo  and  Jtdiet,  m.  iii.  97-8 :  *  What  says  My  conceal'd 
lady  to  our  cancelled  [conceal'd,  1623]  love  ? '  Sir  William 
Honeywood  enacts  here  a  similar  part  to  that  played  by  Sir 
Oliver  Surface  in  Sheridan's  School  for  Scandal, 

CoNQBBVE,  William  (1670-1729),  poet  and  dramatist.  His 
plays  criticized  by  Dr.  Primrose,  Vicar,  296.  His  Mourning 
Bride  quoted,  Vicar,  407.     The  full  passage  (Act  i,  Sc.  ii)  reads : 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  427 

Manitbl.  By  Heaven, 

There 's  not  a  slave,  a  shackled  slave  of  mine. 
But  should  have  smiled  that  hour,  through  all  his  care, 
And  shook  his  chains  in  transport  and  rude  harmony. 
GoklBmith  considered  that  people  were  rarely  so  witty  in  their 
dialogues  as  Congreve  makes  them  (Prior's  Life  of  Goldsmith, 
ii.  160). 

CoNNOissBUBSHiP,  how  attained.  Vicar,  321.  Lord  Byron, 
according  to  Forster,  delighted  in  the  truth  and  wit  of  the  t\^o 
rules  which  formed  George  Primrose's  qualifications  as  a  con- 
noisseur, and  often  repeated  them  to  Mr.  Rogers  in  Italy  {Life 
of  Oddsmitk,  Book  IV,  chap.  xiv).  Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World, 
Letter  34.     See  Cognoscento. 

Conscience,  Dr.  Primrose  on.     Vicar,  262. 

Constitution,  the.     Dr.  Primrose  on.     Vicar,  299. 

CoNTBiVANCES  in  housekeeping.     Vicar,  188. 

CoNTBovBESY.  *  He  [the  Vicar]  was  too  mild  and  too  gentle 
to  contend  for  victory.'  Vicar,  267.  Contrast  this  mildness 
with  the  vigour  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  owned  that  he  often  *  talked 
for  victory'  (Boswell's  Life,  ii.  238,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill). 

Between  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday.  Vicar,  224.  In 
Rdigioua  Courtship,  ib.  The  controversy  between  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  Friday  the  savage  is  known,  by  name  at  least,  to 
everybody,  and  the  controversy  in  Religious  Courtship  is  among 
Defoe's  most  characteristic  works  and  affords  a  good  jdeal  of 
amusement  and  instruction  in  his  practised  hands. 
See  also  Disputation. 

Coquet,  to  pretend  to  make  love  to  ;  to  flirt.  She  Stoops,  120, 
169. 

Cosmogony,  Jenkinson's  harangue  on.  Vicar,  266,  354. 
For  a  little  more  information  than  is  to  be  found,  in  the  frag- 
mentary utterances  of  Ephraim  Jenkinson,  the  reader  may 
consult  Pattison's  Essays,  i.  164  seq. ;  The  Eusebian  Chronicle, 
i.  164  seq. ;  and  the  references  to  Sanchoniathon,  Berosus,  Ocellus 
Lucanus,  Manetho,  Tiglath  Pul  Asser,  &c.,  in  Whiston's  Memoirs, 
with  which  Goldsmith  must  certainly  have  been  acquainted. 
See  Whiston. 

Counter,  a  false  or  counterfeit  coin.     Vic^ar,  391. 

Country  Dances.     Vicar,  237,  325. 


428  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

CouRANTB,  *  a  kind  of  dance  fonnerly  in  vogue,  characterized 
by  a  running  or  gliding  step  *  (O.E.D.).     Grumbler,  178. 

Court  Register.  Good-NcUur'd  Man,  61.  Perhaps  a 
fictitious  name.  Hugh  Kelly  edited  The  Court  Magazine  ( 1 761-3), 
and  there  was  also  The  Court  MisceUany,  or  Lady's  New  MagaziM 
(1765-8). 

Courtship.  *  To  go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a  formal  court- 
ship/ &c.  She  Stoops,  107-8.  This  passage  is  almost  identical 
with  one  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  72. 

CovENT  Garden  Theatre,  Manager  of.  See  Colman  and 
Appendix,  pp.  488  seq.,  499   seq. 

Crack,  a  lie,  exaggerated  talk.  She  Stoops,  122.  Cp.  Burton, 
Anat,  Melancholy,  I.  ii.  ui.  xiv.  22, '  Out  of  this  fountain  [conceit] 
proceed  all  those  cracks  and  brags '  (O.E.D.). 

Crack'd  China.  *  I'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of  family  lumber ; 
a  piece  of  crack'd  china  to  be  stuck  up  in  a  comer.'  Good 
Natur'd  Man,  34.  Cp.  The  Deserted  Village,  1.  236,  'Broken 
tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show.'  Cracked  china  was  much 
sought  after  by  collectors.  See  Walpole's  Letters,  ii.  447  (May  19, 
1750) :  '  Turner,  a  great  china-man,  at  the  comer  of  the  next 
street,  had  a  jar  cracked  by  the  shock :  he  originally  asked  ten 
guineas  for  the  pair :  he  now  asks  twenty,  "  because  it  is  the 
only  jar  in  Europe  that  has  been  cracked  by  an  earthquake." ' 

Cradock,  Joseph  (1742-1826),  of  Gumley,  Leicestershire. 
She  Stoops,  171.  He  was  the  author  of  a  tragedy  called  Zobeide, 
which  Horace  Walpole  describes  as  '  very  indifferent,  though 
written  by  a  country  gentleman'  (Letters,  viii.  117).  For  this 
tragedy  Goldsmith  supplied  a  Prologue:  see  Poetical  Works, 
p.  72.  The  Epilogue  written  by  Cradock  for  She  Sloops  to 
Conquer  was  rejected  as  too  bad,  but  was  printed  with  the  play 
with  the  polite  excuse  that  it  came  too  late  to  be  spoken. 
Cradock  wrote  his  Memoirs  in  old  age,  in  which  he  places  on 
record  many  interesting  anecdotes  of  Goldsmith.  For  Gold- 
smith's friendship  with  Cradock  see  Forster's  Life,  Book  IV, 
chap  xiii.  See  also  an  article  by  Mr.  Austin  Bobson,  *  Mr.  Cradock 
of  Gumley,'  in  the  National  Review  for  July,  1909,  pp.  774-87. 

Cramp,  used  for  '  cramped ' ;  of  writing,  close,  crabbed,  not 
written  distinctly.  Good-Natur*d  Man,  68 ;  She  Stoops,  148, 
149.     Cp.    fielding,   Don  Quixote  in  England  (1733),   Introd., 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  429 

*  They  are  written  in  such  damned  cramp  hands  you  will  never 
be  able  to  read  them.' 

Cbeoliak,  a  Creole ;  a  native  of  the  West  Indies  or  Spanish 
America,  but  not  of  native  blood.     Vicar,  312. 

Cribbage  in  prison.  Vicar,  365.  Compare  similar  occupa- 
tions by  prisoners  in  Humours  of  the  Fleet  (1749)  14 : 

These  are  at  Cribbage,  those  at  Whist  engaged. 
And  as  they  lose,  by  turns  become  enrag'd. 

Crispin,  a  cobbler  or  shoemaker ;  from  St.  Crispin,  who  is 
said  to  have  helped  the  poor  by  making  shoes  for  them  and 
became  the  patron  saint  of  the  craft.     Good-Natur^d  Man,  4. 

Cboakeb,  Mb.,  *  a  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief.' 
Gfood-Naiur'd  Man,  13  and  passim.  Goldsmith  is  said  to  have 
admitted  that  he  borrowed  the  character  of  Croaker  from 
Johnson's  Suspirius  in  The  Rambler,  No.  59.  See  Dr.  Birkbeck 
Hill's  Bostvell,  i.  213.  For  further  information  and  a  transcript 
from  The  Rambler  see  Appendix,  Note  5.   • 

Cbooked-Lane,  Cannon  Street,  City.  Good-Natur'd  Man,  9  ; 
She  Stoops,  121. 

Cross,  sh,  (1)  money;  so  called  because  the  reverse  side  was 
stamped  with  a  cross;  (2)  the  side  of  a  coin  stamped  with  a 
cross.  (1)  *  To  come  and  take  up  an  honest  house,  without 
cross  or  coin  to  bless  yourself  with.'  Vicar,  329.  Cp.  Heywood, 
Wise  Woman,  i.  i  (1638),  *  I'le  play  the  franck  gamester.  I  will 
not  leave  myself  one  Crosse  to  blesse  me'  (O.E.D.).  (2)  *  We 
have  not  yet  seen  the  cross  of  her  money.'  Vicar,  328.  So 
Cowley,  Cutter  of  Colman  Street  (1663),  v,  *  What,  did  you  think 
I  knew  not  Cross  from  Pile  ?  ' 

Cross,  v.  *  To  cross  a  fortune-teller's  hand  with  silver :  to 
describe  crossing  lines  on  her  hand  with  a  silver  coin  given  by 
the  consulter:  hence  to  give  money  to'  (O.E.D.).  *My  girls 
came  running  to  me  for  a  shilling  apiece  to  cross  her  [a  gipsy's] 
hand  with  silver.'     Vicar,  242. 

Cross  and  Change,  a  term  in  needlework.     Vicar,  251. 

Cup,  *a  name  for  various  beverages,  consisting  of  wine, 
sweetened  and  flavoured  with  various  ingredients,  and  usually 
iced '  (O.E.D.,  s.v.  Cup,  sh,  11).     She  Stoops,  110. 

Cure,  the  benefice  or  employment  of  a  curate  or  a  clergyman. 


430  GL06SABIAL  INDEX 

Viear,  196.  An  article  in  the  Natiamd  Review  for  May,  1883, 
by  Mr.  Edward  Ford«  has  Boggested  Kirkby  Moonide,  in  theNoith 
Riding*  aa  the  *  small  due '  to  which  Dr.  Primroee  removed. 
The  sum  offered,  fiftem  poonda  a  year,  shows  to  some  extent 
the  condition  of  the  inferior  cleigy  at  this  time. 

Cut,  «&.  In  i^irase  '  the  cut  of  one's  face ',  the  form  or  shape 
of  one's  features.  Ftcar,  410.  Cp.  *cut  of  one's  jib.'  Set 
O.E.D.,  s.v.  Cut,  «6.'  III.  16. 

Cut  Paper,  to  cut  out  in  profile,  as  a  silhouette.  '  My  eldest 
[daughter]  can  cut  paper.'  Vicar^  251.  Cp.  Citizen  of  the  Worid^ 
Letter  90,  '  I  shaped  tobacco-stoppers,  wrote  verses,  and  cat 
paper.'  See  Austin  Dobson's  Fiddinq,  1889,  p.  184,  '  Hogarth, 
being  unable  to  recall  his  dead  friend's  features,  had  reeourse 
to  a  profile  cut  in  paper  by  a  lady,  who  possessed  the  happy  talent 
which  Pope  ascribes  to  Lady  Burlington.'   See  Appendix,  Note  20. 

'CuTEMESS,  sharpness,  clevemess,  acuteness.  Oood-Natur'd 
Man,  23. 

Darby  and  Joan,  a  married  couple,  proverbial  types  of  con- 
tentment. She  Stoops,  92.  Darby  and  Joan  are  said  to  have 
lived  in  the  eighteenth  century  in  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire, 
and  are  noted  traditionally  for  their  long  and  happy  married  life. 
There  is  a  ballad  on  the  subject  called  '  The  Happy  Old  Couple ', 
supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Henry  Woodfall,  though  it 
has  been  attributed  to  Prior.  A  poem  entitled  '  Dobson  and 
Joan ',  by  Mr.  B.,  is  published  with  Prior's  Poems  (see  Century 
Cyclopaedia  of  Names), 

Dawson,  Nancy  (d.  1767),  a  famous  hornpipe  dancer.  She 
Stoops,  170.     See  note  in  Poetical  Works,  221. 

Dbath,  the  only  friend  of  the  wretched.  Vicar,  382.  On 
the  whole  of  this  passage  cp.  The  Traveller,  11.  27-8. 

Death  and  the  Lady,  Vicar,  286.  This  old  ballad  will  be  found 
in  BolVs  BaUads  of  the  Peasantry  (1857),  p.  32. 

Deolarb  off,  withdraw  from  anything.  Vicar,  260.  Cp. 
Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  46,  *  As  lord  Beetle  says,  I  absolutely 
declare  of!.' 

Dbfos,  Daniel  (1661-1731).     Vicar,  224.    See  Contax)ver8y. 

Deucats,  refined,  gentle,  pleasing  to  the  senses.  *  Delicate 
creature  !  *     Oood'Natur*d  Man,  49. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  431 

Denain,  a  town  in  fVance,  where  Prince  Eugene,  commanding 
the  allied  troops,  was  defeated  by  Marshal  Villars  in  1712. 

Defabtment,  business  assigned  to  a  particular  person 
(Johnson).  *  French  Servant,  He  be  only  giving  four  five 
instruction,  read  two  tree  memorial,  call  upon  von  ambassadeur. 
Mrs,  Croaker,  What  an  extensive  department.'  Oood-Naiur'd 
Man,  28.  So  Scott,  Quentin  Durward,  308,  *  My  head  is  some- 
what of  the  dullest  out  of  my  own  department.' 

Deuce  ace,  *  two  and  one,  i.e.  a  throw  that  turns  up  deuce 
with  one  die  and  ace  with  the  other'  (O.E.D.).  Vicar,  194. 
Cp.  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  i.  ii.  49-61,  ^  Moth,  You  know  how 
much  the  gross  sum  of  deuce-ace  amounts  to.  Arm,  It  doth 
amount  to  one  more  than  two.' 

Dexttebogamist,  one  who  makes  or  upholds  a  second  marriage. 
Vicar,  294. 

Deutebogamy,  a  second  marriage.     Vicar,  266. 

DiALOOiCALLY,  in  the  manner  of  a  dialogue.     Vicar,  221. 

Ding,  to  impress  by  force  or  reiteration.  '  Not  to  keep  dinging 
it,  dinging  it  into  one  so.'    She  Stoops,  123. 

DisPBOPOBTioNED  Fbiendships.     Vicar,  213. 

Disputation  : 
Between  'Squire  ThomhiU  and  Moses.  Vicar,  221-2. 
Between  Thwackum  and  Square.  lb.  224.  The  disputes 
between  Mr.  Thwackum  the  divine  and  Mr.  Square  the  philo- 
sopher are  reported  in  Fielding's  Tom  Jones,  Book  III,  chap,  iii : 
'  This  gentleman  [Mr.  Square]  and  Mr.  Thwackum  scarce  ever 
met  without  a  disputation ;  for  their  tenets  were  indeed  diamet- 
rically opposed  to  each  other.  Square  held  human  nature 
to  be  the  perfection  of  all  virtue,  and  that  vice  was  a  deviation 
from  our  nature,  in  the  same  manner  as  deformity  is.  Thwackum, 
on  the  contrary,  maintained  that  the  human  mind,  since  the  fall, 
was  nothing  but  a  sink  of  iniquity,  till  purified  and  redeemed 
by  grace. . .  .  The  former  measured  all  actions  by  the  unalterable 
rule  of  right,  and  the  eternal  fitness  of  things  ;  the  latter  decided 
all  matters  by  authority ;  but  in  doing  this,  he  always  used  the 
scriptures  and  their  commentators,  as  the  lawyer  doth  his  Coke 
upon  Littleton,  where  the  comment  is  of  equal  authority  with 
the  text.'     See  also  under  Square  and  Thwackum. 

The  Philosophic  Vagabond's  skill  in  disputation.      Vicar, 


432  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

322-3.  This  is  another  trait  of  Goldsmith's.  See  Forster's  Lift, 
Book  I,  chap,  v :  '  He  always  boasted  of  himself  as  hero  in  the 
disputations  to  which  his  philosophic  vagabond  refers.  .  .  . 
''Sir,"  said  Boswell  to  Johnson,  ''he  disputed  his  passage  through 
Europe." ' 

Do,  v.,  '  to  hoax,  cheat,  swindle,  overreach '  (O.E.D.,  s.v.  Do, 
11  f.).  'If  the  man  comes  from  the  Gomish  borough,  you  must 
do  him  ;  you  must  do  him  I  say,'  Oood-Naiur^d  Man^  29  ;  '  Do 
me  here,  do  you  there :  interest  of  both  sides,  few  words,  flat,  done 
and  done,  and  it 's  over,'  ib.  48. 

Drama,  state  of  the.     Vicar,  295-6. 

Dreams,  as  portents.     Vicar,  243. 

Driving,  '  an  Irish  term,  descriptive  of  the  mode  which 
a  landlord  in  Ireland  takes  to  enforce  payment  from  a  tenant' 
(Goldsmith's  Works,  i.  417,  ed.  Cunningham,  1854).  'My 
steward  talks  of  driving  for  the  rent,'  Vicar,  347 ;  '  The 
consequence  of  my  incapacity  was  his  driving  my  cattle  that 
evening,'  ib.  349.  '  CSattle-driving  '  is  a  term  which  has  been 
very  familiar  during  the  last  few  years  in  connexion  with  grazing- 
land  disputes  in  Ireland. 

Dryden,  John  (1631-1707),  poet  and  dramatist.  A  favourite 
song  of,  Vicar,  212 ;  out  of  fashion,  ib.  295 ;  as  an  exemplar,  ib.  310. 

Duchesses  of  Drurt  Lane,  loose  women  of  pleasure,  passing 
themselves  off  as  persons  of  rank  and  position.     She  Sloops,  108. 

DuELLiNQ.  Geoige  Primrose's  offence  against  the  Statute, 
Vicar,  378.  Dr.  Primrose's  censure.  Vicar,  391.  See  Appendix, 
Note  26. 

Dulussimo-Maccaroni,  a  series  of  satirical  prints,  caricaturing 
prominent  persons  as  maocaronies.  She  Stoops,  145.  See 
Poetical  Works,  Notes,  p.  247. 

Earthquake,  the  late.  Oood-Natur^d  Man,  15.  This  refers 
to  the  earthquake  at  Lisbon  on  November  1,  1755.  Writing  on 
November  25,  1755,  Horace  Walpole  says,  '  There  is  a  mo?t 
dreadful  account  of  an  earthquake  at  Lisbon,  but  several  people 
will  not  believe  it.  There  have  been  lately  such  earthquakes 
and  waterquakes,  and  rocks  rent,  and  other  strange  phenomena, 
that  one  would  think  the  world  exceedingly  out  of  repair' 
(Letters,  iii.  373). 


GLOSSARIAL  DSTDEX  433 

Eastebk  Tales.  '  My  essays  were  buried  among  eastern  tales/ 
&c.  Vicar,  313.  *  Asem,  an  Eastern  Tale/  was  one  of  Goldsmith's 
essays.  Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  33,  '  The  Eastern  tales 
of  magazines,  &c.  ridiculed.*  On  the  history  of  Oriental  tales 
see  Appendix,  Note  23. 

EcoD,  used  as  a  mild  oath.     She  Stoops,  122  and  passim. 

Edwin  and  Angelina,  ballad  of.  Vicar,  22,1  seq.  This  poem, 
written  in  the  old  ballad  style,  had  been  privately  printed 
previous  to  its  pubUcation  in  the  novel  in  1766.  The  earlier 
version  differs  considerably  from  that  in  the  Vicar,  and  sub- 
sequent editions  show  further  changes.  It  was  probably  an 
interpolation  to  make  the  novel  a  little  longer.  For  a  full  account 
of  the  ballad  see  Mr.  Austin  Dobson's  notes  in  Poetical  Works, 
206-12,  ed.  1906. 

Eoos.  *  As  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs.'  Good-Naiur^d  Man,  56. 
A  proverbial  expression,  indicating  anything  very  sure. 

Elevens.  *  By  the  elevens.'  A  phrase  of  uncertain  origin 
(O.E.D.).     Oood-Natur'd  Man,  43  ;   She  Stoops,  106. 

Embboideby.  'You  must  shew  me  your  embroidery.  I 
embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself  a  little.'  She  Stoops,  137. 
Young  Marlow  is  here  imitative  of  Archer  in  The  Beaux'  Stratagem 
(Act  IV,  sc.  i),  where  he  says  to  Mrs.  Sullen,  *  I  can't  at  this 
distance.  Madam,  distinguish  the  figures  of  the  embroidery.' 
See  Appendix,  Note  15. 

Ensiqk,  '  the  officer  of  foot  who  carries  the  flag '  (Johnson). 
Vicar,  326.     See  Commission. 

Enthusiasm,  '  heat  of  imagination,  violence  of  passion ' 
(Johnson),  '  That  night  .  .  .  was  spent  in  the  bitterness  of 
complaint,  and  ill-supported  sallies  of  enthusiasm.'     Vicar,  291. 

Epilooitbs  : 

Oood-Natur*d  Man,  82.     See  notes  to  Poetical  Works,  214. 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  169, 171.     See  notes  to  Poetical  Works, 
220,  246-9. 

Epitaphs: 

On  the  Vicar's  wife,  placed  over  the  mantelpiece.    Vicar,  193. 
On  Whiston's  wife,  ib.     See  Appendix,  Note  16,  and  cp. 
Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  12,  on  Flattering  Epitaphs. 

Etro]^NE,  Pbincb,  stories  of.  She  Stoops,  91,  111,  127.  Francis 
Eugene,  of  Savoy  (1663-1736),  known  as  Prince  Eugene,  was 


434  GLOSSABIAL  INDEX 

a  distinguished  military  commander,  and  participated  with  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough  in  the  victories  of  Bloiheim,  Oadenarde»  &c. 
He  was  very  popular  in  England. 

Evil,  a  smaller,  to  produce  a  greater  good.     Vicar ^  331. 

'  Exits  and  Entrances.'  She  Stoops,  169.  Quoted  from 
As  You  Like  It,  n.  vii.  141. 

Express,  'a  messenger  sent  on  purpose'  (Johnson).  Good- 
Natur'd  Man,  28. 

Fable.  *  A  feigned  story  intended  to  enforce  some  moral  pre- 
cept '  (Johnson).  The  Giant  and  the  Dwarf,  Vicar,  259  ;  Aesop 
and  his  basket  of  bread,  ib.  319. 

Fair,  Moses  Primrose  at  the.  Vicar,  266 ;  Dr.  Primrose  at  the, 
ib.  264  seq. 

Fairing,  a  present  given  or  purchased  at  a  fair.  Vicar,  28S. 
One  of  John  Newbery's  books  for  children  was  ^ititled  *  The 
Fairing ;  or  Golden  Toy  for  children,  in  which  they  can  see 
all  the  Fun  in  the  Fair,  and  at  home  be  as  happy  as  if  they 
were  there.' 

Fair  Penitent,  by  Nicholas  Rowe.     Vicar,  306. 

Fair  Rosamond^  8  Bower,  the  story  of.  Vicar,  216.  The  heroine 
of  this  story  was  Rosamond  Clifford,  the  concubine  of  Henry  II, 
who  was  said  to  have  been  poisoned  by  Queen  Eleanor  about 
1173.  The  historical  facts  are  not  well  authenticated,  cuid  the 
more  romantic  incidents  are  wholly  derived  from  a  popular 
ballad  written  a  long  time  after  their  supposed  occurrence. 
The  *  bower '  was  in  the  royal  park  at  Woodstock  (now  known 
as  Blenheim  Park),  where  Fair  Rosamond  is  said  to  have  been 
kept  by  her  royal  lover  in  a  labyrinth,  and  discovered  by  Queen 
Eleanor  by  means  of  a  clue  of  thread.  Rosamond  was  buried  in 
the  nunnery  of  Godstow,  near  Oxford.  For  all  that  is  known  of 
the  historical  facts,  and  for  an  account  of  the  growth  of  the  stoiy, 
see  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  vol.  zi. 

Falkland,  Lord  (1610-43),  as  an  exemplar.  Vicar,  327. 
Viscount  Falkland  was  slain  at  Newbury  in  1643.  Groldsmith's 
dates  are  here  grievously  at  fault,  as  elsewhere.  George  Primrose 
is  told  to  emulate  his  grandfather,  who  fell  in  the  same  field 
with  Falkland.  As  Prior  points  out,  '  this,  if  taken  Uterally, 
would  make  the  Vicar  more  than  a  century  old.'     Clarendon's 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  436 

account  of  Ealkland  is  generally  recognized  as  one  of  the  most 
eloquent  passages  in  his  or  any  other  history. 

Farmers,  simplicity  of  manners  of.  Vicar,  205.  See  Flam- 
borough. 

Fabquhab,  George  (1678*1707),  dramatist.  His  plays  criticized 
by  Dr.  Primrose.  Vicar,  296.  The  Beaux'  Stratagem  was  written 
in  six  weeks,  in  the  midst  of  disappointment  and  poverty. 
At  the  height  of  its  success  Farquhar  died.  The  chief  action 
of  the  play  turns  upon  fortune-hunting  in  the  marriage-market. 
On  one  occasion,  when  it  was  proposed  to  go  down  to  Lichfield, 
and,  in  honour  of  Johnson  and  Garrick,  act  this  play.  Goldsmith 
expressed  a  wish  to  play  the  part  of  Scrub  (see  Forster's  Gold- 
smith, Book  IV,  chap.  xiv).  Goldsmith  is  said  to  have  con- 
sidered Farquhar  to  possess  the  spirit  of  genuine  comedy  in 
a  superior  degree  to  any  modem  writer,  though  often  coarse 
and  licentious  (Prior's  Qddsmith,  ii.  160).  There  is  no  doubt 
Goldsmith  took  Farquhar  as  his  exemplar,  and  the  Beaux' 
Stratagem  is  regarded  by  Dr.  A.  W.  Ward  as  the  prototype  of 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer :  see  Ward's  English  Dramatic  Literature, 
iii.  485,  ed.  1899. 

Feeder,  lit.  one  who  feeds  up  or  fattens ;  here  used  humor- 
ously :  a  crammer,  tutor.  Vicar,  220.  See  O.E.D.,  s.v.  Feeder, 
sh.  5,  which  quotes  from  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  1787,  Ivii. 
869,  *  A  Feeder,  by  which  is  meant  a  person  who  .  .  .  crams  into 
the  head  of  a  candidate  for  a  degree  certain  ideas  which  [&c.].' 
Cp.  Dickens,  Dombey  and  Son,  chap,  xi,  *Mr.  Feeder,  B.A., 
assistant  in  Dr.  Blimber's  boarding-school.* 

FiNEBY.  'What  a  quantity  of  superfluous  silk  hast  thou 
got  about  thee,  girl ! '  She  Stoops,  94.  With  this  speech  of 
Mr.  Hardoastle's,  compare  the  Vicar's  remarks  on  the  attachment 
of  his  family  to  finery.  Vicar,  207-8. 

FiRB  at  the  Vicar's  dwelling-house.  Vicar,  335-7.  The  in- 
cidents here  narrated  bear  a  great  resemblance  to  the  fire  which 
destroyed  the  Rev.  Samuel  Wesley's  residence  at  Epworth  in 
1706.  Here  two  children  were  in  danger,  one  of  those  rescued 
being  the  famous  John  Wesley.  See  Southey's  Life  of  John 
Wesley,  i.  13-14,  ed.  1846. 

Fire-side,  happiness  of  the  Vicar's.  Vicar,  215-6,  305, 
376,  392,  415.    Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  Lives  of  the  Novelists, 


436  6L0SSARIAL  INDEX 

declares  this  scene  of  domestic  happiness  to  be  without  parallel, 
in  all  his  novel-reading,  as  a  fireside  picture  of  perfect  beaaty. 
Cp.  The  TraveOer,  11.  11-12. 

FiBST  Sight,  nonce-use :  that  which  is  seen  for  the  first  time 
(O.E.D.).    She  Sloops,  127. 

Flambobouoh,  Fabmsb.  Vicar,  207.  His  '  rosy  dan^ters  \ 
ib.  237.  Writing  to  the  Rev.  Thomas  Contarine  in  1754, 
Goldsmith  says, '  Of  all  objects  on  this  earth,  an  English  farmer's 
daughter  is  most  charming '  (Prior's  Life,  L  102). 

Flandebs,  the  philosophic  vagabond  in.  Vicar,  320.  Cp. 
Forster's  Life,  Book  I,  chap.  v. 

Flatteby:  of  the  ambitions.  Vicar,  202;  of  authors,  ib.  266. 

Flekt,  the,  a  prison  for  debtors,  bankrupts,  and  persons 
charged  with  contempt  of  Court;  whole  families  were  incar- 
cerated. Cfood-Natur'd  Man,  9,  41.  For  an  account  of  life  in 
the  prison  see  The  Humours  of  (he  Fleet,  a  humorous  poetical  de- 
scription, 'written  by  a  Gentleman  of  the  College,'  London, 
1749. 

Fletcheb,  John  (1576-1625),  dramatist.  His  plays  criticized 
by  Dr.  Primrose.     Vicar,  295. 

Flobeivtine,  'a  sort  of  bak'd  Tart,  or  Pudding'  (BaUey). 
She  Sloops,  113.  See  Compute  Housewife,  1750,  'a  Florentine 
of  a  kidney  of  veal.'  A  receipt  for  making  a  Florentine  may  be 
found  in  A  True  OenOeman's  Delight,  1676,  98  (Nares).  For 
different  ways  of  making  this  dish  see  Eng.  Dialect  Diet. 

Floubishing  Mankeb.  To  flourishes'  to  use  florid  language ' 
(Johnson).    Oood-Natur^d  Man,  35. 

FoNTABABiA,  a  towu  in  the  province  of  Guipuzcoa,  Spain, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  River  Bidassoa.  Marriage  fair  at.  Vicar,  288. 
Of  this  fair  nothing  definite  can  be  discovered.  Op.  Scott, 
Bob  Boy,  chap,  v :  *  "  Fontarabian  echoes  !  "  . . .  the  Fontarabian 
Fair  would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose.'  This,  however,  as 
Mr.  Austin  Dobson  points  out,  may  have  been  merely  a  reminis- 
cence of  Goldsmith,  with  whose  works  Scott  was  familiar. 

Fobest,  an  extensive  tract  of  land  covered  with  trees  and 
undergrowth  (O.E.D.).  *  They  have  lost  their  way  upo*  the 
forest.'    She  Stoops,  100. 

FoBFEiTs,  game  of.  Vicar,  194.  '  Something  deposited,  and 
to  be  redeemed  by  a  jocular  fine,  whence  the  game  of  forfeits; 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  437 

one  of  our  festive  sports,  not  yet  forgotten ;  and  observed, 
especially  in  the  country,  about  Christmas  time '  (Todd- Johnson). 

FoETUNB-HUNTEBS,  character  of.     Vicar,  213-4. 

France,  the  philosophic  vagabond  in.     Vicary  320-2. 

French  Ambassador,  his  *  green  and  yellow  dinners'.  She 
Stoops,  113.     See  Appendix,  Note  12. 

French  Comedy.     Oood-Natur'd  Man,  3. 

French  Friseubs.    See  Friseur. 

French  Horn,  a  wind  instrument  of  metal,  twisted  into 
several  folds.     Vicar,  414.     Cp.  Pope,  Dunciad,  iv.  378 : 

The  voice  was  drowned 
By  the  French  horn  or  by  the  op'ning  hound. 

French  Taste,  its  effect  on  prices.     Oood-Natur'd  Man,  41-2. 

Frenchified  Cover,  the  wrapper  of  a  letter  folded  after 
a  French  manner ;  used  contemptuously.   Crood-Naiur'd  Man,  26. 

Friday,  the  Savage,  his  inquiries  on  religion  in  Robinson 
Crusoe,     Vicar,  224. 

Friendship,  Universal.     Oood-Naiur'd  Man,  44,  46. 

Frippery,  tawdry  finery.  She  Stoops,  94;  Vicar,  208.  Cp. 
Carey,  HiUs  of  Hyhla  (1767)  20,  '  Behold  her  sailing  in  the  pink 
of  taste,  Trump'd  up  with  powder,  frippery  and  paste.' 

Friseur,  a  hairdresser.  'Your  friseur  is  a  Frenchman,  I 
suppose  7'  She  Stoops,  121.  Cp.  Epilogue  intended  for  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,  1.  32,  *  Of  French  friseurs,  and  nosegays,  justly  vain.' 

Frizzle,  Mrs.    See  Wig. 

FxTDOE, '  stuff  and  nonsense !  Bosh !  Apparently  first  used  by 
Goldsmith '  (O.E.D.).  Vicar,  249  and  passim.  The  exclama- 
tion Fudge/  at  the  end  of  the  paragraphs  on  pp.  249  and  250 
was  added  in  the  second  edition — a  notable  improvement  to 
the  text.  The  interjection  was  probably  derived  from  the  name 
of  a  person.  See  Webster*s  Dictionary,  Noted  Names  of  Fiction. 
'  Fudge,  Mr. :  A  contemptuous  designation  bestowed  upon  any 
absurd  or  l3dng  writer  or  talker.'  Webster  adds  the  following 
quotation :  *  There  was,  sir,  in  our  time,  one  Captain  Fudge, 
commander  of  a  merchantman,  who,  upon  his  return  from* 
a  voyage,  how  ill  fraught  so  ever  his  voyage  was,  always  brought 
home  to  his  owners  a  good  cargo  of  lies,  insomuch  that  now 
aboard  ship  the  sailors,  when  they  hear  a  great  lie  told,  cry  out. 


438  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

"You  fudge  it*'.*  Remarks  upon  the  Navy  (London,  1700). 
According  to  the  O.E.D.,  in  a  dialogue  of  1702,  ^The  present  con- 
dition of  the  English  Navy/  one  of  the  interlocutors  is  called 
*'  Young  Fudg  of  the  Admiralty '.  The  name  has  since  been 
extensively  used  in  English  literature ;  cp.  Virgil  in  London^ 
or.  Town  Fudges,  1814  ;  Fashionable  Fudges  in  London :  a  Poem 
by  Benj.  Flaccus,  1818  ;  The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris,  by  Thomas 
Moore,  1818. 

Galled  Hack.  Vicar,  264.  To  *gall'  is  to  fret  or  wear 
away  the  skin  by  rubbing.  Cp.  Hamlet,  m.  ii.  253,  '  Let  the 
galled  jade  wince,  our  withers  are  unwrung.* 

Gallery  at  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house.   She  Stoops,  134.  See  Inns. 

GAifiNG,  Dr.  Primrose's  detestation  of.  Vicar,  194.  It  is 
only  too  probable  that  Goldsmith's  practice  differed  from  his 
precepts  in  this  regard.     See  Mr.  Austin  Bobson's  Life,  p.  190. 

Garnet,  the  name  of  a  precious  stone.  *  The  garnet  is  a  gem 
of  a  middle  degree  of  hardness,  between  the  sapphire  and  the 
common  crystal.  It  is  found  of  various  sizes.  Its  colour  is 
ever  of  a  strong  red '  (Johnson).    She  Stoops,  131. 

Garrick,  David,  actor  and  dramatist  (1716-1779).  She 
Stoops,  88  (Prologue).  Horace  Walpole  calls  this  '  a  poor 
prologue'  in  more  than  one  letter  (see  Letters,  viii.  260,  262). 
With  this  opinion  may  be  compared  Johnscm's  observation, 
'  Dryden  has  written  prologues  superiour  to  any  that  David 
Garrick  has  written ;  but  David  Garrick  has  written  more  good 
prologues  than  Dryden  has  done.  It  is  wonderful  that  he  has 
been  able  to  write  such  a  variety  of  them'  (Boswell's  Life,  ii. 
325,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill).  For  Garrick's  connexion  with  the 
production  of  Goldsmith's  plays  see  Appendix,  pp.  488  seq., 
500,  and  Note  2. 

Gay,  John  (1688-1732),  poet  and  dramatist.  Vicar,  226. 
The  incident  of  *  the  two  lovers  so  sweetly  described  by  Mr.  Gay, 
who  were  struck  dead  in  each  other's  arms '  occurs  in  a  letter 
written  by  Gay  to  a  friend,  and  was  published  in  Pope's  Works, 
od.  1751  (see  Appendix,  Note  18).  In  1729  Gay  asked  Pope 
to  have  these  words  put  upon  his  tombstone: 

'life  is  a  jest»  and  all  things  show  it: 
I  thought  so  once,  but  now  I  know  it; 


GLOSSARIAL  DSTDEX  439 

with  what  more  you  may  think  proper.*  Pope  fulfilled  this 
request  by  writing  for  Gay's  memorial  in  Westminster  Abbey 
one  of  his  best  epitaphs  (severely  criticized  by  Johnson  in  his 
Life  of  Pope) : 

Of  manners  gentle,  of  affections  mild; 
In  wit,  a  man ;    simplicity,  a  child : 
With  native  humour  temp'ring  virtuous  rage, 
Form'd  to  delight  at  once  and  lash  the  age : 
Above  temptation,  in  a  low  estate, 
And  uncorrupted,  ev*n  among  the  great: 
A  safe  companion,  and  an  easy  friend, 
Unblamed  thro'  life,  lamented  in  thy  end. 
These  are  thy  honours !    not  that  here  thy  bust 
Is  mix'd  with  heroes,  or  with  kings  thy  dust; 
But  that  the  worthy  and  the  good  shall  say. 
Striking  their  pensive  bosoms — Here  lies  Gay. 

Gazetteer,  The,  i.e.  The  Gazetteer  and  London  Daily  Advertizer. 
Good-Natur'd  Man,  15,  78 ;    Vicar,  307. 

Genteel  Ck>MEDY,  '  sentimental '  or  refined  comedy  as 
contrasted  with  *  low '  comedy.  Good-Natur^d  Man,  3.  See  also 
Sentimental  Comedy. 

Genus,  a  perverted  form  of  *  genius ',  a  person  endowed 
with  genius ;  applied  humorously  here.  *  0  !  my  genus,  is  that 
you  ?  '     She  Stoops,  128. 

Ghost.  *  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that.'  She  Stoops, 
101.     A  reference  to  Hamlet,  i.  v. 

Gibbet,  the  gallows.  S?ie  Stoops,  158.  *  Our  possessions  are 
paled  up  with  new  edicts  every  day,  and  hung  round  with  gibbets 
to  scare  every  invader.'  Vicar,  366.  Cp.  The  Deserted  Village, 
11.  318-19 : 

Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display. 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 

The  gallows  was  a  prominent  object  in  the  landscape  in  .the 
eighteenth  century.     See  Tyburn. 

Go,  to  risk  a  sum  of  money,  to  wager.  'Go  forty  guineas 
on  a  game  of  cribbage.'  Good-Natur'd  Man,  37.  Cp.  Marvell, 
Reh.  Transp.  L  283,  *  This  gentleman  would  always  go  half 
a  Crown  with  me '  (O.E.D.). 


440  GLOSSABIAL  INDEX 

Go  DOWN,  to  find  aooeptance  (with  the  public).  '  The  only 
things  that  go  down.'  Viear^  295.  Cp.  fielding,  Inirig.  Chamber- 
maid  (1733)  Epil.,  '  None  but  Italian  warbleiB  will  go  down.' 

Gold  and  Silybb,  great  scarcity  of.     Vicar,  268. 

Good  of  the  House,  For  the  :  for  the  iMt>fit  or  benefit  of 
a  landlord,  an  expression  in  general  use  amongst  frequenters  of 
pablic-honses.  '  Were  you  not  tokL  to  drink  freely,  and  call 
for  what  you  thought  fit,  for  the  good  of  the  house  ? '  She 
Sioope,  142. 

Oood'Natur'd  Man,  The  title  chosen  by  Goldsmith  for  his 
play  had  already  been  used  by  Fielding  for  a  piece  to  be  pro- 
duced at  Drury  Lane  in  1742,  in  which  Garrick  was  to  have 
taken  part.  But  the  play,  not  satisfying  the  authcNr,  was  not 
produced  until  1779.  See  Fielding,  by  Austin  DobscMi  (English 
Men  of  Letters),  1889,  pp.  56  and  94.  But  the  phrase  '  g^- 
natur'd  man '  occurs  frequently  in  Goldsmith's  writing?.  Cp. 
Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  67,  '  The  discontented  being,  who 
retires  from  society,  is  generally  some  good-natured  man,  who 
has  begun  life  without  experience,  and  knew  not  how  to  gain  it 
in  his  intercourse  with  mankind.*  See  Appendix,  pp.  488  seq., 
and  Note  3. 

Gooseberry,  short  for  *  gooseberry-wine '.     Vicar,  212. 

Gooseberry- WINE.     Vicar,  207. 

GoosE-FiE.  Vicar,  216.  Cp.  Pope,  Rape  of  the  Lock,  iv.  52, 
'  Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  Goose-pie  talks.' 

GosuNO  Green,  a  pale  yellowish  colour.  'A  waistcoat  of 
gosling  green.'     Vicar,  254. 

Gothic,  rude,  uncouth,  in  bad  taste.  'With  his  usual 
Gothic  vivacity.'  She  Stoops,  121.  See  The  Bee,  October  13, 
1759,  '  A  French  woman  is  a  perfect  architect  in  dress :  she  never 
with  Gothic  ignonmce  mixes  the  orders.'  Cp.  Fielding,  Tom 
Jones,  vn.  iii,  '  Oh  more  than  Gothic  ignorance.' 

Grass-plot,  a  piece  of  ground  covered  with  turf.     Vicar,  234. 

Green,  a  piece  of  grassy  land  situate  near  a  town  or  village. 
Vicar,  271. 

Green  Spectacles,  Moses  and  the.     Vicar,  256. 

Gregory,  St.,  on  Good  Works.     Vicar,  265. 

Groce,  an  old  spelling  of  '  gross '.     Vicar,  257. 

Groom-porter,  '  an  officer  of  the  English  Royal  Household, 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  441 

abolished  under  George  III;  his  principal  functions  .  .  .  were 
to  regulate  all  matters  connected  with  gaming  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  court '  (O.E.D.).     Oood'Natur'd  Man,  31. 

Grotto  Gardens,  in  Clerkenwell.    She  Stoops,  121. 

Grouse.  *  The  story  of  ould  grouse  in  the  gun-room.'  She 
Stoops,  105.  '  Grouse  is  a  common  name  for  sporting  dogs  in^ 
Ireland/  wrote  Mr.  Fitzgerald  to  Forster  {Life,  Book  IV,  chap.  xv). 
But  'grouse*  in  this  sense  is  not  given  by  the  O.E.D.  or  the 
En^ish  Dialect  Diet, 

Grub-street  (now  Milton  Street,  Finsbury).  Vicar,  310. 
'  The  name  of  a  street  in  London,  much  inhabited  by  writers  of 
small  histories,  dictionaries,  and  temporary  poems;  whence 
any  mean  production  is  called  grvbstreet '  (Johnson). 

Orumbler,  The,     See  Appendix,  p.  605. 

Grumbletoniak,  a  grumbler.  '  I  could  be  so  revenged  on 
the  old  grumbletonian.'  S?ie  Stoops,  100.  The  term  is  adapted 
from  Muggletonian  and  Orindletonian  (O.E.D.) =the  'country 
party '.  Cp.  Macaulay,  History,  chap,  xix,  *  There  was  the  great 
line  which  separated  the  official  men  and  their  friends  and  depen- 
dents from  those  who  were  sometimes  nicknamed  the  "  Grumble- 
tonians  ",  and  sometimes  honoured  with  the  ap^llation  of  the 
Country  party,* 

Guests,  Objectionablb,  the  art  of  getting  rid  of.    Vicar,  189. 

GuLPH,  an  old  spelling  of  '  gulf  ',>a  yawning  chasm,  abyss,  the 
*  bottomless  pit '.     Vicar,  316,  375. 

Habus  Corpus,  i.e.  the  writ  of  habeas  corpus,  Oood-NcUur'd 
Man,  42. 

Hackneyed,  made  trite  or  commonplace.  Vicar,  273. 
Apparently  first  used  in  this  sense  in  Hurd^s  Notes  (1749)  on 
Horace's  Art  of  Poetry, 

Haqgling,  petty  squabbling ;  literally,  bargaining.  *  Always 
haggling  and  haggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting  the  better 
before  his  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the  victory.*  Oood'Natur'd 
Man,  14.     See  Controversy,  and  cp.  Higgle. 

Hand.  In  phrase  '  by  the  hand  of  one's  body.'  She  Stoops, 
166. 

Habdcastle,  Mrs.  Tony  Lumpkin's  trick  on  Mrs.  Hardcastle 
{She  Stoops,  158-60)  was  objected  to  on  its  first  representation 


442  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

as  wildly  improbable,  bat  a  similar  imposition  had  been  played 
on  Madame  de  Genlis  by  Sheridan.  Dr.  Birkbeck  Hill  {Life  of 
Johnson,  i.  213)  considers  it  possible  (and  this  seems  practically 
certain)  that  the  incidents  of  Mrs.  Hardcastle's  drive  were 
suggested  by  Tlte  Rambler,  No.  34,  in  which  a  young  gentleman 
describes  a  lady's  terror  on  a  coach  journey :  *  Our  whole  con- 
versation passed  in  dangers,  and  cares,  and  fears,  and  consola- 
tions, and  stories  of  ladies  dragged  in  the  mire,  forced  to  spend 
all  the  night  on  a  heath,  drowned  in  rivers,  or  burnt  with 
lightning.' 

Habmless  Little  Men,  term  applied  to  children  by  Mr. 
Burchell.     Vicar,  216. 

Haspiool,  corrupt  form  of  '  harpsichord ',  a  stringed  instru- 
ment with  a  keyboard.  She  Stoops,  147.  See  Evelyn's  Diary, 
October  5,  1664,  '  There  was  brought  a  new-invented  instrument 
of  music,  being  a  harpsichord  with  gut  strings,  sounding  like 
a  concert  of  viols  with  an  organ.' 

Hat.  '  My  hat  must  be  on  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be  off.' 
Oood-Natur'd  Man,  65. 

Hawke.  Edward,  first  Baron  Hawke  ( 1705-81 ),  Admiral  of  the 
Fleet.  He  defeated  the  French  off  Belle-He  in  1747,  and  off 
Quiberon  in  1759.     Qood-Naiur'd  Man,  41. 

Head,  head-dress;  the  hair  as  dressed  in  some  particular 
manner.  '  Pray  how  do  yon  like  this  head  ?  '  She  Stoops,  121. 
Cp.  Johnson^  Rambler,  No.  191  (1752),  '  Ladies  asked  me  the 
price  of  my  best  head.' 

Heartened,  put  in  good  heart,  encouraged.  '  Heartened  by 
my  brother  student.'     Vicar,  319. 

Hebe  (the  personification  of  eternal  yonth),  Olivia  compared 
with.     Vicar,  190. 

Hedge-lake,  a  narrow  but  frequented  thoroughfare,  now 
Dorset  Street.     Oood-Naiur^d  Man,  67. 

Heinel.  Mademoiselle  Anna-Frederica  Heinel  (1752-1808), 
a  famous  dancer.  She  Stoops,  170.  Horace  Walpole  wrote: 
*  There  is  a  finer  dancer  [than  Mademoiselle  Guimard],  whom 
Mr.  Hobart  is  to  transplant  to  London ;  a  Mademoiselle  Heinel 
or  Ingle,  a  Fleming.  She  is  tall,  perfectly  made,  very  handsome, 
and  has  a  set  of  attitudes  copied  from  the  classics '  {Letters,  viii. 
76 :  August  25,  1771).    See  also  notes  to  Poetical  Works,  221. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  443 

Hen.  In  phrase  'sell  one's  hen  of  (or  on)  a  rainy  day.' 
A  Scotch  proverb :  to  make  a  bad  bargain.  *  I'll  warrant  we'll 
never  see  him  sell  his  hen  of  a  rainy  day.'  Vicar,  256.  Lit. 
'  he  will  not  sell  his  wares  at  an  unpropitious  time '  (Hislop).  See 
English  Dialect  Diet,,  which  cites  Kelly's  Scots  Proverbs  (1721) 
373,  and  M^Ward,  Contendings  (1723)  328,  *  The  Devil  is  not 
such  a  fool  as  to  sell  his  hen  on  a  rainy  day.' 

Hermit,  The,    See  Edvnn  and  Angelina, 

Heydek  Ally.  Haidar  AH,  Sultan  of  Mysore  (1717-1782). 
She  Stoops,  111.  See  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Warren  Hastings, 
and  Walpole's  Letters,  xiii.  27,  38.  Haidar  Ali  dictated  peace  to 
England  in  1769. 

Higgle,  to  haggle  over  a  bargain.  '  He  always  stands  out  and 
higgles,  and  actually  tires  them  till  he  gets  a  bargain.'    Vicar,  254. 

Hit,  sb,  (1)  a  chance,  especially  a  lucky  or  fortunate  chance. 
'  She  was  of  opinion,  that  it  was  a  most  fortunate  hit.'    Vicar,  213. 

Hit,  sb,  (2)  in  backgammon :  '  a  game  won  by  a  player  after 
his  opponent  has  thrown  off  one  or  more  men  from  the  board, 
as  distinguished  from  a  gammon  or  a  backgammon^  (O.E.D.). 
'  I  hated  all  kinds  of  gaming,  except  backgammon,  at  which 
my  old  friend  and  I  sometimes  took  a  two-penny  hit.'  Vicar,  194. 
'  There  are  two  kinds  of  victory — winning  the  hit  and  winning 
the  gammon.  The  party  who  has  played  all  his  men  round  into 
his  own  table,  and  by  fortunate  throws  of  the  dice  has  borne 
or  played  the  men  off  the  points  first,  wins  the  hit.  Two  hits  are 
reckoned  as  equal  to  one  gammon  in  playing  matches '  {Chambers^ s 
Information), 

Hit,  V,,  to  suit,  fit.  '  We  did  not  recollect  an  historical  subject 
to  hit  us.'     Vicar,  278. 

Hog.  '  When  she 's  with  her  playmates  she 's  as  loiid  as  a  hog 
in  a  gate.'  She  Stoops,  124.  Cp.  similar  phrases  in  0*.E.D.,  s.v. 
Hog,  sb,  V.  11. 

Hoiks  (Hoicks),  a  call  used  in  hunting  to  incite  the  hounds. 
STie  Stoops,  171. 

Hollow,  of  sound :  not  full-toned,  sepulchral.  *  The  deep- 
mouthed  watch-dog  at  a  hollow  distance.'    Vicar,  335. 

Hooker,  Richard  (1654  ?-1  600),  the  divine,  author  of 
Ecclesiastical  Polity ;  called  *  the  Judicious '.  Vicar,  199.  See 
also  Jewel. 


444  6L0SSARIAL  INDEX 

HoBATiOy  a  character  in  Bowels  Fair  PeniteiU.  Fteor,  306, 
d23. 

HoKNy  Straight,  a  long  strai^t  miiacal  instmnient  such 
as  tued  by  guards  on  stage-coaches ;  the  post-hcwii.  '  ¥or 
winding  the  straight  horn  ...  he  never  had  his  feDow.'  Ske 
Stoops,  99. 

HoRKFiPE,  a  dance  of  Kngliwh  origin,  so-called  fnHn  the 
instrument  to  which  it  was  played;  all  the  early  hcKi^ipes 
were  in  triple  time.  Grumbler,  178.  Gp.  Spenser,  Shepkeardes 
Calender,  Maye,  11.  22-4 : 

Before  them  yode  a  lusty  Tabrere, 
That  to  the  many  a  Home-pype  playd. 
Whereto  they  dauncen,  eche  one  with  his  mayd. 

'Hornpipe,  in  its  present  meaning,  a  step-dance.  .  .  .  About  1760 
the  hornpipe  underwent  a  radical  change,  for  it  was  tozned  into 
common  time  and  altered  in  character.  Miss  Anne  Cbtley, 
Mrs.  Baker,  Nancy  Dawson,  and  other  stage  dancers,  introduced 
it  into  the  theatre '  (Grove's  Diet,  of  Music,  iL  434,  ed.  1906). 

Horse,  Bishop  Jewel's,  i.e.  his  staff.     Vicar,  199.     See  Jewel. 

Horses,  Diseases  of.  Vicar,  264.  Cp.  the  Vicar's  description 
of  his  horse  in  this  passage  with  the  horse  on- which  Petruchio 
came  to  his  wedding.  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  m.  ii.  52 :  '  Possessed 
with  the  glanders  and  like  to  mose  in  the  chin ;  troubled  with 
the  lampass,  infected  with  the  fashions,  full  of  windgalls,  sped 
with  spavins,  rayed  with  the  yellows,  pfutt  cure  of  the  fives, 
stark  spoiled  with  the  staggers,  begnawn  with  the  bots,  swayed 
in  the  back  and  shoulder-shotten.' 

HoRSE-STEALiNO.  *  He  who  deprives  the  other  of  his  horse 
shall  die.*  Vicar,  366.  Capital  punishment  for  stealing  horses, 
sheep,  and  other  cattle  was  abolished  in  1832  (2  &  3  WilL  IV. 
c.  62). 

HoRSE-WAY,  a  way  or  road  by  which  horses  may  travel.  '  I 
therefore  walked  back  by  the  horse-way,  which  was  five  miles 
round,  though  the  foot-way  was  but  two.'  Vicar,  245.  Cp. 
King  Lear,  iv.  i.  58,  '  Both  stile  and  gate,  horse-way  and  foot- 
path.' 

HosPTTALiTy,  Dr.  Primrose's  views  of.     Vicar,  217. 

Hot  Cockles,  a  rustic  game  in  which  one  player  lay  face 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  445 

downwards,  or  knelt  down  with  his  eyes  covered,  and  being 
struck  on  the  back  by  the  others  in  turn,  guessed  who  struck  him. 
Vicar,  247.     See  Gay's  SJiepherd's  Week,  Monday,  99: 

As  at  hot  cockles  once  I  laid  me  down, 
And  felt  the  weighty  hand  of  many  a  clown. 

Cp.  Low  Life  (1764)  83,  '  The  felons  in  Newgate  .  .  .  playing  at 
hunt-the-slipper,  hot-cockles,  and  blindman's  buflf.'  The 
g€une  is  still  played  in  Ireland  and  England,  with  many 
variations.  See  Gomme,  Games  (1894)  i.  229.  The  origin  of 
the  name  is  unknown  (it  is  not  French). 

House,  For  the  good  of  the.    See  Good. 

Humour.  *  The  public  think  nothing  about  dialect,  or 
humour,  or  character.'  Vicar,  296.  Cp.  Goldsmith's  Essay 
on  Laughing  and  Sentimental  Comedy :  '  Humour  at  present 
seems  to  be  departing  from  the  stage,  and  it  will  soon  happen 
that  our  comic  players  will  have  nothing  left  for  it  but  a  fine 
coat  and  a  song '  (Westminster  Magazine,  1773). 

Hunt  the  Supper,  a  children's  game,  still  in  vogue.  Vicar, 
247.     See  Gomme,  Games  (1894)  i.  242. 

Ideot,  so  commonly  spelt  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Good- 
N(Uur*d  Man,  23  and  passim. 

Imfbovbmekts,  *  a  piece  of  land  improved  or  rendered  more 
profitable  by  inclosure,  cultivation,  the  erection  of  buildings,  &c.' 
(O.E.D.).  She  Stpops,  98;  Vicar,  305.  Cp.  Twiss,  Tour  in 
Ireland  (1776)  66,  'The  gardens  (termed  improvements  in  Ireland 
and  policies  in  Scotland)  are  not  extensive.' 

In  case,  in  the  event.  Good-Natur^d  Man,  39, 42.  See  O.E.D., 
s.v.  Case,  sb,^  10. 

In  faoe,  to  be  looking  one's  best  (O.E.D.).  '  Am  I  in  face 
to-day  ?  '     She  Stoops,  96. 

Inns.  '  Sure,  you  ben't  sending  them  to  your  father's  as  an 
inn  ?  '  She  Stoops,  103.  The  incident  on  which  the  plot  of 
the  play  is  based  is  said  to  have  occurred  to  Goldsmith  when 
a  youth.  Travelling  to  Edgeworthstown  he  lost  his  way,  and 
was  directed  by  a  wag  to  the  '  best  house '  at  Ardagh,  which 
turned  out  to  be  the  squire's.  (See  Forster's  Life,  Book  I, 
chap,  i.)  Gpldsmith  at  first  called  his  play  ^  The  Old  House 
a  New  Inn ',  but  this  title  was  rejected. 


446  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Inns,  Landlords  of.  '  I  desired  the  landlord,  in  my  usual 
way,  to  let  us  have  his  company,  with  which  he  complied,  as 
what  he  drank  would  encrease  the  bill  next  morning.'  Vicarj 
199.  This  custom  was  not  always  appreciated  by  landlords,  if  we 
may  believe  Fielding ;  see  Tom  Jones,  Book  VIII,  chap,  viii, 
where  he  speaks  of  it  as  a  penance,  '  which  I  have  often  heard 
Mr.  Timothy  Harris,  and  other  publicans  of  good  taste,  lament 
as  the  severest  lot  annexed  to  their  calling,  namely,  that  of  being 
obliged  to  keep  company  with  their  guests.' 

Names  of  Rooms  in.  In  former  days  each  room  of  an  inn 
had  its  own  name.  *  Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Lamb  there.  . . 
To  the  Dolphin ;  quick.  .  .  The  Angel  has  been  outrageous 
this  half  hour.'  Oood-Natur^d  Man,  66.  See  also  She  Stoops,  134. 
In  1  Henry  IV,  ii.  iv,  in  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  Eastcheap» 
rooms  are  called  the  *  Half -moon '  and  '  Pomgamet '. 

With  Gallebies.  The  gallery  at  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house 
{Sh>e  Stoops,  134)  was  one  of  the  features  which  made  it  look 
like  an  inn.  Such  galleries  were  formerly  common:  see  The 
Old  Inns  of  Old  England,  by  C.  G.  Harper  (1906).  They  are  now 
rapidly  passing  away.  *  The  George,  at  Southwark,  is  the  only 
galleried  inn  remaining  in  London.  Out  of  fifty-five  inns 
mentioned  in  Pickwick,  only  five  now  survive '  (Athenaeum, 
December  22,  1906).  In  the  Oreai  Bath  Road,  by  Mr.  Harper 
(pp.  23,  32),  the  White  Bear,  Piccadilly,  and  the  Old  Bell, 
Holbom,  are  mentioned  as  still  possessing  galleries.  See 
Appendix,  Note  14. 

As  to  the  excellence  of  old  English  inns,  and  the  reason 
thereof,  see  Macaulay's  History  of  England,  chap.  iii. 

Inoculation,  *  originally  applied,  after  1700,  to  the  intentional 
introduction  of  the  virus  of  small-pox  in  order  to  induce  a  mild 
and  local  attack  of  the  disease,  and  render  the  subject  immune 
from  future  contagion'  (O.E.D.).  *I  vow,  since  inoculation 
began,  there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman.'  She 
Stoops,  121.  Small-pox  was  greatly  dreaded  on  account  of 
the  disfigurement  to  the  face  which  resulted.  Inoculation  was 
introduced  into  England  from  Turkey  by  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu.  Its  first  mention  in  England  seems  to  have  been 
in  the  Philosophical  Transactions  for  1714,  vi.  88,  ,*An  Account 
of  the  procuring  of  the  Small  Pox  by  Incision  or  Inoculation, 


GLOSS^IAL  INDEX  447 

as  it  has  for  some  time  been  practised  at  Constantinople.'  The 
progress  of  inoculation  was  slow,  for  in  its  early  d&ys,  as  Walpole 
writes,  it  was  *  devoutly  opposed '  (Letters,  v.  303).  However, 
by  the  time  of  Goldsmith's  play  the  practice  had  become  firmly 
established,  and  when  Jenner  announced  the  discovery  of 
vaccination  in  1798  as  an  improvement  on  inoculation,  the 
practice  had  become  fairly  general. 

Ins  and  Outs,  those  in  office  and  those  out  of  office ;  the 
Government  and  the  Opposition  with  their  supporters.  Good- 
Naiur'd  Man,  78.  Cp.  Chesterfield,  Letter  (1764),  *I  believe 
that  there  will  be  something  patched  up  between  the  ins  and 
the  otUs.* 

Intaglio,  .a  figure  cut  or  engraved  into  any  substance. 
Vicar,  320. 

Islington,  a  London  suburb.  Vicar,  286.  Goldsmith  for 
a  time  resided  at  Islington,  then  quite  in  the  country.  The 
Club  of  Authors,  described  in  T?ie  Citizen  of  the  World,  met  at 
*  The  Broom  '  in  the  same  locality. 

IzE,  dialect  form  of  *  I  shall '.  '  And  so  ize  go  about  my 
business.'    She  Stoops,  106. 

IzzARD,  old  name  for  the  letter  z,  still  widely  used  in  the 
dialects.  She  Stoops,  149.  See  Johnson's  Dictionary,  Grammar, 
under  Z  (ed.  1773),  *  Z  begins  no  word  originally  English ; 
it  has  the  sound,  as  its  name  izzard  or  s  hard  expresses,  of  an  8 
uttered  with  closer  compression  of  the  palate  by  the  tongue.' 
See  also  English  Dialect  Did. 

Jao-hibe,  an  hereditary  assignment  of  land  and  of  its  rent  as 
annuity.  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  30.  *  U«iu  jagtr ;  jd,  place  +  gn, 
holding,  holder.  An  assignment  of  the  king's  or  govern- 
ment's share  of  the  produce  of  a  district  to  a  person  or  body 
of  persons,  as  an  annuity,  either  for  private  use  or  for  the  main- 
tenance of  a  public  (especially  miUtary)  establishment ;  also  the 
district  so  assigned,  or  the  income  derived  from  it '  (O.E.D.).  See 
Yule  and  Bumell,  Hdbson-Jdbson,  s.v.  jaghire,  '  We  believe  the 
traditional  stage  pronunciation  is  Jag  hire  (assonant  in  both 
syllables  to  quag  mire).'  The  word  had  become  familiar  to 
politicians  owing  to  a  dispute  between  Lord  Clive  and  the  Court 
of  Directors  of  the  East  India  Company.     Lord  Clive  wrote 


448  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

a  letter  to  the  Proprietors  of  East-India  Stock  (see  Universal 
iduseum  for  1764,  p.  86),  in  which  he  summarizes  the  case 
against  him  as  presented  by  the  Directors,  and  the  steps  they 
had  taken  in  stopping  payment  of  his  jaghire.  A  later  number 
of  the  Museum  contains  '  The  Opinion  of  the  Hon.  Charles 
Yorke,  touching  Lord  Olive's  Jaghire,  taken  by  the  Court  of 
Directors,  and  read  to  the  General  Court  of  Proprietors,  held  at 
Merchant-Taylors-Hall,  on  Wednesday,  May  2'  (Universal 
Museum^  1764,  248-60). 

Jesicho,  Go  to.  A  slang  phrase,Btill  in  use,  indicative  of  a  place 
far  away.  Qood-Natur^d  Many  55.  Cp.  Mercurius  Avlicus 
(1648),  *  Let  them  all  go  to  Jericho,  And  ne're  be  seen  againe.' 

Jewel,  John  (1522^71),  Bishop  of  Salisbury..  Vicar^  199. 
The  story  of  the  '  horse '  given  to  Hooker  by  Jewel,  as  told  by 
Izaak  Walton  in  his  Life  of  Hooker  {IQIO),  had  its  counterpart  in 
an  incident  in  Goldsmith's  own  life.  He  had  sought  the 
hospitality  of  an  old  college  friend,  whose  welcome  proved  none 
of  the  kindest,  and  who  was  anxious  for  Goldsmith  to  quit. 
*  I  have  bethought  myself  of  a  conveyance  for  you ;  sell  your 
horse,  and  I  will  furnish  you  with  a  much  better  one  to  ride  on.' 
Goldsmith  readily  grasped  at  this  proposal,  and  begged  to  see 
the  nag,  on  which  he  led  him  to  his  bedchamber,  and  from  under 
the  bed  he  pulled  out  a  stout  oak  stick.  (See  letter  from  Gold- 
smith to  his  mother  in  Forster's  Life,  vol.  i.  Appendix  B.) 

Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Qood  Night,  an  old  Border  ballad 
Vicar  J  2ffl.  See  letter  from  Goldsmith  to  Hodson,  Decepiber  27, 
1757,  ^  If  I  go  to  the  opera  where  Signora  Columba  pours  out 
all  the  mazes  of  melody,  I  sit  and  sigh  for  lishoy  fireside,  and 
*' Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Good  Night'*  from  Peggy  Golden.' 
See  also  under  Barbara  Allen.  For  the  ballad,  see  Appendix, 
Note  17. 

JoNSON,  Ben  (1574-1637),  poet  and  dramatist.  His  plajs 
criticized  by  Dr.  Primrose.     Vicar,  295-6. 

Joseph,  a  long  cloak,  chiefly  worn  by  women  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  When  riding,  &c.,  it  was  buttoned  all  down  the  front, 
and  had  a  small  cape  (O.E.D.).  '  Olivia  would  be  drawn  as 
an  Amazon  .  .  .  dressed  in  a  green  Joseph^  richly  laced  with  gold, 
and  a  whip  in  her  hand.'     Vicar,  278. 

Jump  with,  to  agree,  tally  with.    Good-Naiur^d  Man,  66. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  449 

Keep,  to  reside,  dwell,  frequent  a  particular  spot.  *  Two  of 
the  five  [highwaymen]  that  kept  here  are  hanged.'  She  Stoops, 
159.  Cp.  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  iv.  i.  101,  *This  Armado  is  a 
Spaniard,  that  keeps  here  in  court.' 

Kick  the  Straw.  'Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the 
straw.'  Good'Natur'd  Man,  82.  The  allusion  is  to  Mattocks, 
the  balance-master;  see  Cunningham's  note  to  Citizen  of  the 
World,  Letter  21 :  '  The  exhibitions  of  Mattocks,  the  celebrated 
balance-master,  were  at  this  time  much  run  after.  Among  other 
tricks  he  would  balance  a  straw  with  great  adroitness,  .  .  .  and 
now  and  then  he  would  kick  it  with  his  foot  to  a  considerable 
height  and  catch  it  upon  his  nose,  his  chin,  or  his  forehead.' 
Op.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  45, '  A  fellow  shall  make  a  fortune 
by  tossing  a  straw  from  his  toe  to  his  nose.' 

Kip,  a  house  of  ill  fame.  'My  business  was  ...  to  assist 
at  tattering  a  kip,  as  the  phrase  was,  when  we  had  a  mind  for 
a  frolic'  Vicar,  314.  S.  Baldwin,  in  his  edition,  suppUes  the 
following  note :  '  Tattering  a  kip :  we  have  never  heard  this 
expression  in  England,  but  are  told  that  it  is  frequent  among  the 
young  men  in  Ireland.  It  signifies,  beating  up  the  quarters  of 
women  of  ill  fame.' 

Knit,  to  effervesce,  form  froth,  as  wine  or  beer.  *If  the 
gooseberry  wine  was  Well  knit.'  Vicar,  277.  Cp.  London  and 
County  Brewer  (1743),  '  Then  old  Malt- Liquor  will  knit  and 
sparkle  in  a  glass.' 

Knock  down  fob  a  Song,  to  call  upon  one  by  the  knock  of 
a  mallet  on  the  table.  *  The  'squire  is  going  to  knock  himself 
down  for  a  song.'  She  Stoops,  98.  Cp.  Essays  (*  Descriptions  of 
Various  Clubs '),  *  My  speculations  were  soon  interrupted  by  the 
grand,  who  had  knocked  down  Mr.  Spriggins  for  a  song.' 

KuTE,  acute.    Good-Natur'd  Man,  56,    See  'Cuteness. 

Ladies'  Club,  the  Albemarle  Street  Club  for  ladies  and  gentle* 
men,  afterwards  *  The  Coterie '.  She  Stoops,  136,  166.  See 
Walpole's  Letters,  vii.  381,  viii.  117,  ix.  161.  See  also  Biddy 
Buckskin,  above. 

Ladies'  Memorandum-book,  '  I  dressed  it  myself  from  a  print 
in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  for  the  last  year.'  She  Stoops, 
121.     Possibly  intended  for  the  Ladies'  Gofnpikte  Pocket  Book, 

OOLOSUITIl    IX  Q 


450  6L0SSABIAL  INDEX 

one  of  the  Newbery  pablioatiooa.  Part  U  of  which  (in  1761) 
contained  'A  methodical  M»norandum  Book,  disposed  in  52 
weeks»  for  keeping  a  r^;ular  account  ivith  the  greatest  ease  and 
propriety  of  all  monies  receimU  paid,  lent,  or  expended,  and 
of  all  Appointments,  Engagements,  or  Visits  Uiat  have  been  made^ 
paid,  or  received ;  and  a  separate  Column  for  Occasional  Memo- 
randums,  &c.'  This  publication  was  issued  '  At  the  request  of 
several  Ladies,  eminent  for  their  economy,  Plice  !«.,  neatly 
bound,  with  Gases  for  Notes  and  Lettecs,  and  adorsed  with 
a  Frontispiece  of  a  Lady  dressed  in  the  present  Eashion."  (Welsh, 
A  BookaeUer  of  the  Last  Century,  249.) 

Lady's  Magazine.  '  Your  Ladyship  should  except  .  .  .  your 
own  things  in  the  Lady*8  Mayazine.  I  hope  you'll  say  there's 
nothing  low  there.'  Vicar^  249.  The  Lady^s  Magcaine  was 
started  in  1759  by  Mr.  J.  WiULie,  at  the  Bible  in  St.  Paul's 
(Churchyard.  Goldsmith  was  one  of  the  fiist  contributors, 
and  acted  as  its  editor'in  1760,  when  he  raised  its.  circulation 
to  3,300.  See  Eorster's  QoldsmUh,  Book  III,  chap.  iv.  There 
had  been  previously  another  hady^B  Magazine  (1749-53),  edited 
by  Jaspar  QoodwUl,  of  Oxfoid. 

JjAiiBSWOOL,  a  drink  consisting  of  hot  ale,  mixed  with  the 
pulp  of  roasted  apples,  and  sugared  and  spiced  <O.E.D.).  Vicar, 
246-7. 

Land-carbiaob  Fishery.  '  I  know  nothing  of  books ;  and 
yet,  I  believe,  on  a  land-carriage  fishery  ...  I  can  talk  my  two 
hours  without  feeling  the  want  of  them.'  Oood-Naiur^d  Man,  30. 
This  was  a  topic  then  engaging  some  attention ;  an  article 
appears  in  the  Universal  Museum  for  February,  1764,  entitled, 
'State  of  the  Plroject  for  bringing  Fish  to  London  by  Land- 
carriage  ;  as  laid  before  the  Society  for  the  Encouragement 
of  Arts,  Manufactures,  and  Oommeroe,  by  Mr.  Blake.'  Before 
this  the  herring  fishery  had  been  a  matter  of  discussion.  C!p.  The 
Bee,  November  10,  1759 :  ^  A  few  years  ago,  the  herring  fishery 
occupied  all  Grub  Street ;  it  was  the  topic  in  every  caCEee-house 
and  the  burden  of  every  ballad.  We  were  to  drag  up  oceans 
of  gold  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  we  were  to  supply  all  Europe 
with  herrings  upon  our  own  terms.'  Fish  machines  for  carrying 
fish  by  land  were  established  in  1761.    See  Appendix,  Note  7. 

Laf-doo,  a  lady's.     Vicar,  238. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  451 

Laws.  '  Laws  govern  the  poor,  and  the  rich  govern  the  law.' 
Vicary  303.  Cp.  Traveller ,  1.  386,  *  Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich 
nien  rule  the  law.' 

Laws  diould  reward  as  well  as  punish.  Vicear,  365  seq. 
Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  72,  ^  The  English  laws  punish 
vioe,  the  Chinese  laws  do  more,  they  reward  virtue.'  See  eUao 
Penal  Laws. 

Leohorn,  the  philosophical  vagalxmd  at.     Vicar,  322. 

Lbttik,  poldino  a.  'That  sister  oi  mine  has  some  good 
qualities,  but  I  could  never  teach  her  to  fold  a  letter,'  Oood- 
N<Uur*d  Man,  26 ;  'I  would  fain  know  who  taught  Clarissa 
to  fold  a  letter  thus,'  OrutMer^  176.  Before  the  days  of  envelopes 
considerable  ingenuity  was  bestowed  on  the  iolding  of  the  paper. 

Leveller,  one  who  would  level  all  difPerenoes  of  position  or 
rank  among  men.  Vicar,  301.  ^  They  have  given  themselves 
a  new  name,  viz.  Levdlera,  for  they  intend  to  set  all  things  straight, 
and  raise  a  parity  and  community  in  the  kingdom,'  MS.  News- 
letter of  November  1,  1647»  quoted  in  O.E.D.  See  Appendix^ 
Note  22. 

LiBBBTY.  '  Liberty  and  fleet-street  for  ever.'  She  Stoops,, 
142.  The  drunken  Jeremy's  exclamation  is  a  variation  on  the 
popular  cry  of  the  day,  *  Wilkes  and  liberty.' 

Dr.  Primrose's  speech  on  Liberty.  Vicar,  300-1.  Cp.  The 
Traveller,  U.  335>92.  See  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  50,  '  An 
attempt  to  define  what  is  meant  by  English  Liberty.' 

LxBEBTT-HALL,  a  plaoc  wherc  one  may  do  as  one  likes.  '  This, 
is  liberty-hall,  gentlemen.  You  may  do  just  as  you  please 
here.'     She  Stoops,  109. 

Lief,  willingly ;  as  lief  =»  as  soon  ;  still  in  general  use.  *  He'd, 
as  lief  eat  that  glass.'  Vicar,  328.  Cp.  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,, 
IV.  ii.  117,  'I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much  lead.' 

Life.  *  Life  at  the  greatest  and  best  is  but  a  froward  child,. 
&c.'  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  15.  This  thought  is  taken  from. 
Sir  William  Temple,  Of  Poetry  (1690) :  *  When  all  is  done,  Humaa 
Life  is,  at  the  greatest  and  the  best,  but  Uke  a  frowcu^d  Child,, 
that  must  be  play'd  with  and  Humor'd  a  little  to  keep  it  quiet 
till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  the  Care  is  over.'  / 

'  If  we  compare  that  part  x>f  life  which  is  ta  come,  by  that 
which  we  have  past,  the  prospect  is  hideous.'     Oood-Natur^d 


462  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Man^  15.    Repeated  from  Letter  73  of  The  Citizen  of  the  Worlds 
'  Life  endeared  by  age.' 

Lightsome,  permeated  with  light,  well-lighted.     Vicar,  218. 

LiMNEB,  an  artist,  painter.  Vicar,  277.  It  has  been  suggested 
by  Mr.  Edward  Ford  that  the  allusion  is  to  George  Komney 
{NcUional  Review,  May,  1883).  It  is  said  that  Komney  for  some 
years  previous  to  1762  had  travelled  through  Yorkshire,  painting 
portraits  at  a  very  low  price. 

Lisbon,  earthquake  at:  November  1,  1755.  Chod-Natur^d 
Man,  58.    See  Earthquake. 

Living  Jingo,  a  mild  oath.     Vicar,  238.    Cp.  *  By  jingo.' 

Lloyd,  Miss  Bachabl.    See  Biddy  Buckskin. 

LocK-A-DAiSY,  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  in  general  use ; 
also  written  *  lawks-a-daisy '.     She  Stoops,  102. 

London  Chronicle,  The.    See  Chronicle, 

London  Evening,  The,  i.e.  The  London  Evening  Post,  dating 
from  1735.     Vicar,  209. 

Longitude.  'We  could  as  soon  find  out  the  longitude.' 
She  Stoops,  102.  The  Government  of  Queen  Anne,  by  a  Bill 
passed  in  1714,  had  offered  £20,000  as  a  maximum  reward  for 
a  method  that  determined  the  longitude  at  sea  to  half  a  degree 
of  a  great  circle,  or  thirty  geographical  miles.  For  less  accuracy 
smaller  rewards  were  offered.  John  Harrison  (1693-1776) 
received  £7,500  for  his  chronometer  in  1765,  eight  years  previous 
to  the  date  of  the  play.  According  to  Boswell,  Zachariah 
Williams  made  many  attempts  to  discover  the  longitude,  but 
failed  of  success,  and  Johnson  wrote  for  him  a  pamphlet  entitled, 
*  An  Account  of  an  Attempt  to  ascertain  the  Longitude  at  Sea, 
by  an  exact  Theory  of  the  Variation  of  the  Magnetic  Needle; 
with  a  Table  of  the  Variations  of  the  most  remarkable  Cities  in 
Europe,  from  the  year  1660  to  1680.'  See  Boswell's  Life,  i. 
301,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill. 

LoBETTO.  *  Our  house  may  travel  through  air  like  the  house 
of  Loretto.'  Good-Natur'd  Man,  63.  The  house  of  Loretto  is 
in  the  province  of  Ancona,  eastern  Italy.  In  the  interior  is  the 
Santa  Casa,  a  famous  pilgrimage  shrine,  reputed  to  be  the 
veritable  house  of  the  Virgin,  transplanted  by  angels  from 
Nazareth,  and  miraculously  set  down  in  Italy  on  December  10, 
1294  (Century  Encyc,  of  Names).    See  Appendix,  Note  9. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  453 

Lottery,  *a  publick  exposing  goods,  money,  estates, 
annuities,  *&c.,  to  be  got  by  any  adventurer,  who  upon  paying 
a  certain  sum  receives  a  lot  or  ticket  numbered,  of  which  there 
is  commonly  a  large  number,  some  blanks,  some  prizes,'  Dyche 
and  Pardon's  Dictionary,  ed.  1752.  *  I  protested  I  could  see  no 
reason  for  it  neither,  nor  why  Mr.  Simkins  got  the  ten  thousand 
prize  in  the  lottery  and  we  sate  down  with  a  blank.'  Vicar,  213. 
Lotteries  were  formerly  a  means  of  raising  money  on  behalf  of 
the  State.  Cp.  Letters  of  Junius  (1769)  i.  7,  ed.  1804,  *If  it  must 
be  paid  by  Parliament  let  me  advise  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  to  think  of  some  better  expedient  than  a  lottery.' 

LouBE,  a  dance,  a  kind  of  jig,  or  waltz.  Grumbler,  178.  Cp. 
Explication  of  Foreign  Words  (1724)  42,  ^Loure  is  the  name  of 
a  French  Dance,  or  the  Tune  thereto  belonging,  always  in  Triple 
Time,  and  the  Movement,  or  Time,  very  Slow  and  Grave.' 

LouvAiN,  the  philosophic  vagabond  at.  Vicar,  319,  321. 
Goldsmith  spent  some  time  at  the  University  of  Louvain,  at 
which  he  is  supposed  to  have  taken  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Medicine.    See  Forster's  Life,  Book  I,  chap.  v. 

Low  (1),  not  high  or  elevated  in  thought  or  sentiment.  *  There's 
nothing  comes  out  [replied  our  Peeress]  but  the  most  lowest 
stuff  in  nature ;  not  a  bit  of  high  life  among  them.'  Vicar,  249. 
Goldsmith  returns  to  the  same  subject  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer : 

*  Second  Fd,  He  never  gives  us  nothing  that's  low.  Third  Fel, 
0  damn  any  thing  that's  low,  I  cannot  bear  it.'  She  Stoops,  99. 
In  spite  of  this  sarcasm,  Horace  Walpole  wrote  to  Mason  on 
March  27,  1773:  *Dr.  Goldsmith  has  written  a  comedy — 
no,  it  is  the  lowest  of  all  farces.  It  is  not  the  subject  I  condemn, 
though  very  vulgar,  but  the  execution.  The  drift  tends  to  no 
moral,  no  edification  of  any  kind.  The  situations,  however,  are 
well  imagined,  and  make  one  laugh,  in  spite  of  the  grossness  of 
the  dialogue,  the  forced  witticisms,  and  total  improbability  of 
the  whole  plan  and  conduct.  But  what  disgusts  me  most  is, 
that  though  the  characters  are  very  low,  and  aim  at  low  humour, 
not  one  of  them  says  a  sentence  that  is  natural  or  marks  any 
character  at  all.  It  is  set  up  in  opposition  to  sentimental  comedy, 
and  is  as  bad  as  the  worst  of  them.'  This  is  in  the  style  of  the 
criticism  adopted  when  The  Cfood-Natur^d  Man  was  produced. 

*  When  good  Mr.  Twitch  described  his  love  for  humanity,  and 


454  GLOSSARIAL  INDJEX 

little  Flannigan  cursed  the  French  for  having  made  the  heer 
threepence-halfpenny  a  pot»  Cooke  tells  us  that  he  beard  people 
in  the  pit  cry  oat  this  was '"  low  "  ("  language  uncommonly  low  ", 
said  the  worthy  London  Chronide  in  its  criticism),  and  disapproba- 
tion was  very  loudly  expressed.'  Forster's  Lift,  Bbok  lY,  chap.  L 
Cp.  The  Bee^  No.  I»  October  6, 1759,  where  Groldsmith  anticipates 
this  criticism :  '  Had  I  been  merry,  I  might  have  been  censured 
as  vasUy  low.'' 

Low  (2),.  mean,  vulgar,  (fisreputable.  '  A  k)w  paltry  set  of 
fellows '  [the  company  at  The.  Thrte  Pigeons],     She  Stoops,  93. 

Low  Comedy,  contrasted  with  genteel  or  sentimeatiJ  ccnnedy. 
Qood-NaiuT^d  MaUy  3;  She  Stoops,  87.  See  Low  (1),  and 
Appendix,  pp.  490,  500. 

Low-LiVEi>,  of  a  low,  mean,  or  disreputable  character.  Vicar, 
249. 

Low  Pockets,  pockets  with  very  little  money  in  them.  Good- 
NcUur*d  Man,  58L  Cp.  Epigram  in  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  1 13: 
'  'Twas  no  defect  of  your's,  but  pocket  low.  Which  caused  his 
putrid  kennel  to  o'erflow.' 

Loyalty,  Dr.  Primrose  on.  Vicar,  300  seq.  Cp.  The  TraveSkr, 
11.  377-93. 

LiTD,  an  exclamation  or  expletive ;  a  minced  form  of  '  Lord '. 
S?ie  Stoops,  96  and  passim. 

liYTNQ  IN  State,  laid  out  by  the  undertakers  for  interment. 
Oood'Naiur'd  Man,  22,  For  a  parallel  account  to  that  of  old 
Ruggins,  the  curry-comb  maker,  see  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter 
12 :  '  When  a  tradesman  dies,  his  frightful  face  is  painted  up 
by  an  undertaker^  aad  placed  in  a  proper  situation  to  receive 
company :  this  is  called  lying  in  state.' 

Maccaroni,  a  fop,  a  dandy.  She  Stoops,  145.  See  Gold- 
smith's Epilogue  intended  for  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  but  not 
spoken : 

Ye  travell'd  tribe,  ye  macaroni  train. 

Of  IVench  friseurs  and  nosegays  justly  vain. 

The  O.E.D.  says,  '  An  exquisite  oi  a  class  which  arose  about 
1760  and  consisted  of  young  men  who  had  travelled  and  affected 
the  tastes  and  fashions  prevalent  in  continental  society.  .  .  • 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  455 

This  use  seems  to  be  from  the  name  of  the  Macaroni  Club, 
a  designation  probably  adopted  to  indicate  the  preference  of 
the  members  for  foreign  cookery^  macaroni  being  at  that  time 
little  eaten  in  England.'  In  a  letter  to  the  E!arl  of  Hertford, 
Horace  Walpole  speaks  ol  *  The  Macearoni  Club  (which  is  com- 
posed of  all  ,the  young  men  who  wear  long  curls  and  spying- 
glasses) ' :  Letters,  v.  450,  ed.  1904.  Forster  writes,  '  Besides 
red-heeled  shoes,  the  macaronis  were  distinguished  in  1772  by 
an  immense  knot  of  artificial  hair  behind,  a  very  small  cocked 
hat,  an  enormous  walking-stick  with  long  tassels,  and  extremely 
close-out  jacket,  waistcoat,  and  breeches.  In  the  following  year 
a  very  lofty  head-dress  was  added,  and  an  immense  nosegay.' 
Life  of  Goldsmith^  Book  IV,  chap.  x. 

Mad  Doos  :  Elegy  on  the  DecUh  of  a  Mad  Dog,  Vicar,  286. 
See  also  Oood-Natur^d  Man,  59 ;  Vicar,  313.  Q).  Citizen  of  the 
World,  Letter  69,  *  The  Fear  of  Mad  Bogs  ridiculed,'  and  see  note 
in  Poetical  Works,  212.  See  Appendix,  Note  21,  for  an  amusing 
description  by  George  Selwyn. 

Man.  *  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God.'  Vicar, 
273.     Quoted  from  Pope's  Essay  on  Man,  iv.  248. 

*  Every  man's  man,'  one  easily  led  by  others.  Oood- 
Natur'*d  Man,  7. 

*  One's  own  man,'  to  be  one's  own  master,  to  be  at  one's 
own  disposal.    She  Stoops,  168. 

'  The  greatest  object  in  the  universe,  says  a  certain  philo- 
sopher, is  a  good  man  struggling  with  adversity.'  Vicar,  391. 
The  philosopher  here  alhided  to  is  Seneca,  whose  words  had  been 
paraphrased  by  Pope  in  the  Prologue  to  Addison's  Cato : 

No  common  object  to  your  sight  displays. 
But  what  with  pleasure  Heav'n  itself  surveys, 
A  brave  man  stru^ling  in  the  storms  of  fate. 
And  greatly  falling,  with  a  falling  state. 

*Ecce  spectaculum  dtgnum,  ad  quod  respiciat,  intentus  operi 
suo,  Deus  !  Ecce  par  Deo  dignum,  vir  fortis,  cum  mala  fortuna 
compositus !  Non  video,  inquam,  quid  habeat  in  terris  lupiter 
pulchrius,  si  convertere  animum  velit,  quam  ut  spectet  Catonem, 
iam  partibus  non  semel  fractis,  nihilominus  inter  minas  publicas 
erectum.' — Seneca,  De  Providentia,  cap.  ii.  §  6.     The  quotation 


466  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

was  afterwards  put  on  the  title-page  of  the  play,  with  two  lines 
from  Pope  ('  A  brave  man,  &c.*).  Seneca's  Works  were  among 
the  books  in  Goldsmith's  sale  catalogue. 

Manager.    See  Colman. 

Manbtho,  an  Egyptian  priest  of  the  Sebennytus,  who  lived 
in  the  reign  of  the  first  Ptolemy.  He  wrote  a  History  of  Egypt, 
but  his  work  is  lost.     Vicar,  354. 

Mabcasite,  old  name  for  certain  crystallized  forms  of  iron 
pyrites  {Stanford's  Diet,) ;  here,  an  ornament  made  of  crystallized 
iron  pyrites.    She  Stoops,  130. 

Market.  'To  bring  one's  face  to  market,'  a  proverbial  expres- 
sion :  to  offer  for  sale.  She  Stoops,  133.  Cp.  Rosalind's  taunt 
to  Phebe  in  As  You  Like  It,  iii.  v.  60,  *  Sell  when  you  can  :  you 
are  not  for  all  markets.'     See  cUso  Marriage  market. 

Marlborough,  John  Duke  of  (1650-1722).    SJie  Stoops,  109. 

Marriage,  Laws  of.  '  We  shall  soon  be  landed  in  France, 
where  even  among  slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are  respected.' 
She  Stoops,  115.  Goldsmith  had  written  against  the  Marriage 
Bill  of  1753  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letters  72  and  114. 
But  this  is  generally  supposed  to  be  an  allusion  to  the  Royal 
Marriage  Act  of  1772.     See  Appendix,  Note  13. 

Marriage  by  Popish  priest,  Olivia's.     Vicar,  331. 
Marriage  market.     Vicar,  288. 

Marriage    superstition,    as .  to    white    dress    at    weddings. 
Oood-Naiur'd  Man,  55. 

See  also  Matrimony  and  Scotch  Marriages. 

Marry,  an  exclamation  of  surprise  or  indignation;  a  corruption 
of  *  Mary ',  from  a  former  habit  of  swearing  by  the  Virgin  Mary. 
Vicar,  257. 

Mabsyas,  Fable  of.  Vicar,  218.  Marsyas,  in  Greek  mjrtho- 
logy,  a  skilful  player  on  the  flute,  challenged  Apollo  to  a  trial 
of  his  skill.  The  god  accepted  the  challenge,  and  it  was  agreed 
that  he  who  was  defeated  should  be  flayed  by  the  conqueror: 
the  victory  went  to  Apollo,  who  tied  his  antagonist  to  a  tree 
and  flayed  him  alive. 

Matches,  matrimonial  compacts,  proposals  of  marriage. 
Vicar,  305.  Cp.  Twelfth  Report  Hist.  MSS.  Commission  (1676) 
App.  V.  28,  *  'Twas  a  match  of  his  friends  and  not  his  owne 
making.' 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  467 

Matilda  and  her  Iiwant  Son,  atory  of.     Vicar,  340-2. 

Matrimony,  mutual  choice  the  first  requisite.  Qood-Natur*d 
Many  21.  Dr.  Primrofle's  views  on.  Ykar,  193,  195,  See  also 
Monogamy. 

Maxum,  dialectal  pronunciation  of  *  maxim  '.  Good-Natur^d 
Man,  38  ;  She  Stoops^  99. 

Measures.  *  Measures,  not  moi,  -  have  always  been  my 
mark.'  Good-Natur^d  Man,  30.  Lord  Chesterfield  seems  to 
have  been  the  first  to  use  this  phrase,  in  a  letter  dated  March  6, 
1742:  'I  have  opposed  laeasiires,  not  men.'  Lofty  is  using 
what  had  become  a  current  phrase.  Qp.  Letters  of  Junius  (1769), 
'  Measures,  and  not  men,  ki  the  cozmaon  eant  of  affected  modera- 
tion.' 

MntCHANT-TAiLOBS*  Hall,  vtk  Thveadneedlo  Street,  the  largest 
of  the  City  Companies*  haBs.    €hodNaiwf'd  Man^  78. 

Michaelmas  Eve:  Cracking  nuts  on.  Vicary  206»  246.  Set 
Nut-burning.  Porhapi  QoldttBith  was  mistaken  in  the  date 
as  to  this  custom,  which  belongs  to  Hallowmas.  See  Hone's 
Every-day  Book,  t.  140B  (October  31).  —  CSames  on.     Vicar,  246. 

Middle  Order  of  Mankind,  Dr.  Primrose  on.  Vicar,  302. 
Goldsmith  had  expressed  somewhai  different  views  in  an  article 
in  the  Literary  Magazme  fw  lAay,  1158,  '  Of  the  pride  and  luxury 
of  the  Middling  Class  of  People.' 

Miff,  a  slight  quarrel  or  misunderstanding ;  in  general  use 
in  England  and  Scotland.  '  The  bridegroom  and  she  had  a  miff 
before  morning.'  Good-Naiur'd  Man,  55.  Cp.  Fieldhig,  Tom 
Jonesi,  Book  III,  chap,  vi,  *'  When  a  httie  quarrel,  or  miff,  as  it  is 
vulgarly  called,  arose  between  them.' 

Migrations.  '  All  oar  adhrantnres  were  by  the  fire-side  and 
all  our  migrations  from  the  blue  bed  to  the  Wwn.'  Vicar,  188. 
Goldsmith  had  used  a  similar  expression  in  writing  to  his  brother- 
in-law,  Mr.  Daniel  Hodson,  ol  Roscommon,  on  December  27, 1757: 

*  All  the  news  I  hear  from  you  is  that  you  sally  out  in  visits 
among  the  neighbours,  and  sometimes  make  a  migration  from 
the  blue  bed  to  the  brown.'     Fbrster's  Life,  Book  II,  chap.  ii. 

Mind,,  v.,  in  imperative :   to  pay  attention  to,  bear  in  mind. 

*  Mind  how  I  hold  them.'    iSAe  Stoopa,  104. 

Minuet,  the  name  of  a  popular  dance,  in  triple  measure,  for 
two  dancers.    She  Skxype,  d&.    The  miniiet  in  Ariadne  was  an  air 

q3 


458  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

composed  to  accompany  the  dance ;  Ariculne  was  an  opera  by 
Handel,  and  the  minuet  comes  at  the  end  of  the  overture. 

Misery.  *  The  heights  of  ambition,  and  the  vale  of  misery.' 
Vicar,  295. 

Modern  Elegies  compared  with  old  ballads.     Vicar,  288. 

Mole,  metaphor  from  the.     Vicar,  218. 

Monarchy,  Dr.  Primrose  on.  Vicar,  300-3.  Cp.  The 
Traveller,  11.  393  seq. 

Monitor,  The.  Vicar,  299.  The  Monitor,  or  The  British 
Freeholder,  was  a  political  newspaper  claiming  the  credit  of 
impartiality,  and  was  originally  planned  by  the  patriotic  Alder- 
man Beckford,  the  first  number  appearing  on  August  9,  1755. 
See  Catalogue  of  Early  Newspapers  in  the  Hope  CoUecHon. 

Monogamist,  one  who  maintains  that  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England  should  under  no  circumstances  contract 
a  second  marriage.     Vicar,  193,  266.     See  also  Whiston. 

Monogamy,  the  principle  which  forbids  second  marriages. 
Vicar,  311. 

Moral,  moral  sentiments.  She  Stoops,  89.  Cp.  Morality, 
and  see  Low  (1). 

Morality,  a  moral.  She  Stoops,  162.  Cp.  Citizen  of  the 
World,  Letter  48,  *  Let  us  have  no  morality  at  present ;  if  we 
must  have  a  story,  let  it  be  without  any  moral.' 

MoRiCE,  to  decamp,  march  off !  She  Stoops,  129.  Cp.  Dickens, 
Oliver  Tioist,  ch.  viii,  '  Now  then  !  Morrice  ! '  Still  in  use ;  see 
English  Dialect  Diet,,  s.v.  Morris. 

Morocco,  Black  Queen  of.  'little  Flannigan  .  .  .  was 
master  of  the  ceremonies  to  the  black  Queen  of  Morocco,  when 
I  took  him  to  follow  me.'  Elkanah  Settle's  Empress  of  Morocco 
was  acted  March,  1681-2.  It  was  very  popular,  but  its  success 
was  due  to  spectacular  display.  See  Scott's  Dryden,  i.  216; 
p.  226,  '  The  height  of  his  ambition  is,  we  know,  but  to  be  master 
of  a  puppet-show.'  Little  Flannigan  may  have  appeared  in  this 
play,  or,  as  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  suggests,  have  been  employed 
in  a  puppet-show  on  the  same .  theme.  Cp.  Essays  (Second 
Letter  on  the  Coronation),  *  To  go  to  Sudrick  Fair,  to  see  the 
Court  of  the  Black  King  of  Morocco,  which  will  serve  to  please 
children  well  enough.' 

Mourning  Suit.     "Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit.'    She 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  459 

Stoops,  88.  A  quotation  from  HamJet,  i.  ii.  770,  '  'Tis  not  alone 
my  inky  cloak.' 

Muff,  a  lady's.  SJie  Stoops,  162 ;  Vicar,  288.  Mufife  were 
formerly  used  by  men,  as  well  as  ladies.  Cp.  The  Bee,  October  13, 
1759  (On  Dress  :  St.  James's  Park) :  Miss  (addressing  her  male 
cousin) :  *  I  knew  we  should  have  the  eyes  of  the  Park  upon  us, 
with  your  great  wig,  so  frizzled,  and  yet  so  beggarly,  and  your 
monstrous  muff.'  Horace  Walpole,  in  1764,  sent  George 
Montagu  a  muff  {Letters,  vi.  160). 

Mfn  (1),  dialect  pronunciation  of  *  man '.     She  Stoops,  126. 

M0N  (2),  dialect  form  of  *  must '.     She  Stoops,  149. 

Murrain,  an  infectious  disease  among  animals.  Also  used 
as  an  imprecation  or  expression  of  anger.  *  A  murrain  take  such 
trumpery.'     Vicar,  267. 

Music:  playing  for  subsistence.  Vicar,  320.  This  is  sup- 
posed to  be  autobiographical.  See  Forster's  Life,  Book  I, 
chap.  V,  and  cp.  The  Traveller,  11.  239-54. 

Musical  Glasses,  a  musical  instrument,  consisting  of  a  number 
of  glass  goblets,  played  upon  with  the  end  of  the  finger  damped. 
Vicar,  238,  242.     See  Appendix,  Note  19. 

Nab,  to  catch  suddenly  or  unexpectedly,  to  seize.  '  If  so  be 
a  man's  nabb'd.'     Oood-Natur^d  Man,  42. 

Nabob,  a  person  of  great  wealth,  especially  one  who  has 
returned  from  India  with  a  large  fortune ;  primarily,  the  title 
of  certain  Mahommedan  officials.  Vicar,  242.  *  The  word 
Nabob  began  to  be  applied  in  the  eighteenth  century,  when  the 
transactions  of  Olive  made  the  epithet  familiar  in  England, 
to  Anglo-Indians  who  returned  with  fc^rtunes  from  the  £ast; 
and  Foote's  play  of  The  Nabob  (1768)  aided  in  giving  general 
currency  to  the  word  in  this  sense.'     Hobson-Jobson,  610. 

Nail,  fig.  to  hold  or  fix  down  tightly  in  an  argument.  Vicar, 
253. 

Nakedness.  *  The  nakedness  of  the  indigent  world  may  be 
clothed  from  the  trimmings  of  the  vain.'  Vicar,  208-9.  Op. 
Hardcastle  in  S?ie  Stoops,  94,  where  this  expression  is  repeated. 

Nancy  Dawson.    See  Dawson. 

Newbeby,  Francis  (1743-1818).  Vicar,  title-page.  Francis 
Newbery,  bookseller,  of  Paternoster  Bow,  was  the  first  publisher 


460  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefidd,  and  nephew  of  John  Newbery  (q.v.). 
See  Welsh,  A  Bookseller  of  the  Last  Century,  pp.  118-59 ;  and, 
for  particulars  as  to  The  Vkar^  ib.  pp.  54-62.  See  also  Appendix, 
pp.  505^7. 

Newbeby,  John  (1713-67).  '  The  philanthropic  bookselkr  in 
St.  PauFs  church-yard,  who  has  written  so  many  little  books 
for  children.'  Ficar,  2d4.  John  Newbery  was  uncle  of  Francis 
Newbery,  the  first  publisher  of  The  Viaur  of  Wakefidd,  '  It  is 
not  perhaps  generally  known,  that  to  Mr.  Griffith  Jones,  and 
a  brother  of  his,  Mr.  Giles  Jones,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  John 
Newbery,  the  public  are  indebted  for  the  origin  of  those  num»x>us 
and  popular  little  books  for  the  amusement  and  instruction  of 
children,  the  Lilliputian  histories  oi  Goody  Two-shoes,  Giles 
Gingerbread,  Tommy  Trip,  &c.,  &c.,  which  have  ever  since 
been  received  with  universal  approbation.'  (Nichols's  Literary 
Anecdotes,  iii.  466.)  It  was  to  John  Newbery's  paper.  The  Public 
Ledger,  that  Goldsmith  cimtributed  the  Letters  from  a  Chinese 
Philosopher,  afterwards  published  collectively  as  The  Citizen  of 
the  World,  Newbery  employed  Goldsmith  on  other  subjects, 
and  the  tribute  in  the  Vicar  is  not  the  only  one  placed  to  his 
credit,  for,  as  Forster  writes,  quoting  Cooke,  '  it  seems  to  have 
been  a  favourite  topic  with  [Goldsmith]  to  tdl  pleasant  stories 
of  Mr.  Newbery,  who,  he  said,  was  tiie  patron  of  more  distressed 
authors  than  any  man  of  his  time'  (Life,  Book  III,  chi^.  v). 
He  dealt  also  in  medicine,  and  was  the  propriet(Mr  of  Dr.  James's 
Powder.  He  was  playfully  satirized  by  Johnson  in  The  Idler, 
imder  the  name  of  *  Jack  Whirler ',  on  account  of  his  bustling 
energy  of  manner.  A  full  account  of  his  life  and  publications 
will  be  found  in  A  Bookseller  of  the  Last  Century,  by  Charles 
Welsh  (London,  1885). 

Newgate,  a  prison  in  the  Old  Bailey;  before  1815  it  was  used 
for  felons  and  debtors.     Vicar,  309. 

Nick,  ^to  hit,  touch  lightly;  to  perform  by  some  slight 
artifice  used  at  the  lucky  moment '  (Todd- Johnson).  She  Stoops, 
137.  Cp.  The  Bee,  October  20,  1759,  '  He  had,  as  he  fancied, 
just  nicked  the  time  of  dinner,  for  he  came  in  as  the  cloth  was 
laying.' 

NoNLY,  only,  contracted  from  'an  only".  She  Stoops,  171. 
Cp.  *  nuncle  \ 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  461 

Numbskulls,  blockheads.  She  Stoops,  105,  140.  Cp. 
Humours  of  the  Fleet  (1749)  9,  *  Law-loving  Numsculls,  such  as  toil 
and  sweat.' 

NuT-BUBNiNG  (oB  cbacking).  Vtcar,  206,  246.  This  was 
a  custcHn  in  Scotland,  Ireland,  and  the  north  of  England,  usually 
indulged  in  on  Hallowmas  E^e,  October  31.  It  is  thus  depicted 
by  Burns  in  Halloween : 

The  auld  guidwife's  well  hoordit  nits 

Are  round  and  round  divided. 
An'  mony  lads  and  lasses  fates 

Are  there  that  night  decided: 
Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side. 

An'  burn  thegither  trimly ; 
Some  start  awa',  wi'  saucy  pride, 

An'  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 
Fu'  high  that  night. 

Bums  remarks  in  a  note :  '  Burning  the  nuts  is  a  famous  diarm. 
They  name  the  lad  and  the  lass  to  each  particular  nut,  as  they 
lay  them  in  the  fire;  and  accordingly  as  they  bum  quietly 
together,  or  start  from  besidq  one  another,  the  course  and  the 
issue  of  the  courtship  will  be.'  Gay  has  also  written  of  the 
same  custom  in  The  Spell : 

Two  hazel-n\its  I  threw  into  the  flame. 
And  to  each  nut  I  gavie  a  sweetheart's  name : 
This  with  ibe  loudest  bounce  me  sore  amazed, 
That  in  «  flame  of  brightest  colour  blazed; 
As  blazed  the  nut,  so  may  thy  passion  grow, 
For  'twas  thy  nut  that  did  so  brightly  glow ! 

Hone  says,  '  In  Ireland,  when  the  young  wc»nen  woukl  know 
if  their  lovers  are  faithful,  they  put  three  nuts  upon  the  bars  of 
the  grates,  naming  the  nuts  after  the  lovers.  If  a  nut  cracks 
or  juj&pe,  the  lover  will  prove  unfaithful ;  if  it  begins  to  blaze 
or  burn,  he  has  a  regard  for  the  person  making  the  trial.  If  the 
nuts,  named  after  the  girl  and  her  lover,  burn  together,  they  will 
be  married.'  Mvery-dap  Book  (October  31),  i.  1410,  ed.  1826. 
The  custom  is  not  mentioned  by  Hone  as  practised  on  Michaelmas 
Eve,  See  the  Eriglish  Dialect  Diet,  s.v.  Nut,  for  the  North 
Country  practice. 


462  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Oaf,  a  simple  fellow ;  a  dolt,  blockhead,  booby.  She  Sioops, 
150.  Cp.  Gay,  Shepherd^ s  Week  (1714),  'When  hungry  thou 
stood'st  staring,  like  an  oaf  I  sliced  the  luncheon  from  the 
barley  loaf.' 

Obstbopalous,  an  illiterate  form  of '  obstreperous ',  clamorous, 
noisy,  vociferous.     She  Stoops,  136. 

.  Ocellus  Ltjcanus,  a  Pythagorean  philosopher;  he  wrote 
on  The  Nature  of  the  Whole ;  but  the  genuineness  of  tiie  work 
is  disputed.     Vicar,  267. 

Odds-bobs,  one  of  a  large  number  of  exclamatory  expressions 
beginning  with  the  word  *  odd ',  a  minced  form  of  '  God '.  Gooet- 
Naiur'd  Man,  67. 

Odso,  an  asseveration  or  exclamation  of  surprise ;  a  minced 
form  of  'Godso'.  Good-Naiur'd  Man,  66;  She  Stoops,  137. 
Cp.  Congreve,  Love  for  Love  (1696)  n.  v,  '  Odso,  let  me  see :  Let 
me  see  the  Paper.' 

Offeb,  to  present  itself,  to  occur.  '  I  took  shelter  .  •  •  in  the 
first  ale-house  that  offered.'     Vicar,  296. 

Old.  *  I  love  every  thing  that 's  old :  old  friends,  old  limes, 
old  manners,  old  books,  old  wines.'  She  Stoops,  92.  So  *  Dr. 
Richard  Farmer  loved  before  all  things  old  port,  old  clothes, 
and  old  books'  (D.N.B.  vol.  xviii,  p.  216).  Cp.  also  Sir  W. 
Temple,  '  I  shall  conclude  with  a  Saying  of  Alphonsua,  Simamed 
the  Wise,  King  of  Aragon,  That  among  so  many  things  as  are 
by  Men  possessed  or  pursued  in  the  Course  of  their  lives,  all 
the  rest  are  Bawbles,  Besides  Old  Wood  to  Bum,  Old  Wine  to 
Drink,  Old  Friends  to  Converse  with,  and  Old  Books  to  Read.' 
Sir  William  Temple's  Works,  in  four  volumes,  appeared  in  the 
auction  catalogue  for  the  sale  of  Goldsmith's  books. 

Omens  of  Olivia  and  Sophia.     Vicar,  243. 

Otway,  Thomas  (1651-1686),  poet  and  dramatist,  wrote 
Venice  Preserved  and  The  Orphan.  Vicar,  296,  310.  Goldsmith 
is  said  to  have  considered  Otway  the  greatest  dramatic  genius 
which  England  had  produced  after  Shakespeare  (Prior's  Oold- 
smiih,  ii.  160).  The  Orphan  and  Venice  Preserved  are  two 
of  the  very  best  p\a,ys  of  their  time.  Otway  has  been  called 
the  founder  of  the  domestic  drama,  and  wrote  with  so  much 
grace  and  tenderness  that  the  admiration  expressed  by  Gold- 
smith is  quite  natural. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  463 

OuLD  Grouse.    See  Grouse. 

OvEBSEEN,  betrayed  into  a  fault  or  blunder ;  deceived,  mis- 
taken.  '  Certain  it  is,  we  had  all  been  greatly  overseen.'   Vicar,  279. 

Ovid's  Acia  and  Galatea,  compared  with  Gay's  description  of 
two  lovers  killed  by  lightning  («ee  Appendix,  Note  18).  Vicar, 
226.  Acis,  in  Greek  legend,  was  a  shepherd  of  Sicily,  beloved 
by  Galatea.  The  happiness  of  the  lovers  was  disturbed  by  the 
jealousy  of  the  Cyclops  Polyphemus,  who  crushed  his  rival  to 
pieces  with  a  fragment  of  broken  rock. 

PACKrHORSE,  a  horse  employed  in  carrying  packs  or  bundles 
of  goods.  Qood-Natur*d  Man,  29.  See  Macaulay's  History  of 
England,  chap,  iii,  *  On  byroads,  and  generally  throughout  the 
country  north  of  York  and  west  of  Exeter,  goods  were  carried 
by  long  trains  of  packhorses,  .  .  .  strong  and  patient  beasts,  the 
breed  of  which  is  now  extinct.' 

Paduasoy.  A  fine  rich  silk  originally  manufactured  at 
Padua.     Vicar,  208. 

Painted  Ruins,  the  painted  scenery  of  the  old  Vauxhall  Gar- 
dens. Oood-Natur^d  Man,  17.  See  England's  Gazetteer,  s.  v.  Foxhall 
(1751),  'In  the  centre  of  the  area,  where  the  walks  terminate,  is 
erected  the  temple  for  the  musicians,  which  is  encompassed  all 
round  with  handsome  seats,  decorated  with  pleasant  paintings, 
on  subjects  most  happily  adapted  to  the  season,  place,  and  com- 
pany.' Cp.  also  Dodsley's  London  (1760),  *  There  are  several 
noble  vistas  through  very  tall  trees,  the  spaces  between  being 
filled  up  with  neat  hedges  ;  and  on  the  inside  are  planted  flowers 
and  sweet-smelling  shrubs.  Some  terminate  by  paintings 
representing  ruins  of  buildings,  others  a  prospect  of  a  distant 
country,  and  some  of  triumphal  arches.' 

Paintino.  The  *tame  correct  paintings  of  the  Flemish 
school '  compared  with  the  *  erroneous  but  sublime  animations 
of  the  Roman  pencil.'     Vicar,  273.     See  Pictures. 

The   Vicar's   large   historical   family   group.     Vicar,   278. 
See  Limner. 

Paled  up,  enclosed,  fenced ;  encompassed.     Vicar,  366. 

Pancakes  at  Shrove-tide,  an  old-established  custom  of 
eating  pancakes  on  Shrove  Tuesday  which  is  still  generally 
observed.     Vicar,  206. 


46i  OLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Pander,  a  procurer,  one  who  minist^x  to  the  lust  of  others ; 
a  go-between.     Vicar,  217. 

Panthbon,  the,  a  bazaar  for  fancy  goods  on  the  south  side 
of  Oxford  Street,  built  by  James  Wyatt>  and  opened  in  January, 
1772.  She  Stoops,  121.  Writing  to  Sir  Horace  Mann  on  April  26, 
1771,  Horace  Walpole  speaks  o(  it  as  follows :  '  The  new  winter 
Ranelagh  in  Oxford  Road  ...  is  almost  finished.  It  amazed 
me  myself.  The  pillars  aie  of  artificial  giaUo  aniieo.  Hie  oeihngs, 
even  of  the  passages,  are  of  the  most  beautiful  stnccos  in  the 
best  taste  of  grotesque.  The  ceilings  of  the  ball-rooms  and  the 
panels  painted  like  RaphaeFs  ioffgiaa  in  the  VaUcan.  A  dome 
like  the  Pantheon,  glazed.  It  is  to  cost  fifty  thousand  pounds ' 
(Letters,  viii.  28-9).  Others  to  praise  the  Pantheon  were  Gibbon, 
and  Miss  Bumey  in  Evdina,  Dr.  Johnson  visited  it  with 
Boswell,  but  considered  it  inferior  to  Ranelagh ;  see  Bosweli  s 
Life,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill,  ii.  168-9. 

Paou,  Pascal  (172^1807^  a  Onrsican  patriot.  Qood-NaJhiid 
Man,  76.  Paoli,  after  his  struggles  in  Corsica,  was  feted  in 
England  and  became  acquainted  with  Croldsmith,  to  whom 
he  paid  a  fine  compliment  when  dining  together.  'Monsieiir 
Goldsmith  est  comme  la  mer,  qui  jette  des  peries  et  beauooup 
d'autres  belles  choses,  sans  8*en  appergevoir,'  at  which  Gold- 
smith was  highly  pleased.  Monster's  Lift,,  Book  IV,  chap, 
xvi. 

Pabadoxes,  of  the  philosof^io  Tiigaboiid.     Vicar,  310-11. 

Parcel,  an' indofinite  number,  a  small  oompany,  a  Mot\ 
now  generally  used  contemptuously.  '  We  have  such  a  parcel 
of  servants.'    She  Stoops,  194. 

Paris,  the  philosophic  vagabond  at.  Vicar,  320-1.  Compare 
Forster's  Life,  Book  I,  chap.  v. 

Passay,  short  for  *  passemeasuie ',  Italian  passamezzo,  a  slow 
diince,  apparently  a  variety  of  the  pavan  (O.E.D.).  Orumbkr, 
178.  Cp.  Twelfth  Night,  v.  i.  208,  '  He's  a  rogue,  and  a  passy- 
measures  pavin.' 

Passing  Bbll,  *  the  bell  which  rings  at  the  hour  of  di^parture, 
to  obtain  prayers  for  the  passing  soul :  it  is  often  used  for  the 
bell,  which  rings  immediately  after  death '  (Johnson).  Oood- 
Natur'd  Man,  12. 

Paste,  a  composition  of  pounded  rock-crystal  melted  with 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  465 

alkaline  salts  and  coloured  with  metallic  oxides,  used  for  making 
spurious  gems.  She  Stoops,  130.  Cp.  Carey,  Hills  of  Hi^la 
(1767)  20,  '  Behold  her  sailing  in  the  pink  of  taste.  Trumped  up 
-with  powder,  frippery  and  paste.' 

Pat,  fit,  convenient,  suiting  exactly.  *  Miss  Livy's  feet 
seemed  as  pat  to  the  music  as  its  echo.'  Vicar,  237.  Cp. 
Hamlet,  in.  iii.  73,  *  Now  might  I  do  it  pat  * ;  Humours  of  the 
Fleet  (1749)  29,  *  Whose  Applications  miss  the  Purpose  pat.' 

PATAaoKiA,  the  southernmost  portion  of  South  America. 
Oood-Naiufd  Man,  55. 

Patched,  adorned  with  patches  (q.v.).     Vicar,  208. 

Patches,  small  spots  of  black  silk  used  to  place  on  the  face, 
either  to  hide  a  defect  or  worn  as  an  additional  charm.  Vicar, 
255.  This  was  a  fashionable  custom  in  the  seventeenth  and 
ei;g^teenth  centuries,  especially  among  women.  Cp.  Lady  M.  W. 
Montagu,  Town  Eclogties  (1715),  'Hours  .  .  .  pass'd  in  deep 
debate.  How  curls  should  fall,  or  where  a  patch  to  place.' 

Patchings,  the  putting  of  patches  (q.v.)  on  the  face  by  way  of 
adornment.     Vicar,  208. 

Patient  Grissel^  the  story  of.  Vicar,  216.  Orissel,  or  Griselda, 
was  &  character  in  romance,  noted  for  the  way  in  which  she 
submitted  to  many  tsruel  ordeals.  The  subject  forms  one  of 
the  stories  in  the  Decameron,  and  was  also  told  by  Chaucer 
in  the  Canterbury  Tales  (The  Clerk  of  Oxenford's  Tale). 

Peaobfitl  Mansion,  Dr.  Primrose's.  Vicar,  335.  Cp.  Milton, 
II  Penseroso,  11.  168-9,  '  And  may  at  last  my  weary  age  Find 
out  the  peaceful  hermitage.' 

Penal  Laws,  Dr.  Primrose  on.  Vicar,  366-7.  Cp.  Citizen 
of  the  World,  Letter  80:  *  Penal  laws,  instead  of  preventing 
crimes,  are  generally  enacted  after  the  commission ;  instead  of 
repressing  the  growth  of  ingenious  villainy,  only  multiply  deceit, 
by  putting  it  upon  new  shifts  and  expedients  of  practising  it 
with  impunity.'     See  Laws. 

Pbnsacola,  a  seax>ort  in  Florida.  Qood-Natwr'd  Man,  49. 
Pensacola  was  ceded  to  Great  Britain  in  1763;  it  afterwards 
reverted  to  Spain,  and  passed  to  the  United  States  in  1821. 

People,  the  middle  order  of  memkind.     Vicar,  302. 

Pebquisite,  *  something  gained  by  a  place  or  office  over  and 
above  the  settled  wages  '  (Johnson) ;   a  garnish,  '  tip '.     *  I  was 


466  GLOSSABIAL  INDEX 

apprized  [on  entering  the  prison]  of  the  nsnal  perqaiaiie  required 
upon  these  occamons.*  Viear,  353.  See,  as  to  this  castom. 
The  Humours  of  the  Fleet  (1749)  16 : 

Sach  the  Amusement  of  tliis  merry  Jail, 
Which  you'll  not  reach,  if  Friends  or  Money  fail: 
For  ere  its  three-fold  Gates  it  will  unfold. 
The  destin'd  Gaptive  must  produce  some  Gold: 
Four  Guineas  at  the  least,  for  different  Fees, 
Gompleats  your  Habeas^  and  commands  the  Keys. 
Which  done,  and  safely  in,  no  more  you're  led. 
If  you  have  Gash,  you'll  find  a  Friend  and  Bed; 
But  that  deficient,  you'll  hut  111  betide. 
Lie  in  the  Hall,  perhaps  the  Common  Side. 

Pbbuoino,  Pietbo  ( 1446-1524),  his  works  to  be  praised.  Ftoor, 
321.  Perugino  was  a  celebrated  Italian  painter,  and  had  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  the  master  of  Raphael.    j^eeConnotsseurship. 

Pewtsb  Platter,  a  plate  or  dish  made  t>f  pewter.  ^Tom 
Twist  that  spins  the  pewter  platter.'  She  Sioopa,  93.  Tom 
Twist,  one  of  the  '  choice  spirits '  of  The  Three  Pigeons^  may  be 
compared  with  that  member  of  the  Gub  of  Choice  Spirits  de- 
scribed in  the  Essays  who  '  sung  to  a  plate  which  he  kept  tmndling 
on  the  edges '. 

Philautos,  Philalbthes,  Philbluthsbos,  Phuanthbopos, 
anonymous  writers.  Vicar,  313.  See  Goldsmith's  Preface  to 
his  Essays  (1765) :  '  I  have  seen  some  of  my  labours  sixteen 
times  reprinted,  and  claimed  by  different  parents  as  their  own. 
I  have  seen  them  flourished  at  the  beginning  with  praise,  and 
signed  at  the  end  with  the  names  of  Philautos,  Philalethes, 
Phileiutheros,  and  Philanthropos.'    See  Appendix,  Note  24. 

Philosopher,  a  certain,  i.e.  Seneca.     Vicar,  391.    See  Man. 

Philosophic  Vagabond,  history  of  a.  Vicar,  308  seq.  *  It 
was  common  talk  at  the  dinner  table  of  Reynolds  that  the 
wanderings  of  the  philosophic  vagabond  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield 
had  been  suggested  by  his  [Goldsmith's]  own,  and  he  often 
admitted  at  that  time,  to  various  friends,  the  a.ccuracy  of  special 
details.'  Forster's  Life,  Book  I,  chap.  v.  It  will  be  noticed  that 
the  Vicar  does  not  mention  whether  he  was  altogether  satisfied 
with  his  son's  performances,  as  narrated  by  himself. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  467 

Philosophy,  the  weak  consolations  of.     Vicar,  381,  383. 

Pickering,  gaol  at.    See  Prison  and  Appendix,  Note  25. 

Pictures,  auctions  of,  Vicar,  321 ;  the  art  of  judging  and 
buying,  ib.  Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  34.  See  under 
Connoisseurship. 

Improving  the  tints.     Vicar,  321. 

One  large  historical  family  piece.   Vicar,  278-9.   ^ee  Limner. 

Pig,  the  animal  or  its  flesh  as  an  article  of  food.  Sfie  Stoops, 
113.  Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  74:  'Excessively  fond  of 
egg-sauce  withius  pig.'  See  also  Comedy  of  Errors,  u.  i.  66,  *  The 
pig,  Qiioth  I,  is  bum*d.' 

Pimping,  acting  as  pimp  or  pander  (q.v.).     Vicar,  314. 

Pink,  v.,  '  to  work  in  eyelet  holes  ;  to  pierce  in  small  holes ' 
(Johnson).  Vicar,  251.  Cp.  Fuller,  Hdy  and  Profane  State 
(1642),  *  The  Turks  did  use  to  wonder  much  at  our  English  men 
for  pinking  or  cutting  their  clothes,  counting  them  little  better 
than  mad  for  their  pains  to  make  holes  in  whole  cloth.' 

Pink  of  Courtesy,  the  *  flower'  or  finest  example  of  good 
breeding.  SJie  Stoops,  150.  Cp.  Romeo  and  Juliet,  ii.  iv.  61, 
*  Nay,  I  am  the  very  pink  of  courtesy.' 

Pink  op  Perfection,  the  '  flower '  or  most  perfect  condition 
of  excellence.     She  Stoops,  97. 

PiNKiNGS,  the  operations  of  decorating  cloth,  leather,  &c.,  with 
holes.     Vicar,  208. 

PiNWiRE  OP  Newcastle.     Vicar,  393. 

Piquet,  a  card  game  played  by  two  persons.     Vicar,  277. 

Pitt'less  Storm.  'To  'bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitt'iess 
storm. '  Good'Natur^d  Man,  83.    Quoted  from  King  Lear,  lu.  i v.  29. 

Plantations,  settlements  in  new  or  conquered  countries. 
'  He  only  designed  to  sell  me  to  the  plantations.'  Vicar,  318. 
Plantations  were  worked  in  the  eighteenth  century  by  indentured 
labour  or  by  prisoners  transported  for  felony.  Cp.  Burke,  letter 
of  1760,  '  Will  the  law  suffer  a  felon  sent  to  the  plantations  to 
bind  himself  for  life  ? ' 

Pocket-hole,  the  opening  in  a  garment  through  which  the 
hand  is  put  into  the  pocket.  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  39  ;  Vicar,  212, 
269.  Cp.  Johnson,  Idler,  No.  15  (1758),  *  She  walks  with  her 
arms  through  her  pocket-holes.' 

Poetry,  Roman  and  English,  contrasted.     Vicar,  226. 


468  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Poets,  character  of.     Vicar,  312. 

Point,  to  prick,  pierce,  puncture ;  the  sense  is  derived  from 
point,  8b.,  thread-iace  made  wholly  with  the  needle.     Vicar,  251. 

Poison.  '  May  this  be  my  poison  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but 
to  the  genteelest  of  tunes  ;  "  Water  Parted,"  or  "  The  Minuet  in 
Ariadne."  '      She  Stoops,  99.     Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  4, 

*  May  this  be  my  poison  (and  he  held  the  goblet  in  his  hand)  may 
this  be  my  poison — but  I  would  sooner  list  for  a  soldier.' 

PoNiATOwsKi,  Count.  Stanislaus  Augustus  Foniatowsy 
(1732-1798),  King  of  Poland.     Oood-Natur'd  Man,  76. 

PooB  Relations,  of  the  same  flesh  and  Uood.     Vicar,  ISS. 

Pope's  ^  An  honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God'  {Essay  on 
Man,  iv.  248)  criticized  by  Mr.  Burchell.     Vicar,  273. 

Prance,  ^  to  move  in  a  warlike  or  strong  maimer '  (Johnson). 

*  Zounds  !  here  they  are.  Morioe  !  Pranoe  ! '  She  troops,  129. 
Cp.  Richardson's  Sir  Charles  Orandison  (1754),  V,  x,  '  Lord  G. 
was  pranced  out.' 

Pbematube  Consolation  but  the  remembrancer  of  sorrow.' 
Vicar,  197. 

Pbepossessinq,  biasing,  causing  prejudice.  'This  awkward 
prepossessing  visage  of  mine.'  She  Stoops,  108.  '  Unprepossess- 
ing '  is  printed  in  many  modem  editions,  but  the  reading  of  the 
original  is  correct.  Cp.  More,  Song  of  the  Soul  (1642),  *'  I'll  puige 
out  the  strong  esteem  of  prepossessing  prejudice ' ;  also  CiUzen 
of  the  World,  Letter  26,  '  Being  prepossessed  against  «ach  false- 
hoods, his  story  had  not  the  least  influence  upon  me.' 

Pbesents  fob  Children,  Mr.  BurchelFs.     Vicar,  217. 

Pbimbose,  Gboboe,  the  Vicar's  son.  See  Fhiloso^ic  Vaga- 
bond. 

Pbimbose,  Moses,  his  dispute  with  the  Squire,  Vicar,  221-2  -, 
at  the  Fair,  lb.  256. 

Pbimbose,  Sophia,  rescued  from  drowning  foy  Mr.  Burchell. 
Vicar,  203-4.  Mr.  £dward  Ford,  in  an  article  in  the  National 
Review  for  May,  1883,  seeks  to  identify  the  *  rapid  stream '  with 
the  confluence  of  the  Swale  and  Ouse  at  Boroughbridge. 

Pbison,  Dr.  Primrose  in.  Vicar,  353.  For  amusements  in 
gaol  such  as  described  here,  see  Humours  of  the  Fleet  (1749)  14. 
See  Appendix,  Note  25,  on  supposed  site  of  the  prison. 

Pbison  Refobh,  Dr.  Primrose's  scheme  of.     Vicar,  363  seq. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  469 

Pbivy-Counsbllob,  a  member  of  the  Privy  Conncil,  one  of 
the  private  counaellorB  of  the  sovereign.     Good-Naiur'd  Man,  11. 

Prodigious,  abnormal,  out  of  the  common.  'A  prodigious 
family.'     Qood-NcUur'd  Man^  22. 

PsoiiOcnTOB,  one  who  speaks  on  behalf  of  others,  a  spokesman. 
*  Olivia  undertook  to  be  our  prolocutor.'     Ftear,  248. 

Prologues  :  Chod^Naiur^d  Man,  4 ;  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  88. 

Propebtius,  the  poor  scholar's  proposals  for  a  new  edition  of. 
Vicar,  311. 

Pboykbbs  :  As  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs.  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  55« — 
As  k>iid  aa  a  hog  in  a  gate.  She  Stoops,  124. — Good  company 
upon  the  road  is  the  shortest  cut.  Vicar,  295.  Cp.  Swift,  The 
Tripos,  Act  in,  *  A  pleasant  companion  is  as  good  as  a  coach.' — 
WeMl  never  see  him  sell  his  hen  of  a  rainy  day.  Vicar,  256. 
—Women  and  music  should  never  be  dated.    She  Stoops,  135. 

Providencb,  kinder  to  the  poor  than  the  rich.     Vicar,  382. 

PamN  Sauc&  *  Pruin '  is  an  old  spelling  of  *  prune  \  a  dried 
fruit  largely  used  for  eating,  dried  or  stewed.    She  Stoops,  113. 

PuBUC,  THE»  *  a  many-headed  monster.'     Vicar,  323. 

PtMic  Ledger,  The^  a  daily  newspaper.  Vicar,  299.  The 
first  number  was  publishied  on  January  12,  1760,  by  John  New- 
bery.  Goldsmith  was  one  of  the  first  contributors :  his  arrange- 
ment was  to  write  twice  a  week,  and  to  be  paid  a  guinea  for  each 
article.  Under  this  arrangement  appeared  the  famous  Chinese 
Letters.  When  the  series  of  letters  was  finished  the  whole  were 
republished  in  two  volumes,  without  the  author's  name,  as  T?ie 
Citizen  of  ike  Worid.  For  an  account  of  the  establishment  of 
the  Ledger,  see  Welsh's  A  Bookseller  of  the  Last  Century,  pp.  41  seq. 

PuvFiNO  Quack,  a  boastful  pretender  to  medical  skill.  Good- 
Natur*d  Man^  82.  Goldsmith  had  already  treated  this  subject 
in  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  45. 

PuinsHMiarTS,  how  far  efficacious.     Vicar,  365  seq.  . 

PuPFBT-aHOWy  an  exhibition  of  puppets,  figures  representing 
human  beings.  *  They  wouia  make  you  look  like  the  court  of 
King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show.'  Site  Stoops,  130.  Cp.  Essays 
(Second  Letter  on  the  Coronation),  *  I  had  rather  see  the  Court 
of  King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  at  my  ease  in  Bartholomew  fair.' 

Purse,  a  fragment  of  coal  or  a  spark  which  cracks  and  flies 
out  of  tiie  fire,  considered  an  omen  of  good  fortune.     '  The 


470  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

girls  themselves  had  their  omens ;  •  .  .  parses  bounced  from  the 
fire.'  Vicar,  243.  See  Brockett,  Glossary  of  North  Country  Words 
(1846),  '  If  it  is  of  rounded  shape  and  clinks  as  it  cools  it  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  purse  with  money  in  it,  and  it  augurs  fortune  to 
the  person  who  picks  it  up.  If,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  an  oblong 
splinter  and  emits  no  sound,  it  is  a  *^  coffin  ",  and  portends  evil.' 
See  also  the  Connoisseur,  March  13,  1755,  vol.  iii. 

Quatre,  four  (throw  of  dice).     Vicar,  194. 

Questions  and  Commands,  the  name  of  a  game  in  which  one 
person  addressed  ludicrous  questions  and  commands  to  each 
member  of  the  company:  a  popular  indoor  game  in  the  eighteenth 
century.  Vicar,  247.  Cp.  Spectator,  No.  604,  October  8,  1712 
(*  On  trivial  Pastimes,  capping  Verses,  Punning,  Biting '),  *  Of 
this  nature  is  the  agreeable  pastime  in  country  halls  of  cross- 
purposes,  questions  and  commands,  and  th6  like.* 

Quick,  John  (1748-1831),  actor ;  took  the  part  of  Post-boy 
in  Good'Natur*d  Man  (p.  6)  and  Tony  Lumpkin  in  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer  (p.  90).  The  latter  part  had  been  refused  by  Woodward, 
but  Quick  made  it  one  of  the  successes  of  the  piece  and  materially 
raised  his  own  fortunes.  To  show  his  gratitude  to  Quick, 
Goldsmith  adapted  a  translation  of  Sedley^s  from  Brueys^s  comedy 
of  Le  Orondeur  and  allowed  it  to  be  played  for  the  actor's  benefit. 
(See  Appendix,  p.  505.)  Quick  died  in  1831,  at  the  advanced 
age  of  83. 

QuiNCY,  John,  D.M.  (d.  1722).  She  Stoops,  123.  Dr.  Quincy 
was  the  author  of  several  medical  works  in  the  early  eighteenth 
century,  including  '  Pharmacopoeia  officinalis ;  or  a  compleat 
English  Dispensatory'  (1719),  and  *The  Dispensatory  of  the 
Royal  College  of  Physicians  in  London '  (1721). 

Rabbit  (also  Rabbbt),  an  expletive  in  general  dialect  use  in 
the  southern  and  midland  counties  (Enjglish  Dialect  Diet.,  8.v. 
Rabbit,  v.*).  *  Rabbet  me!'  Good-Natur'd  Man,  40;  She 
Stoops,  167. 

Races,  the.    No  doubt  those  at  Doncaster.     Vicar,  293. 

Rake's  Progress,  the  famous  series  of  engravings  by  Hogarth, 
issued  complete  in  1735.     She  Stoops,  143. 

Ranelagh,  as  a  home  of  fashion,  She  Stoops,  120 ;  compared 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  471 

with  Fontarabia  as  a  marriage-market,  Vicar,  269  ;  description 
of  songs  at,  ib.  288.  Ranelagh  was  a  place  of  public  entertain- 
ment erected  on  the  site  of  the  gardens  of  a  villa  of  Viscount 
Ranelagh,  at  Chelsea.  The  principal  room,  called  the  Rotunda, 
was  opened  in  1742.  Horace  Walpole,  writing  to  Mann  on 
April  22,  1742,  says :  *  I  have  been  breakfasting  this  morning 
at  Ranelagh  Garden  :  they  have  built  an  immense  amphitheatre, 
with  balconies  full  of  little  alehouses  ;  it  is  in  rivalry  to  Vauxhall.' 
And  again,  on  May  26 :  *  Two  nights  ago  Ranelagh  Gardens  were 
opened  at  Chelsea.  .  .  .  There  is  a  vast  amphitheatre,  finely  gilt, 
painted,  and  illuminated,  into  which  everybody  that  loves 
eating,  drinking,  staring,  or  crowding,  is  admitted  for  twelve- 
pence  '  {LetterSf  i.  214,  228).  The  buildings  were  pulled  down 
in  1802.  For  two  interesting  accounts  of  Ranelagh  and  its 
frequenters  see  Mr.  Austin  Dobson's  Eighteenth  Century  Viffnettea, 
First  Series,  pp.  230-61 ;  Second  Series,  pp.  263-83. 

Rattlb.  '  At  the  Ladies'  Club  in  town  I'm  called  their 
agreeable  Rattle.'  She  Stoops,  136.  The  name  young  Marlow 
here  takes  upon  himself  was  one  bestowed  on  any  impudent, 
empty-headed  chatterer.  In  the  Universal  Museum  for  1764, 
p.  26,  there  is  a  *  Dialogue  on  a  Point  of  Honour '  between 
a  Mr.  Rattle  and  a  Mr.  Bumper ;  Rattle  monopolizes  five-sixths 
of  the  conversation. 

Reel  in  a  Bottle  :  the  Vicar's  large  historical  family  piece 
compared  with.     Vicar,  279. 

Regiments  going  to  the  West  Indies.     Vicar,  326. 

Reugion,  the  comforts  of.     Vicar,  381-3. 

Religions  Courtship,  by  Daniel  Defoe  (1722),  written  to  show 
the  unhappy  consequences  of  marriage  between  persons  differing 
in  religious  opinions.  Vicar,  224.  Editions  were  published 
(1)  in  1722,  (2)  1729,  (21)  1789. 

Rbsebyed,  restricted.  'The  conversation  at  this  time  was 
more  reserved  than  before.'     Vicar,  238. 

Rhodomontade,  vain  boasting ;  from  Rodomont,  a  braggart 
in  the  OrlaTido  Furioso  of  Ariosto.     Qood-Naiur'd  Man,  35. 

Riddle,  Tony  Lumpkin's.    She  Stoops,  158. 

Riddle,  v.,  to  solve,  unriddle ;  still  in  dialect  use.  *  Riddle 
me  this  then.'  She  Stoops,  158.  Cp.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
Tamer  Tamed,  '  When  I  have  done  this,  and  think  it  duty,  is  it 


472  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

requisite  another  bore  my  nostrils  ?  Riddle  me  that.'  Dryden, 
Juvenal,  '  Riddle  nde  this ;  and  guess  him,  if  you  can.  Who  bears 
a  nation  in  a  single  man  ?  '     (Todd.) 

RiOADON  (usually  Rigadoon),  a  lively  dance  for  two  persons. 
GnmbUfy  178.  Q).  Eliza  Heywood,  B^y  Thoughtless  (1751) 
i.  85,  *  The  gentleman  commoner  .  .  .  led  her  some  EEteps  of  a 
minuette,  then  fell  into  a  rigadocm.* 

Rings  in  thk  Candlb,  a  superstition  indicative  of  an  ap- 
proachmg  marriage.     Vicar,  245. 

Robinson  Crusoe:  Controversy  on  religion  with  Friday  the 
savage.  Vicar,  224 ;  Robinson's  long-boat,  ib.  279. 

RoBATOBio,  a  perverted  form  of  *  oratcMio  \  She  Stoops,  170. 
The  Dialect  Dictionary  cites  ^  roratory '  from  Baker's  Glossary  of 
Northamptonshire  Words;  and  the  same  form  also  appears  in 
'  The  Bagged  Uproar,  or.  The  Oxford  Roratory ;  a  new  Dramatic 
Satire.  ...  In  many  Scenes  and  one  vary  long  Act.' 

RosB  AND  TABLE  CUT  THiNOS  (spokcn  of  )ewek).  She  Stoops, 
130.  Rose  cut  «  cut  with  a  smooth,  round  surface,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  jewels  which  have  numerous  facets ;  table  cut  = 
cut  with  a  flat  surface. 

Round,  by  a  circuitous  or  round-about  course.  *  The  horse- 
way .  .  .  was  five  miles  round,  though  the  footway  was  but  two.' 
Vicar,  245. 

Round-about,  a  hind  ol  round  or  ring  dance.  Vicar,  237. 
*'  Any  dance  in  which  the  dancers  stood  in  a  circle  was  formerly 
called  a  round  or  roundel ' :  Grove's  Diet,  of  Music,  s.v.  Round, 
iv.  166,  ed.  1908. 

RowE,  Nicholas  (1673-1718),  dramatist  and  poet.  Out  of 
fashion,  Vicar,  295 ;  his  Fair  Penitent,  ib.  305. 

Royal  Marbiaob  Act.     See  Appendix,  Kote  13. 

Rub,  a  hardship,  misfortune,  reverse.  '  Those  litt4e  rubs  which 
Providence  sends  to  enhance  the  vahie  of  its  favours.*  Vicar,  ^89. 
Cp.  Bunyan,  Pilgrim* s  Progress,  Part  II,  *  We  have  met  with  some 
notabfe  rubs  aheady,  and  what  are  jret  to  come  we  know  not.' 

Rue,  a  plant  of  a  fetid  odour  and  an  acrid  taste  (Buia  graveo- 
lens).     Good'Natur^d  Man,  12. 

RuFFiJNQS,  adornments  with  frills  and  ruffles.     Vicar,  208. 

RuGQiNS,  the  curry-comb  maker.  Oood-Natur^d  Man,  22. 
See  Lying  in  state. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  473 

Rule  of  Tht7Mb,  rough  and  ready  measurement.  Tony 
Lumpkin  is  speaking  in  a  punning  manner.    She  Stoops,  129. 

Sagbed  Kino,  i.e.  Charles  I.  Vicar,  327.  Goldsmith  has 
fallen  into  a  serious  error  as  regards  the  date.     See  Falkland. 

Sadleb's  Wells,  a  music-house  and  pleasure-garden  at 
Islington,  near  the  New  River.     She  Stoops,  171. 

St.  Dunstan's,  the  clock  at.  Vicar,  221.  The  old  parish 
church  of  St.  Dunstan^s,  Fleet  Street,  possessed  a  clock  which 
projected  over  the  street.  Two  figures  with  clubs  were  set  up 
in  1671,  which  struck  every  quarter.  When  the  old  church  was 
taken  down  the  two  figures  were  bought  by  the  Marquis  of 
Hertford.  Charles  Lamb  is  said  to  have  shed  tears  when  the 
figures  were  removed  to  the  Marquis's  villa  in  Regent's  Park. 

St.  Gbeooby,  on  Good  Works.     Vicar,  265. 

St.  James's,  Picoadilly,  a  fashionable  quarter.     She  Stoops,  120. 

St.  James's  Park,  a  public  park  near  Whitehall,  originally 
belonging  to  the  Palace  of  St.  James.  Vicar,  313.  For  the 
literary  associations  connected  with  St.  James's  Park,  see  Austin 
DoJbBon's  Sidewalk  Studies,  pp.  33-62. 

St.  Jameses,  i.  e.  St.  James's  Chronicle.    Qood-Naiur^d  Man,  78. 

Sanchoniathon  (also  Sanconiathon).  Vicar,  267,  354.  A 
considerable  fragment  of  the  translation  of  Philo  is  preserved 
by  Eusebius  in  Book  I  of  his  Praeparatio  Evangdica.  The  work 
is  now  generally  agreed  to  have  been  a  forgery.  See  Pattison's 
Essays,  i.  164  seq.,  and  notes  on  the  Eusebian  Chronicle. 

Saraband,  a  Spanish  dance  of  Moorish  origin,  for  a  single 
dancer,  who  accompanies  himself  with  the  castanets.  Orumhler, 
178. 

Satybs,  in  classical  m3rthology,  are  regarded  as  attendants 
of  Bacchus,  roaming  through  woods  and  endeavouring  to  secure 
the  love  of  the  Nymphs.     Vicar,  269. 

Savages,  their  respect  for  human  life.     Vicar,  366. 

Scandalous  Magazine.  *  I  take  care  to  know  every  tete-h-tite 
from  the  Scandalous  Magazine,''  She  Stoops,  121.  An  allusion 
to  the  Tovm  and  Country  Magazine,  at  this  time  printing  iHe-h-t^e 
portraits,  with  scurrilous  biographies.  It  is  directly  referred  to 
by  name  in  The  School  for  Scandal,  Act  i,  Scene  i. 

Scx>tch Marriages.  Good-Natur*dMan,20,^1,5O,6^,&J.  Gold- 


474  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

smith's  yiews  on  runaway  marriages  are  set  out  at  length  in  an 
essay  cm  'A  Register  of  Scotch  Marriages'  which  originally 
appeared  in  the  Westminster  Magazine,  February,  1773.  See  also 
Appendix,  Note  8. 

Scrubs,  dirty,  untidy  persons,  hence  persons  of  inferiority. 
Vicar,  244.  Cp.  The  Bee,  October  13,  1759 :  *  1  [observed]  that 
there  was  no  company  in  the  Park  to-day.  To  this  she  readily 
assented ;  "  and  yet,*'  says  she,  ''  it  is  full  enough  of  scrubs  of 
one  kind  or  another."  ' 

Seedt,  shabby,  in  poor  condition.     Ocod-Naiur^d  Man,  39. 

Sbnboa  ( *  a  certain  philosopher  * ).     Vicar,  391 .    See  under  Man. 

Sensibility,  susceptibility  to  impressions  of  emotion  or  feeling. 
*  I  applauded  my  perseverance  and  address  at  thus  giving 
sensibility  to  wretches  divested  of  every  moral  feeling.^  Vicar, 
364.  Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  27,  *  My  addresses  to  her 
aunt  would  probably  kindfe  her  into  sensibility.' 

Sbntimbntal,  artificially  or  affectedly  tender.  *  Miss  Hard- 
casUe.  Was  there  ever  such  a  sober  sentimental  interview  ? 
I'm  certain  he  scarce  looked  in  my  face  the  whole  time.'  She 
Stoops,  120.  Cp.  Chaucer,  Legend  of  Good  Women,  1.  69,  ^  But 
helpeth,  ye  that  ban  conning  and  might.  Ye  lovers,  that  can 
make  of  s^itemenU'  This  appears  to  be  the  earliest  known  use 
of  the  word  in  Engliah.     See  also  Poetical  Works,  Appendix  B. 

Sentheeivtal  Cqmedt.  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  3;  She  Sloops, 
87.  '  Sentimental  Comedy  in  its  very  name  confesses  itself  a 
contradiction  in  terms'  (Athenaeum).  See  Goldsmith's  fissay, 
'  Sentimental  and  Laughing  Comedy,'  originally  ccmtributed  to 
the  Wesiminster  Magazine :  *'  Which  (^serves  the  preferrace — 
the  weeping  sentimental  comedy  so  much  in  fashion  at  present, 
or  the  laughing,  and  even  low  comedy,  which  seems  to  have  been 
last  exhibited  by  Vanbrugh  and  Cibber  ?  ' 

Sentimentals,  Sentiments,  artificial  expressions  of  emotion 
or  feeling.     She  Stoops,  88. 

Set  in  case,  to  set  in  due  order,  put  a  case  before  one.  Good- 
NcUur'd  Man„  39,  42. 

Shabbaboon,  Lady.    Oood-Naiur*d  Man,  27. 

Shaobeen  Cases.  Shagreen  is  a  species  of  leather  or  parch- 
ment prepared  without  tanning ;  formerly  much  used  for  cases 
for  spectacles,  &c.     Vicar,  257. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  475 

Shake-bao  Club.  *  The  gentlemen  of  the  Shake-bag  Club  has 
out  the  gentlemen  of  the  Qooae-green  quite  out  of  feather."  Slie 
Stoops,  149.  A  '  shake-bag '  was  a  game-cock  of  the  largest 
size.  See  Smollett,  Humphry  Clinker  (1771)  70,  ed.  1905, 
*  I  would  ptt  her  for  a  cool  hundred,"  cried  Quin,  '  against  the 
best  shaike-bag  of  the  whole  main.'  Cp.  Pegge,  Mem.  on  Cock- 
fighting^  in  NoUs  and  Queriea  (1882)  6th  S.  vi.  543,  *  The  excel- 
lency of  the  broods  at  that  time  consisted  in  their  weight  and 
largeness,  .  .  .  and  of  the  nature  of  what  our  sportsmen  call 
shakebags  or  tumpokes." 

Shakespbab,  Wiluam  (1564-1616).  Vicar,  238 ;  bis  plays 
criticized  by  Dr.  Prhnroee,  ib.  295.  Cp.  Enquiry  into  the  Present 
State  of  Polite  Learning,  58-9,  where  similar  adverse  criticisms  are 


Shaking  Pudding,  a  jelly  or  white-pot.    She  Stoops,  113. 

Shabp,  smart,  able  to  act  for  oneself.     Vicar,  211 » 

Shabpbb,  a  trickster,  swindler,  cheat.     Vicar,  315,  362. 

Shaved,  fleeced,  pared  close.    Good-Natur^d  Man,  57. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  This  title  is  probably  a  reminiscence 
of  Dryden's  line, '  But  kneels  to  Conquer,  and  but  stoops  to  Rise.' 
See  Miss  Hardcastle's  speech,  page  146,  and  with  this  speech 
compare  Horace  Walpole's  criticisms ;  *  Stoops  indeed ! — so  she 
does,  that  is  the  Muse  ;  she  is  draggled  up  to  the  knees,  and  has 
trudged,  I  believe,  from  Southwark  Fair ;  .  .  .  the  heroine  has 
no  more  modesty  than  Lady  Bridget '  {Letters,  viii.  261-2). 
See  Appendix,  pp^  499  seq, 

Shbbddinq,  the  act  of  trimming  (xieaelf  out.  ^*  I  do  not  know 
whether  snch  flouncing  and  shredding  is  becoming  even  in  the 
rich.'     Vicar,  208. 

Shrilung,  ear-piercing.     Vicar,  335. 

Shrug,  ^.  (1)  Traditional  shrugs  on  the  stage.  Vicar,  323. 
(2)  As  a  passport  to  fashionable  society.  Oood-Naiur'd  Man,  83. 
Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  34,  '  A  well-timed  shrug,  an 
admiring  attitude,  and  one  or  two  exotic  tones  of  exclamation, 
are  sufficient  qnalificattcHis  for  men  of  low  circumstances  to 
curry  favour.* 

Shrug,  v,  '  I  have  known  a  piece,  with  not  one  jest  in  the 
whole,  shrugged  into  popularity.'   Vicar,  296.    See  Shrug,  «&.  (2). 

Shuter,  Edward  (d.  1776),  actor.     The  original  Croaker  in 


476  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

the  Good'Natur'd  Man  and  the  origiiial  Hanicastle  in  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer.  What  sncoeflB  the  firat-named  play  enjqy«l  was 
primarilj  doe  to  Shnter,  who  threw  himself  with  seat  into  the 
part  of  Croaker.  As  Forster  saya,  *  Hie  oomedj  was  not  only 
trembling  in  the  balance,  bat  the  chances  were  decSmvtAy  advefse, 
when  Shnter  ciune  on  with  the  **  incendiary  letter  **  in  the  last 
scene  of  the  fourth  act,  and  read  it  with  soch  inimitable  hnmoor 
that  it  carried  the  fifth  act  ihioofjti' {Life  of  (kidgmUk,  Bo6kIV. 
chap.  i).  He  is  homoroosly  alluded  to  in  Garrick's  Plrokigiie 
(p.  88)  as  'Poor  Ned'. 

Shy-oock,  one  who  eludes  capture.  Ckxtd-Naha^d  Mam,  40. 
Cp.  Smollett,  Humphry  Clinker  (1771)  79,  ed.  1905,  *  The  doctor, 
being  a  shy  cock,  would  not  be  caught  with  chaff.' 

Side-box,  a  box  or  enclosed  seat  on  the  side  <rf  a  theatre. 
Good'Naiur'd  Man,  17  ;  She  Sioope^  121.  As  a  rule,  the  gentie- 
men  sat  in  the  side-boxes,  the  ladies  in  the  frmt  box.  It  was 
from  a  side-box  that  Dr.  Johnson  witnessed  the  latter  play  on  the 
opening  night.  See  Forster's  Life  of  GoUtamUh,  Book  IV,  <diap. 
XV,  quoting  from  Cumberland's  Memoirs :  '  All  eyes  were  upon 
Johnson,  who  sat  in  a  front  row  of  a  side-box ;  and  niien  he 
laughed  everybody  thought  themselves  warranted  to  roar.' 

Sinew,  to  knit  together.  *'  Serve  to  sinew  the  state  in  times  of 
danger.'  Vicar,  367.  Cp.  3  Henry  VI,  n.  vi.  91,  *  So  shalt  thou 
sinew  both  these  lands  together.' 

Sink,  to  consign  to  perdition.    Oood-Naiur'd  Man,  29. 

Slaves,  transportation  as.     Vicar,  317.    See  Plantations. 

Shock-bace,  a  race  run  by  women  for  a  chemise,  or  by  women 
in  their  chemises.  Vicar,  244.  This  custom  is  recorded  in  the 
English  Dialect  Diet,  for  Northumberland,  West  Yorkshire,  and 
North -East  Lancashire.  Brockett,  North  Country  Glossary  { 1846) 
says, '  These  races  were  frequent.  .  . .  The  prize,  a  fine  Holland 
chemise,  was  usually  decorated  with  ribbons.' 

Smoke,  to  detect,  observe;  to  quiz.  *  Smoke  the  pocket- 
holes.'  Good-Natur'd  Man,  39.  *  "  Very  well.  Sir,"  cried  the 
'Squire,  who  immediately  smoked  him.'     Vicar,  221. 

Soak,  to  saturate  oneself  with  drink.     Vicar,  328. 

SoNOs  AND  Ballads  : 

Ally  Croaker.     She  Stoops,  111. 
Cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen.     Vicar,  2Xyj, 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  477 

« 

SoNQS  AND  Ballads  (continued) : 

Death  and  the  Lady.     Vicar,  286. 

'■'Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog.     Vicar,  286. 

♦Hermit  of  the  Dale  (Edwm  and  Angelina).     Vicar,  227. 

Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Good  Night.     Vicar,  207  (*512). 

The  Dying  Swan.     Vicar,  286. 

*The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons.     She  Stoops,  98. 

Water  Parted.     She  Stoops,  99. 

♦When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly.     Vicar,  346. 

*  Words  are  given  in  the  text. 

Songs,  as  sung  at  Banelagh.     Vicar,  288. 

Sound,  a  swoon.     *  My  lady  fell  into  a  sound.'     Vicar,  248. 

Cp.  Spenser,  Faerie  Queens,  VI.  i.  xxxiv.  2,  *  Whiles  yet  his  foe 

lay  fast  in  senceless  sound.'     This  form  still  survives  in  several 

districts;    see  English  Dialect  Diet.    It  may  be  worth  noting 

that '  swoon  '  is  given  in  the  first  edition ;  '  sound '  in  the  second 

— ^perhaps  in  order  to  emphasize  the  vulgarity  of  Miss  Carolina 

Wilhelmina. Amelia  Skeggs. 

Soused,  immersed,  pickled.     '  The  poor  devil  soused  in  a 

beer-barrel.'     She  Stoops,  142. 

Spadille,  the  ace  of  spades,  the  first  trump  at  Ombre.     She 

Stoops,  170  (Epilogue).     See  Pope,  Eape  of  the  Lock,  ed.  Holden 

(1909),  pp.  94  seq. 

Spark,  a  lover,  beau,  gallant.    She  Stoops,  130. 

Spavin,  a  disease  in  horses,  affecting  the  hock-joint,  or  joint 

of  the  hind-leg,  between  the  knee  and  the  fetlock.     Vicar,  264. 

Sperata  miseri,  dhc.    Motto  on  title-page  of  the  Vicar,     These 

words  form  the  concluding  sentence  of  Burton's  Anatomy  of 

Melancholy : — 

'Spebate  Misebi, 

Cavete  Foelices. 

Vis  a  dubio  liberari  ?  vis  quod  incertum  est  evadere  ?    Age  poeni- 

tentiam  dum  sanus  es  ;  sic  agens,  dico  tibi  quod  securus  es,  quod 

poenitentiam  egisti  eo  tempore  quo  peccare  potuisti, — Austin.' 

Spobtebs,  sportsmen.     Vicar,  405. 

SpOBTSiiAN,  the  Chaplain  as.  Vicar,  234.  Perhaps  the 
Chaplain,  who  thus  shot  a  blackbird,  was  but  a  beginner  in  the 
'  Art  of  Shooting  Flying ',  and  taking  a  few  shots  at  birds 
outside  the  strict  definition  of  ^  game '  for  the  sake  of  practice. 


478  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

SpuNGiNG-house,  a  house  or  tavern  where  peisoiis  arrested  for 
debt  were  lodged  for  twenty-four  hours,  to  allow  their  friends  an 
opportunity  of  paying  the  debt.  Oood-Natur'd  Man,  3.  Cp. 
Humours  of  the  Fleet  ( 1749)  1 1, '  Seized  and  hurried  to  a  Sponging- 
House,  Where,  when  they've  fleec'd  your  Purse  of  ev'ry  Sooce,'  &c. 

Spunk,  spark,  spirit,  mettle ;  '  a  low  and  contemptible  expres* 
sion '  (Johnson).  '  The  'squire  has  got  spunk  in  him.'  She 
Stoops,  99. 

Squabe,  ihe  '  philosopher '  in  Fielding's  Tom  Jones  (see  Book 
III,  chap.  iii).  Vicar,  224.  See  Disputation.  The  original  of 
Square  is  said  to  have  been  one  Chubb,  a  deist,  of  Salisbury ;  see 
Mr.  Austin  Dobson's  Fielding,  135. 

Squibs,  fireworks ;  when  ignited  the  squib  throws  cot  a  train 
of  fiery  sparks,  and  bursts  with  a  crack.     Vicar,  406. 

Squilachi,  Marquis  of.  Prime  Minister  at  Madrid  (1766). 
Oood-Natur'd  Man,  76.  Great  riots  had  taken  |daoe  at  Madrid 
in  1766,  in  consequence  of  an  attempt  to  prevent  the  wearing  of 
slouched  hats  and  long  cloaks.  Squillaci,  an  Italian,  was 
supposed  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  trouble,  and  he  was  banished 
by  the  King.     See  Walpole's  LetUrs  (April  6,  1766),  vi.  448-9. 

'Squiks,  a  contraction  of  '  esquire ',  a  title  popularly  given  to 
a  country  gentleman.     She  Stoops,  149  and  passim. 

Stage,  traditional  shrugs  on  the.  Vicat,  323.  Cp.  Citizen 
of  the  World,  Letter  21,  ^  I  hate  to  hear  an  actor  mouthing  trifles ; 
neither  startings,  strainings,  nor  attitudes  afifect  me,  unless  tiiere 
be  cause.'  See  also  '  On  our  Theatres ',  in  The  Bee,  October  13, 
1759  ;  and  An  Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning^ 
chap.  xii. 

Stanislaus.     See  Poniatowski. 

Stanton  Habcoubt,  Inscription  at.     See  Appendix,  Note  18. 

Stingo,  a  cant  name  for  a  landlord.    She  Stoops,  102. 

Stiver  (Dutch  stuiver),  a  small  silver  coin,  worth  one-twentieth 
part  of  a  Dutch  gulden,  or  one  penny  in  English  money.  Vicar,  405. 

Stomacheb,  an  ornamental  covering  for  the  breast,  forming 
part  of  a  lady's  dress.     Vicar,  278. 

Strolling  Company,  itinerant  players,  travelling  about  from 
place  to  place.  Vicar,  295,  305,  323*.  Cp.  Dickens,  Pickwick 
Papers,  chap,  iii,  '  *'  He  is  a  strolling  actor,"  said  the  lieutenant, 
contemptuously.'    Notwithstanding  the  contempt  in  vdiich  their 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  479 

calling  was  held,  many  notable  actors  and  actresses  first  made 
their  reputations  as  members  of  strolling  companies.  See  also 
Goldsmith's  essay,  *  Adventures  of  a  Strolling  Player.* 

Stuck  up,  exhibited.  *  I  shall  be  stuck  up  in  caricatura  in  all 
the  print-shops.'    She.  Stoops,  146. 

SussAEASA,  a  violent  scolding ;  a  severe  blow ;  a  dialect 
corruption  and  ufie  of  the  legal  term  '  certiorari '  {Ena^isk  Dialect 
Diet.,  s.v.  Siserary).  '  Gentle  or  simple,  out  she  shall  pack  with 
a  sussarara.'  Vicar,  328.  Cp.  Smollett,  Humphry  Clinker  (1771) 
90,  ed.  1905,  ^  I  have  gi'en  the  dirty  slut  a  siserary.' 

Swath,  a  line  of  grass  or  com  cut  down  by  the  mow^.  Vicar, 
217.  For  a  full  article  on  this  word,  see  Prof.  Skeat's  Etymo- 
logicid  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language^  where  it  is  dealt  with 
at  length. 

Sweeting^  a  term  of  endearment,  'sweetheart.'.  Cfood- 
Natur'd  Man,  24.  Cp.  Tw4f^  Night,  ii.  iii.  43-4,  '  Trip  no 
further,  pretty  sweeting  ;  Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting.' 

Sympathy,  Universal.     Vicar,  202. 

Tabernacle.  *I  believe  she  [Mrs.  Croaks]  could  spread 
an  horse-laugh  thro'  the  pews  of  a  tabernacle.'  Qood-Nai^r'd 
Man,  20.  Possibly  Goldsmith  had  in  his  mind  Whitefield's 
new  tabernacle  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  erected  in  1756  and 
enlarged  in  1759.  Cp.  Goldsmith's  Essay  on  'Laughing  and 
Seatimental  Comedy ' :  ^  It  depends  upon  the  audience  whether 
they  will  actually  drive  these  poor  merry  creatures  from  the 
stage,  or  sit  at  a  j^ay  as  gloomy  as  at  the  Tabernacle.'  See 
Appendix,  Note  6. 

Tabor,  a  small  shallow  drum,  used  to  accompany  the  pipe. 
Vicar,  237. 

Taffety  CBEABfl«  a  dish  so  called  from  its .  resemblance  to 
taffeta,  or  taffety,  a  light  glossy  silk.  She  Stoops,  113.  Cp. 
taffety,  dainty  {English  Dialect  Diet,), 

Take,  understand.     '  You  take  me.'     She  Stoops,  154. 

Tatterino  a  Kip.    See  Kip. 

Tea.  *  Here  too  we  drank  tea,  which  was  now  become  an 
occasional  banquet.'  Vicar,  210.  At  Newbery's  Tea  Ware- 
house, c.  1761,  a  small  parcel  of  tea  was  advertized  for  sale  at 
36tf.  per  lb. 


480  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

Teize,  an  old  spelling  of  '  tease '.    She  StoopSt  llo. 

Temple,  Sib  William.    See  under  Life ;  Old. 

Tete,  false  hair,  a  kind  of  wig  worn  by  ladies.     She  Stoops^  121. 

Tete-a-tete.    See  under  ScandaUms  Magazine, 

Theses,  in  foreign  Universities  and  conyents.     Vicar,  323. 

Thieftakbb,  one  who  catches  thieves.  Vicar,  360.  *  Diuidas 
left  thief-takers  in  Home  Tooke's  house  for  three  days,'  S.  T. 
Coleridge  in  note  to  Poem  on  *'  Verses  addressed  to  J.  Home 
Tooke '. 

Things,  i.e.  things  in  general,  as  the  sights  of  the  town.  Crood- 
Natufd  Man,  18. 

Thomas  Trip,  the  history  of.  Vicar,  2d4.  One  of  the  books 
for  children  published  by  the  philanthropic  publisher,  John 
Newbery.  The  first  edition  was  published  in  1762,  the  ninth 
in  1767.  The  title  of  the  latter  edition  runs :  ^  A  Pretty  Book 
of  Pictures  for  little  Masters  and  Misses;  or  Tommy  Trip's 
History  of  Beasts  and  Birds,  with  a  familiar  description  of  each 
in  Verse  and  Prose,  to  which  is  prefixed  the  history  of  little  Tom 
Trip  himself,  of  his  dog  Jowler,  and  of  Woglog  the  great  Giant.* 
This  little  book  has  been  attributed  to  Goldsmith  himself. 

Thobnhill,  Sib  William  ('  Mr.  Burchell '),  a  type  of  universal 
benevolence.  Vicar,  202-3.  Prior  passes  the  following  criticism : 
'  About  Sir  William  Thomhill  there  is  a  coldness  that  wins 
little  of  our  regard ;  possessed  of  power,  wealth,  and  reputed 
benevolence,  he  takes  no  steps  to  assist  a  worthy  and  benevolent 
man  struggling  with  poverty,  whose  hospitaUty  he  enjoys,  and 
to  whose  daughter  he  exhibits  attachment^  but  leaves  the  family 
to  the  machinations  of  his  nephew,  in  consequence  of  an  error 
on  their  part,  arising,  as  he  must  have  understood,  from  justifiable 
indignation  towards  him  whom  they  conceived  guilty  of  treachery 
and  ingratitude.  His  disguise  near  his  own  estates  cannot  be^ 
reconciled  with  probability.  Neither  can  we,  believe  that  one  so 
avowedly  virtuous  would  entrust  a  large  portion  of  his  fortune 
to  a  nephew  capable  of  appropriating  it  to  the  worst  purposes, 
and  of  whose  character  he  could  not,  from  previous  admissions 
and  the  report  of  the  country,  be  ignorant.'  Life  of  GddsmUh 
(1837)  ii.  114.  Mr.  Yord  {National  Review,  May,  1883)  says  that  the 
prototype  of  this  character  may  have  been  Sir  George  Savile,  M.P. 
for  the  county  of  York,  at  once  a  soldier,  a  statesman,  a  phil- 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  481 

anthropist,  and  eccentric.  It  is  a  singular  coincidence  that 
Thornhill,  six  miles  from  Wakefield,  was  the  former  estate  and 
residence  of  the  Saviles. 

Thornhill  Castle.  Vicar,  271.  Mr.  Edward  Ford  {National 
Review,  May,  1883)  suggests  that  Helmsley  is  intended. 

Thrbe  Pigeons,  Tbie,  an  alehouse.  She  Stoops,  98-9  and 
passim.  The  scene  in  Act  i  should  be  compared  with  a  similar 
gathering  of  Choice  Spirits  in  Goldsmith's  *  Description  of  Various 
Clubs  '  (Essays).    See  Appendix,  Note  11. 

Three  Jolly  Pigeons*  TU  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I  made 
upon  this  alehouse,  the  Three  Pigeons.'  She  Stoops,  98.  There  is 
something  anomalous  in  Tony  Lumpkin  claiming  the  authorship 
of  this  song,  when  he  has  been  represented  as  being  so  illiterate 
as  to  be  unable  to  write  his  own  name,  and  whose  incapacity  to 
read  a  letter  in  Act  iv  is  so  amusingly  illustrated.  But,  as 
Mr.  Austin  Dobson  writes, '  It  was  of  himself,  not  Tony  Lumpkin, 
that  he  [Goldsmith]  was  thinking,  when  he  attributed  to  that 
unlettered  humourist  the  composition  of  the  excellent  drinking 
song '  {Life  of  Goldsmith,  p.  27 :  Great  Writers).  It  is  on  record 
that  Goldsmith  sang  this  song  (in  April,  1773)  at  General  Ogle- 
thorpe's, in  company  with  Johnson,  when  drinking  tea  with  the 
ladies ;  see  Boswell's  Johnson,  iL  219,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill. 

Thumb,  Rule  of.    See  Rule. 

Thunder  and  Lightning  :  of  cloth  that  is  loud  and  striking 
in  appearance.     Vicar,  254. 

Thwaokum,  a  disputatious  character  in  Fielding's  Tom  Jones 
(see  Book  III,  chap.  iii).  Vicar,  224.  See  Disputation.  The 
original  of  Thwackum  is  said  to  have  been  one  Hele,  a  school- 
master of  Salisbury ;  see  Mr.  Austin  Dobson's  Fielding,  135. 

To,  used  to  denote  motion  towards.  *  I'll  visit  to  his  Grace's,' 
Oood-Natur'd  Man,  46. 

To  A  T,  said  of  anything  closely  resembling  another.  She 
Stoops,  122. 

Tobacco-stopper,  a  little  plug  for  pressing  down  the  burning 
tobacco  in  the  bowl  of  a  pipe  ;  a  pipe-stopper.  Vicar,  365,  405. 
Cp.  Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  90,  *  I  shaped  tobacco-stoppers, 
wrote  verses,  and  cut  paper.'  For  pipe-stoppers,  see  an  article  in 
The  Connoisseur  for  June,  1909,  illustrated  by  examples  from 
the  Collection  of  Colonel  Horace  Gray,  V.D.     Cp.  Boswell's  poem 

GOLDSMITH   II  XI 


482  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

on  the  subject;  Will  Wimble,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's  friend, 
was,  we  are  there  told,  the  champion  collector.  His  fame  is  to 
be  found  in  the  Spectator,  Nos.  108,  119,  122,  126,  131,  269,  329. 

Tom  Twist,  that  spins  the  pewter  platter.  She  Stoops,  93. 
See  cdso  Pewter  Platter. 

Top-knot,  an  ornamental  knot  or  bow  worn  on  the  top  of  the 
head  by  women.     Vicar,  237. 

Touch  off,  to  get  the  better  of,  overcome.  '  I  knew  you  would 
touch  them  off.'     Vicar,  256. 

ToTJCHSTONE,  any  test  or  criterion  by  which  qualities  are  tried. 
'  I  was  resolved  therefore  to  bring  him  to  the  touchstone.' 
Vicar,  267. 

TowBB  Wharf,  in  the  City,  contiguous  to  the  Tower  of 
London.    She  Stoops,  120. 

Train,  that  part  of  a  gown  which  trails  behind  the  wearer. 
'  Their  trains  bundled  up  in  an  heap  behind.'  Vicar,  208.  Cp. 
Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  81,  *  What  chiefly  distinguishes  the 
sex  at  present  is  the  train.  .  .  .  Women  of  moderate  fortunes  are 
contented  with  tails  moderately  long,  but  ladies  of  true  taste  and 
distinction  set  no  bounds  to  their  ambition  in  this  particular. . . . 
And  yet,  to  think  that  all  this  confers  importance  and  majesty ! 
to  think  that  a  lady  acquires  additional  respect  from  fifteen 
yards  of  trailing  taffety ! ' 

Transport,  effusive  joy.  Vicar,  307,  406,  408.  The  lines  on 
p.  407,  '  And  shook  their  chains  In  transport  and  rude  harmony,' 
are  from  Congreve's  Mourning  Bride,  Act  i,  Sc.  ii. 

Trapesing,  slatternly.    She  Stoops,  101. 

Trim,  attire,  clothing.  '  If  we  walk  to  the  church  in  this 
trim.'     Vicar,  208. 

Trolloping,  slatternly,  untidy.  '  The  daughter,  a  tall, 
trapesing,  trolloping,  talkative  maypole.'  She  Stoops,  lOL 
Erom  trollop,  a  slattern.  See  Milton,  Apology  for  Smectymnuus, 
I  6,  '  His  old  conversation  among  the  viraginian  trollops.' 

True-love-knot,  a  double  knot,  made  with  two  bows  on 
«ach  side  interlacing  each  other,  an  emblem  of  affection.  Vicar, 
206, 243.  Cp.  Herrick, '  I  tell  of  Valentines,  and  true-loves-knots, 
Of  omens,  cunning  men,  and  drawing  lots.' 

Trumpery,  anything  of  little  account;  here  spoken  of  a 
worthless  character.     Vicar,  329. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  483 

Truth.  *  I'll  lay  down  my  life  for  the  truth,'  the  motto  of 
Boasseau.     She  Stoops,  161.     See  Rambler,  No.  34. 

Tuen'd  off,  to  be  hanged,  executed  as  a  criminal.  Good- 
Natur*d  Man,  10. 

Two-penny  Hit,  in  backgammon.  Vicar,  194.  See  Hit, 
ah.  (2). 

Tybubn,  a  celebrated  gallows  or  public  place  of  execution  at 
the  foot  of  Edgware  Road.  Chod-Naiur'd  Man,  10 ;  Vicar,  397. 
See  Forster's  Life  of  Goldsmith,  Book  III,  chap,  xiii :  *  An  execu- 
tion came  round  as  regularly  as  any  other  weekly  show.  .  .  .  Men, 
not  otherwise  hardened,  found  here  a  debasing  delight.  George 
Selwyn  passed  as  much  time  at  Tyburn  as  at  White's ;  £ind 
Mr.  Boswell  had  a  special  suit  of  execution-black,  to  make  a 
decent  appearance  near  the  scaffold.'  Cp.  Johnson's  London, 
lines  238-9 : 

Scarce  can  our  fields,  such  crowds  at  Tyburn  die. 
With  hemp  the  gallows  and  the  fleet  supply. 

Tyranny,  Dr.  Primrose  on.  Vicar,  300.  Cp.  The  Traveller, 
11.  361  seq. 

Undeb-oentlemen,  gentlemen  of  inferior  rank.  'We  found 
our  landlord,  with  a  couple  of  under-gentlemen  and  two  young 
ladies.'     Vicar,  236. 

Undebstbafpebs,  subordinates,  inferiors ;  literally  a  variant 
of  *  under-spurleathers '  (Swift).     Good-Natur'd  Man,  31. 

Univebsities  and  Convents,  Fobeion,  philo3ophical  theses 
maintained  at.     Vicar,  323. 

Untutobed  Natube,  i.e.  untaught,  obeying  the  dictates  of 
nature  only.     Vicar,  366. 

Upo',  upon,  denoting  contiguity.  '  They  have  lost  their  way 
upo'  the  forest.'  She  Stoops,  100.  Cp.  Richardson,  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  (1754),  Letter  26,  ed.  1896,  *Sir  Hargrave  ,  .  .  has 
a  house  upon  the  Forest.' 

Ubchin,  a  familiar,  half-chiding  name,  usually  addressed  to 
a  child.     Good'Naiur'd  Man,  35. 

UsHEB,  the  miserable  life  of  an.  Vicar,  309-10.  Forster  sa3rs : 
'  There  is  a  dark  uncertain  kind  of  story,  of  [Goldsmith]  getting 
a  bare  subsistence  in  this  way  [as  an  usher]  for  some  few  months. 


484  GLOSSARIAL  INDEX 

under  a  leigiied  name '  (/4/e,  Boc^  I,  diap.  vi).  In  1757  Gold- 
smith became  an  aoButant  at  Dr.  Mflner^a  ad'ailrinjf  at  Feckfaam. 
It  may  have  been  these  incidents  in  his  career  whidi  sopfAed  the 
bitter  experiences  narrated  by  George  Primrose,  and  of  irfaich 
Gotdsmith  had  written  pfevionsly  in  a  like  strain  in  The  Bet 
(November  10,  1759) :  '  Every  trick  is  played  upon  the  adier ; 
the  oddity  of  his  mannefs,  his  diess,  or  his  language,  is  a  fund  of 
eternal  ridicule ;  the  master  himself,  now  and  then,  cannot  avoid 
joining  in  the  laug^ ;  and  the  poor  wretch,  et^nally  resentii^ 
this  ill-usage,  seems  to  live  in  a  state  of  war  with  all  the  family.' 

Vagabond,  a  PmLosopHia    Set  Philosophic  Vagabond. 
Valbntinb  MoBinNO,  love-knots  on.     Vieart  206.    See  also 
True-love-knots. 

Vablet,  a  term  of  contempt,  a  rascal,  '  ne'er-do-weel '.  She 
Stoops,  162. 

Vakment,  a  corruption  of  '  vermin ',  and  often  applied  con- 
temptuously to  troublesome  persons.     She  Stoops^  157. 

Vauxhall  Gabdeks,  its  painted  ruins.  Oood-Natur'd  Man, 
17.  See  Painted  Ruins.  Vauxhall,  situate  on  the  Surrey  side  of 
the  Thames,  had  been  a  place  of  public  resort  since  the  time  of 
Charles  II,  continuing  as  a  place  of  fashionable  amusement 
nearly  to  the  end  of  the  reign  of  George  III.  A  description  by 
Goldsmith  of  a  visit  to  Vauxhall  will  be  found  in  the  Citizen  of 
th^  World,  Letter  71. 

Vicab's  Family,  the:  (1)  Qeorge  (bred  at  Oxford);  (2) 
Olivia ;  (3)  Sophia  ;  (4)  Mosee  (designed  for  business) ;  (5)  Two 
sons  more  {Dick  and  BiU),     Vicar,  189-90. 

Vices,  opposed  to  virtues.     Vicar,  273-4. 

Wages,  dissatisfaction  as  to.    Qood-Naiur'd  Man,  10. 

Wakefield,  three  strange  wants  at.  Vicar,  193.  As  to  the 
locality  of  the  story,  Prior  remarks :  '  The  reason  for  fixing  the 
scene  near  Wakefield,  is  said  [by  Cradock,  in  his  MemoiTS\  to 
have  arisen  from  an  excursion  made  into  Yorkshire  about  the 
period  at  wh^ch  it  was  written ;  with  what  view  we  are  unac- 
quainted ;  but  there  is  reason  to  believe  he  spent  sctaie  months 
in  that  county  at  some  previous  period.  .  .  .  The  name  of  the 
vicarage  is  probably  fanciful,  but  by  a  curious  coincidence  it  has 


GLOSS ARIAL  INDEX  486 

been  ascertained  from  contemporary  statements^  that  the 
daughter  of  the  actual  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  the  Rev.  Dr.  W., 
married  about  this  period  a  Captain  M.,  of  the  militia,  ^vnthout, 
it  is  said,  having  obtained  the  parental  sanction ;  hence  rumour 
induced  a  suspicion,  unfounded  no  doubt,  that  with  such  additions 
as  imagination  supplied  he  had  touched  upon  circumstances  in 
real  life.'    Ufe  of  Oddwniih  (1837)  ii.  116.     See  Appendix,  p.  5Q8. 

Waixbb,  Ebmund  (1605-1687),  the  poet  Gcod-Naiur'd 
Man,  29. 

Wall-eyed,  having  an  eye  the  iris  of  which  is  streaked,  parti- 
coloured, or  different  in  hue  from  the  other  eye ;  squinting. 
Vicar,  245. 

Wab.  '  Like  one  of  those  instruments  used  in  the  art  of  war, 
which,  however  thrown,  still  presents  a  point  to  receive  the 
enemy.'  Vicar,  348.  The  implement  called  a  caltrop  is  here 
intended.  CaUrap,  M.E.  caik-,  halhetrappe ;  also  O.E.  cdte- 
trceppe,  &c.  Orig.  perhaps  chauche4rappe  (Littr6) ;  possibly  in 
calcitrappe  an  association  with  calcare,  to  tread.  The  word 
presents  many  difficulties. 

Wabm,  in  comfortable  circumstances,  well-to-do,  moderately 
wealthy.     A  warm  man.  Vicar,  268, 281 ;  a  warm  fortune,  ib.  280. 

Wabwick-lanb.  *  To-night  I  head  our.  troops  in  Warwick- 
lane.'  Oood-Natur*d  Man,  82.  A  reference  to  a  dispute  between 
the  Fellows  and  licentiates  of  the  College  of  Physicians.  See 
notes  to  Poetical  Works,  215. 

Wash,  a  liquid  used  for  toilet  purposes.     Vicar,  219,  241. 

Waste,  upon  the,  extravagant.    Oood-Naiur'd  Man,  10. 

Water  Parted,  a  song  in  Ame's  opera  of  Artaxerxes,  produced 
in  1762.     She  Stoops,  99. 

Wauns,  a  contracted  form  of  *  God's  wounds ',  used  as  an 
oath  or  exclamation.  She  Stoops,  105.  See  Wound,  English 
Dialect  Diet. 

Wealth,  AocnHULATiOK  of,  Dr.  Primrose  on.  Vicar^  301-2. 
Op.  The  Deserted  Village,  11. 51-2, '  111  fares  the  land,  to  hast'ning  ills 
a  prey.  Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay.'  Goldsmith 
expresses  an  opposite  view  in  the  Citizen  of  the  Worid,  Letter  11. 

Weasel-skin  Pttesb,  as  token  of  good  luck.  Vicar,  256. 
This  belief  is  said  to  be  current  in  King's  Co.  and  Westmeath, 
Ireland. 


486  6L0SSARIAL  INDEX 

WsLBumoB  Vajr:  Moses's  bargain  at,  Vicar^  254-6;  Dr. 
Primrose's  sale  of  his  horse  at,  ib.  264  seq.,  354.  Mr.  Edward 
Ford,  in  the  NatUmal  Review  for  May,  1883,  has  sought  to  identify 
this  place  with  Welbam. 

Well-knit.    See  Knit. 

Wblls,  thb.  Vicar^  293.  Mr.  Edward  Ford  (NaHond 
Review^  May,  1883)  suggests  that  Harrogate  ia  no  doubt  intended 

Wbstminstbb-hall^  the  old  Hall  of  the  Palace  at  Westminster, 
originally  built  in  the  reign  of  William  Rufus.  She  Stoops^  111. 
Our  early  Parliaments  were  held  in  this  Hall,  and  the  Law  Courts 
met  here  until  the  opening  of  the  present  buildings  in  1882.  The 
Hall  is  said  to  be  the  largest  apartment  not  supported  by  pillars 
in  England. 

Whistle-jacket,  the  name  of  a  famous  racehorse.  She 
Stoops,  146. 

Whiston,  the  Rev.  William  (1667-1772),  monogamist. 
Vicar,  193,  265.     See  Appendix,  Note  16. 

Whitehall  Evening,  i.e.  The  Whitehall  Evening  Post,  or  London 
InleUigencer,     Vicar,  299. 

Why,  used  as  a  call  or  exclamation.  '  Constance,  why  Con- 
stance, I  say.'  She  Stoops,  152.  Cp.  Merchant  of  Venice,  ii. 
▼.  6-7, '  Shyloch.  Why,  Jessica,  I  say  !  Launcdot,  Why,  Jessica ! 
Shylock.  Who  bids  thee  call  ?  ' 

Wio.  *  He  fastened  my  wig  to  the  back  of  my  chair/  &c. 
She  Stoops,  92.  The  trick  here  played  by  Tony  Lumpkin  on 
Mr.  Hardcastle  was  one  played  on  Goldsmith  by  the  daughter  of 
Lord  Clare  on  his  last  visit  to  Gosfield  (Forster,  Life,  Book  IV, 
chap.  xv). 

Wildman's,  a  coffee-house  in  Bedford  Street,  under  the  Piazza 
in  Covent  Garden.     Oood-Natur^d  Man,  78. 

Wild  Notes,  i.e.  produced  without  culture  or  training.  She 
Stoops,  123.  Mrs.  Hardcastle  may  have  had  a  confused  remem- 
brance of  Milton's  lines,  '  Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's 
child.  Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild'  {L* Allegro,  lines 
133-4). 

WiLMOT,  Me.,  his  controversy  with  Dr.  Primrose  on  Mono- 
gamy.    Vicar,  195-6. 

WiNDOALL,  a  soft  tumour  on  the  fetlock  joints  of  a  horse. 
Vicar,  264. 


GLOSSARIAL  INDEX  487 

Wine.  '  I  .  .  .  asked  for  the  landlord's  company  over  a  pint 
of  wine.'     Vicar,  327.     A  pint  of  wine  was  a  common  measure. 

Wives,  markets  for.     Vicar,  288.    See  Fontarabia,  Ranelagh. 

Wooden  Shoes.  *  What !  give  up  liberty,  property,  and,  as 
the  OazeUeer  says,  lie  down  to  be  saddled  with  wooden  shoes ! ' 
Vicar,  304.  '  Wooden  shoes  '  were  objects  of  ridicule  and  dislike 
at  the  time  of  the  story.  Goldsmith,  by  this  mixed  metaphor, 
was  probably  ridiculing  the  general  style  of  the  Gazetteer, 

Woodward,  Henbt  (1717-1777),  actor.  Good-Naiur'd  Man, 
6 ;  She  Stoops,  88.  Woodward,  who  took  the  part  of  Lofty  in 
Tfie  Good'Natur'd  Man,  refused  the  part  of  Tony  Lumpkin  in  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer,  but  spoke  the  Prologue  to  that  play ;  as  to 
which  Horace  Walpole  wrote, '  Woodward  speaks  a  poor  prologue, 
written  by  Garrick,  admirably  '  (Letters,  viii.  260-1).  According 
to  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography  *  he  has  had  few  equals 
in  comedy.  His  figure  was  admirably  formed,  and  his  expression 
so  composed  that  he  seemed  qualified  rather  for  tragedy  or  fine 
gentlemen  than  the  brisk  fops  and  pert  coxcombs  he  ordinarily 
played.'    See  vol.  Ixii,  p.  419.    He  is  in  the  Rosciad. 

WotTNDiLY,  wondrously,  excessively,  very.  *They  look 
woundily  like  Frenchmen.'  She  Stoops,  100.  Recorded  as 
obsolescent  in  the  English  Dialect  Diet.  Cp.  Roby,  Traditions  of 
Lancashire  (1829)  ii.  301,  ed.  1872,  *  Body  o'  me,  but  you're 
grown  woundily  humoursome.' 

Teatino,  dialect  form  of  '  eating '.  She  Stoops,  104. 

YoiJB,  used  indefinitely.  '  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a 
bolster.'  She  Stoops,  103.  Cp.  As  You  Like  It,  v.  i.  47,  '  All 
your  writers  do  consent  that  ipse  is  he.' 

Zounds,  an  expletive,  '  God's  wounds  ! '  Qood-Natur^d  Man, 
71  and  passim. 


APPENDIX 
THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN 

This  play  was  originally  intended  for  Covent  Garden  Thealzey 
bat  at  the  time  when  it  was  ready  for  reptesentatkm  the  affain 
of  that  theatre  had  been  thrown  into  temporary  oonfosion  by 
the  death  d  Rich,  the  manager.  Goldsmith  thereupon  decided 
to  try  the  rival  hoose,  Drury  Lane,  which  was  nnder  the  manage- 
ment of  Garrick.  Financial  pressore  donbtlesB  foroed  Goldsmith 
to  seek  a  fayoor  at  Garrick^s  hands,  for  the  two  had  not  been 
on  good  terms  for  some  time;  bat  Sir  Joshoa  Reynolds  acted 
as  an  intermediary  and  broaght  than  together.  The  interview 
was  not  altogether  sacoessful :  sensitiTe  pride  on  one  side,  and 
the  arrogance  of  a  snocessf ol  man  on  the  other,  nearly  wrecked 
the  negotiations  at  the  ontset.  Howeyer,  the  mannscript  was 
placed  in  Garrick's  hands  for  consideration,  only  to  be  followed 
by  excuses  and  delays  on  the  part  of  the  manager.  Privately, 
he  was  giving  his  opinion  to  Johnson  and  Reynolds  that  the  play 
could  not  possibly  succeed ;  to  the  dramatist  himself  he  suggested 
several  alterations,  which  Goldsmith  indignantly  refused  to  adopt. 
Mr.  Whitehead  (the  Poet  Laureate)  was  thereupon  suggested  as  an 
arbitrator :  this  proposal  was  declined.  Goldsmith  believing  that 
condemnation  of  the  play  was  already  decided  in  that  quarter. 
Another  name  was  suggested,  only  to  be  rejected  with  warmth ; 
and  in  this  spirit  manager  and  dramatist  parted.  Goldsmith, 
however,  fully  realized  the  defects  of  his  play,  and,  writing  in 
a  chastened  spirit  to  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane,  undertook  to 
give  him  a  new  character  in  his  comedy,  '  and  knock  out  Lofty, 
which  does  not  do,  and  will  make  such  other  alterations  as  you 
direct.'  This  letter  was  cruelly  endorsed  by  Garrick  '  Goldsmith's 
Parlaver '. 

Certain  events  in  the  interval  had  occurred  at  Covent  Garden 
which  resulted  in  renewed  negotiations  with  that  house,  now 
under  the  management  of  George  Colman,  and  eventually  the 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  489 

manuscript  was  withdrawn  from  Garrick  and  handed  over  to  his 
rival.  Dissensions  arising  among  the  new  proprietors  of  Covent 
Garden  Theatre  the  production  of  the  comedy  was  again  retarded. 
In  the  meantime  Garrick,  in  opposition  to  Goldsmith,  had 
brought  out  a  play  at  Drury  Lane,  written  by  Hugh  Kelly, 
entitled  False  Delicacy,  which  belonged  to  the  then  prevailing 
school  of  *  sentimental  *  comedy,  and  was  likely  to  have  an 
adverse  effect  on  a  play  constructed  on  opposite  lines  and  out  of 
harmony  with  current  taste.  *  It  was  with  Steele  the  unlucky 
notion  began,'  writes  Forster,  '  of  setting  comedy  to  reform  the 
morals  instead  of  imitating  the  manners  of  the  age.'  Kelly  con- 
tinued this  tradition,  and  in  this  play  'sounded  the  depths  of 
sentimentalism '. 

The  play  was  produced  for  the  first  time  on  Saturday, 
Ja&iuary  23,  1768,  six  nights  before  The  Oood-Natur'd  Man  was 
brought  out  at  Covent  Garden.  Johnson  pronounced  it  a  play 
of  *no  character',  but  it  had  a  great  stage  success.  It  was 
backed  by  the  remaining  adherents  of  the  *  sentimental '  school 
of  comedy,  and  Garrick  used  all  his  influence  to  ensure  the 
success  of  the  piece.  Through  his  intervention.  False  Delicacy 
was  received  with  *  singular  favour  %  and  a  great  number  of 
copies  of  the  book  was  sold,  Kelly's  profits  amounting  to 
above  £700. 

Whilst  success  was  thus  attending  Kelly's  play,  affairs  at 
Covent  Garden  were  not  proceeding  smoothly.  The  actors  were 
squabbling  over  their  parts :  Powell  protested  he  could  make 
nothing  of  Mr.  Honeywood,  and  the  actors  generally  thought  but 
little  of  the  plajr's  chance  of  success — with  the  possible  exception 
of  Shuter.  The  manager  himself  had  lost  all  faith,  and  under 
the  circumstances  it  is  not  surprising  that  Goldsmith  should 
have  become  down-hearted  and  despondent.  Johnson,  however, 
was  steadfast  in  support,  attending  a  rehearsal,  and  promising 
to  furnish  a  prologue. 

At  last,  on  Friday,  the  29th  of  January,  1768,  the  comedy  was 
produced.  The  majority  of  the  members  of  the  Literary  Club — 
including  Johnson,  Burke,  and  Reynolds — attended  the  first 
performance,  to  cheer  and  encourage  their  fellow  member.  The 
opening  was  not  altogether  promising:  Johnson's  prologue 
proved  somewhat  ponderous ;  and  Powell,  with  his  preconceived 

b3 


490  APPENDIX 

ideas  ef  failure,  did  not  mend  matters  in  his  repTesentotaan  of 
Honeywood  in  l^e  first  Act.  It  was  left  to  Shuter,  with  his 
inimitable  representation  of  Croaker,  to  galvanize  the  play  into 
life,  and  make  the  house  ring  with  honest  laughter.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  bailiflb'  scene  was  unsuccessful:  its  humour 
was  too  broad  for  the  *  sentimentalists  \  and  its  language  was 
thought  low — '  uncommonly  low '  said  the  London  Chromde  in 
reporting  the  play.  But  Shuter  again  rescued  the  piece  from 
failure  by  his  mirth-provoking  reading  of  the  '  incendiary '  l^^er 
in  the  fourth  Act,  and  this  carried  ihe  play  on  to  its  close  with  a 
fair  amount  of  success.  For  further  details  of  the  acting  it  is 
only  necessary  to  refer  to  Forster's  Life  of  QMsmith^  whii^  is 
practically  exhaustive  on  the  subject  of  the  drama  in  Goldsmith's 
time. 

On  the  second  night  (February  1)  the  scene  with  the  bailifk 
was  omitted,  and  a  few  minor  alterations  were  made.  The  third, 
sixth,  and  ninth  nights  were  appropriated  for  the  author's 
benefit,  by  which  he  received  some  £350  to  £400 ;  the  fifth  night 
had  been  commanded  by  their  Majesties.  In  all,  it  ran  for  ten 
consecutive  nights,  and  on  the  20th  of  March  it  was  selected  by 
Shuter  for  his  benefit*  the  author  generouidy  adding  ten  guineas, 
in  recognition  of  the  actor's  great  services.  A  few  years  later, 
on  May  3,  1773,  it  was  again  selected  for  a  benefit — this  time  for 
Mrs.  Green,  the  original  Mrs.  Hardcastle  in  She  Stoopa  to  Conquer. 
At  this  representation  the  bailiff*  scene  was  acted,  *  by  particular 
desire ' :  Morris  and  Quick  were  the  bailiffs,  and  Lee  Lewes  took 
the  part  of  Lofty. 

Goldsmith's  profits  were  small  compared  with  those  reaped  by 
Kelly  with  False  Delicacy,  but  the  sale  of  the  copyright  to 
W.  Griffin  added  somewhat  to  the  sum.  The  play  was  imme- 
diately printed,  with  the  bailiffs'  scene  restored,  and  the  first 
edition  published  on  February  5,  which  went  off  with  great  rapidity. 
Prior  quotes  the  following  trade  advertisement :  '  The  first  lai^ 
impression  of  the  comedy  of  The  Qood-Naiured  Man,  written  by 
Dr.  Goldsmith,  being  sold  off  on  Saturday  last  (the  6th,  the  day 
after  publication)  a  new  edition  will  be  published  this  afternoon, 
at  three  o'clock ;  when  those  ladies  and  gentlemen  that  were 
then  disappointed  of  their  books  may  be  supplied  by  W.  Griffin, 
in  Catherine  Street  in  the  Strand.' 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  491 

On  February  22  a  fourth  edition  appeared,  and  a  fifth  before 
the  end  of  the  year.  Qualified,  therefore,  as  its  success  on  the 
stage  may  have  been,  it  is  evident  from  these  records  that  the 
literary  merits  of  the  play  were  recognized  from  the  first.  It  had 
been  applauded  in  manuscript  by  Edmund  Burke ;  it  was  now 
to  obtain  the  appreciation  of  the  reading  public,  although  not 
without  its  detractors.  Boswell  spoke  slightingly  of  the  play 
to  Johnson,  but  the  latter  declared  it  to  be  '  the  best  comedy  that 
had  appeared  since  The  Provoked  Husband,  and  that  there  had 
not  been  of  late  any  such  character  exhibited  on  the  stage  as 
that  of  Croaker.*     BoswelFs  Life,  ii.  48,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill. 

But  although  The  Qood-Natur'd  Man  has  taken  an  enduring 
place  in  the  literature  of  our  country,  it  has  seldom  been  repro- 
duced on  the  stage,  and  the  presumption  is  that  it  is  not 
really  a  good  acting  play.  By  the  courtesy  of  the  Editor  of  the 
Athenaeum,  I  am  permitted  to  reprint  the  following  article  from 
the  pen  of  the  late  Mr.  Joseph  Knight,  concerning  a  representation 
of  this  play  in  October,  1906 : — 

Coronet. — Afternoon  Representation  :    The  Oood-Natured  Man, 
By  Oliver  Goldsmith.     Played  in  Three  Acts. 

The  general  impression  of  the  demerits,  as  an  acting  play,  of 
Goldsmith's  Oood-Natured  Man  will  scarcely  be  removed  by 
the  afternoon  presentation  given  under  the  direction  of  Mr. 
William  Poel  at  the  Coronet  Theatre.  The  conditions  sur- 
rounding the  performance  were  scarcely  favourable.  So 
amateurish  was  the  whole  that  the  comparatively  subordinate 
part  of  Sir  William  Honeywood  assumed,  in  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Charles  Allen,  an  importance  that  can  rarely  have  been  assigned 
it.  Mr.  Poel  himself  played  Croaker,  and  Mr.  Ben  Field  doubled 
the  part  of  Lofty  with  that  of  the  Footman*  In  one  instance 
no  fewer  than  three  characters  were  assigned  to  the  same  actor, 
Flannigan  (the  bailiffs  follower),  Dubardieu,  and  the  postboy 
being  all  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Edwin  H.  Wynne.  Miss  Richland, 
the  heroine,  was  played  by  Miss  Muriel  Currey ;  and  Olivia  (in 
whom  it  is  possible  to  trace  a  sort  of  predecessor  of  Constantia 
Neville  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer)  was  presented  gracefully  by 
Miss  H.  B.  Potter.  Much  stress  was  laid  in  Goldsmith's  second 
piece  upon  the  improbability  of  taking  Hardcastle's  house  for  an 


492  APPENDIX 

inn.  An  error  of  the  kind  is  insignificant  beside  that  of  Croaker, 
who  accepts  into  his  house,  as  his  own  daughter  Olivia,  a  stranger 
palmed  off  upon  him  as  such  by  his  son  Leontine,  who  has  brought 
her  home  from  Paris  for  the  purpose  of  marrying  her.  This  piece 
may  have  been  included  in  the  performances  of  classical  comedy 
which  were,  under  Buckstone's  management,  a  feature  of  the 
Haymarket.  No  record  of  any  presentation  during  the  past 
half  century  is  traced  previous  to  the  first  revival  by  Mr.  Poel 
in  Cambridge,  of  which  that  at  the  Coronet  was  a  repetition. — 
Athertaeum,  October  20,  1906. 

Note  1. — ^Hijgh  Kelly 

Hugh  Kelly  was  bom  at  Killamey  in  1739,  the  son  of  a  Dublin 
tavern-keeper.  He  went  to  London  early  in  1760  to  try  literature 
as  a  profession,  first,  in  a  moment  of  rashness,  describing  himself — 
a  passing  weakness  which  he  was  not  speedily  permitted  to 
forget — as  a  staymaker.  He  afterwards  took  to  journalism  and 
editing,  and  wrote  political  pamphlets,  one  of  which  was  praised 
by  Lord  Chesterfield ;  took  chambers  in  Middle  Temple  Lane, 
and  married  Mira  (his  wife's  nom  de  plume).  Later  on  he  pub- 
lished one  or  two  novels,  and  worked  for  John  Newbery  as 
editor  of  the  Pvblic  Ledger,  He  published  Theapis :  or  a 
Critical  Examination  of  aU  the  Principal  Performers  belonging 
to  Drury  Lane  ThecUre,  but  apologized  in  the  second  edition 
for  his  'ruffian  cruelty'.  At  this  stage  of  his  career  he  was 
taken  up  by  Garrick,  in  rivalry  to  Goldsmith,  who  was  then 
on  the  point  of  bringing  out  The  Good  Natur*d  Man.  Kelly's 
play.  False  Delicacy,  as  stated  above,  proved  very  successful 
in  London;  it  had  also  a  vogue  in  country  towns  in  Great 
Britain,  and  was  translated  into  several  foreign  languages. 
Kelly's  last  five  comedies  were  all  unsuccessful ;  but  he  was 
one  of  the  most  deeply  affected  of  the  mourners  at  Goldsmith's 
burial,  and  one  of  the  last  to  leave  the  grave  ;  a«nd  for  this  much 
may  be  forgiven  him.    Kelly  died  in  poverty,  February  3,  1777. 

Note  2. — Gabbick's  Treatmeni;-  of  Goldsbuth  and 

'  Retauation  ' 

Was  it  partly  the  recollection  of  Garrick's  treatment  of  him 
and  his  attitude  in  the  matter  of  the  production  of  The  Good 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  493 

Natur^d  Man  that  led  Goldsmith  to  criticize  him,  not  surely  too 
severely,  in  Retaliation  ?  It  maybe  worth  while  to  reproduce  the 
lines  in  this  place  : — 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me,  who  can, 

An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 

As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine; 

As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 

Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart. 

The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill- judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread. 

And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting; 

'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 

He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day. 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 

If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick: 

He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack. 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleas'd  he  could  whistle  them  back. 

Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swaUow'd  what  came. 

And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 

Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  ahnost  to  disease, 

Who  pepper'd  the  highest,  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind. 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave. 

What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got,  and  you  gave ! 

How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  rais'd. 

While  he  was  be-Boscius'd  and  you  were  be-prais'd  ! 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies. 

To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies : 

Those  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill. 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will. 

Old  Shakespeare,  receive  him,  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Note  3. — Supposed  Obiqin  of  the  titlb  *  Good-Natur'd  Man  ' 

Mr.  Forster  reminds  us  that  one  of  Nash's  friends,  introduced 
as  '  the  celebrated  S — ,'  is  mentioned  in  Goldsmith's  Life  of  Nash, 


494  APPENDIX 

ed.  1762,  as  having  gone  by  the  name  of '  The  Good-Natur'd  Man '. 
But  *  good  nature '  seemed  then  to  be  in  the  air,  and  it  is  quite 
possible  that  there  was  no  connexion  between  Croaker  and  the 
celebrated  S — ,  who  is  otherwise  wholly  unknown  to  us.  See 
also  Glossarial  Index,  p.  440. 

Note  4. — Prologue  by  Dr.  Johnson.    Page  5. 

Originally,  in  the  fifth  line,  '  Our  little  Bard '  had  been  written. 
'  Don't  call  me  our  uttls  hard  *  said  Goldsmith  to  Johnson,  and 
'  Our  anxious  bard '  was  good-naturedly  substituted.  Malone 
used  to  refer  to  this  eagerly-desired  omission  as  one  of  the  most 
characteristic  traits  he  knew  of  Goldsmith.  (Foister's  Life, 
Book  IV,  chap,  i.) 

Note  5. — Cboakbb  and  Johnson's  *  Suspibius  '.    Page  13. 

Johnson's  sketch  of  Suspirius  in  The  RawUder,  No.  59,  has 
often  been  put  forward  as  the  original  from  which  Goldsmith 
copied  Croaker,  and  he  is  said  to  have  acknowledged  his  indebted- 
ness to  Johnson ;  but  Mr.  J.  W.  M.  Gibbs,  in  his  edition  of  Gold- 
smith (ii.  193),  suggests  that  Goldsmith  may,  after  all,  have 
taken  the  main  idea  from  his  own  desponding  philosopher  in 
The  Citizen  of  the  World,  No.  92.  Goldsmitii  was  such  an  in- 
veterate repeater  of  his  own  good  things — often  three  or  four 
times  within  a  short  space — ^that  a  few  additional  plagiarisms  do 
not  seem  to  fall  from  him  with  an  ill  grace. 

For  purposes  of  reference,  a  transcript  of  the  number  of 
The  Rambler  in  question  is  annexed. 

No.  59.  The  Babcblsb.  Price  2d. 

Tuesday,  October  9,  1750. 

Est  aliquid  fatale  Malum  per  Verba  levare. 
Hoc  quenilam  Prognen  Haley onemque  facit: 

Hoc  erat  in  solo  quare  Poeantius  Antro 
Voce  fatigaret  Lemnia  Saxa  sua. 

Strangulat  inclusus  dolor  atque  ezaestuat  intus 

Cogitur  et  Vires  multiplicare  suas.  Ovid. 

It  is  commcm  to  distinguish  Men  by  the  Names  of  Animals 
which  they  are  supposed  to  resemble.  Thus  a  Hero  is  frequently 
termed  a  Lion,  and  a  Statesman  a  Fox,  an  extortioner  gains  the 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  495 

appellation  of  Vulture,  and  a  Fop  the  Title  of  Monkey.  There 
is  also  among  the  various  Anomalies  of  Character,  which  a  Survey 
of  the  World  exhibits,  a  Species  of  Beings  in  human  Form, 
which  may  be  properly  marked  out  as  the  Screech-Owls  of  Man- 
kind. 

These  Screech-Owls  seem  to  be  settled  in  an  Opinion  that  the 
great  Business  of  Life  is  to  complain,  and  that  they  were  born 
for  no  other  Purpose  than  to  disturb  the  Happiness  of  others, 
to  lessen  the  little  Comforts,  and  shorten  the  short  Pleasures  of  our 
Condition,  by  painful  Remembrances  of  the  Past,  or  melancholy 
Prognostics  of  the  Future,  and  their  only  Care  is  to  crush  the 
rising  Hope,  to  damp  the  kindling  Transport,  and  allay  the 
golden  Hours  of  Gayety  with  the  hateful  Dross  of  Grief  and 
Suspicion. 

To  those,  whose  Weakness  of  Spirits,  or  Timidity  of  Temper, 
subjects  them  to  Impressions  from  others,  and  who  are  apt  to 
suffer  by  Fascination,  and  catch  the  Contagion  of  Misery,  it  is 
extremely  unhappy  to  live  within  the  Compass  of  a  Screech -Owl's 
Voice ;  for  it  will  often  fill  their  Ears  in  the  Hour  of  Dejection, 
and  terrify  them  with  Apprehensions  which  their  own  Thoughts 
would  never  have  produced,  and  sadden,  by  intruded  Sorrows, 
the  Day  which  might  have  been  passed  in  Amusements,  or  in 
Business ;  it  will  fill  the  heart  with  unnecessary  Discontents,  and 
weaken  for  a  time  that  Love  of  Life  which  is  necessary  to  the 
vigorous  Prosecution  of  any  Undertaking. 

Though  I  have,  like  the  Best  of  Mankind,  many  Failings  and 
Weaknesses,  I  have  never  yet,  by  either  Friends  or  Enemies, 
been  charged  with  Superstition ;  I  never  count  the  Company 
which  I  enter,  and  I  look  at  the  New  Moon  indifferently  over 
either  Shoulder.  I  have,  like  most  other  Philosophers,  often 
heard  the  Cuckoo  without  Money  in  my  Pocket,  and  have  been 
sometimes  reproached  for  foolhardy  for  not  turning  down  my 
Eyes  when  a  Raven  flew  over  my  head.  I  never  go  home 
abruptly,  because  a  Snake  crosses  my  Way,  nor  have  any  par- 
ticular dread  of  a  climaterical  Year,  but  confess  that,  with  all 
my  Scorn  of  old  Women,  and  their  Tales,  I  always  consider  it  as 
an  unhappy  Day  when  I  happen  to  be  greeted  in  tiie  Morning 
by  Sitspiriua  the  Screech-Owl. 


496  APPENDIX 

Note  6. — Whitefield's  Tabernacle.    Page  20. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  append  the  following  quotation  from 
the  Westminster  Gazette,  The  use  of  the  term  '  tabernacle  *  by 
Goldsmith  and  others  at  this  period  must  have  been  greatly 
influenced  by  the  success  of  George  Whitefield,  as  shown  in  the 
new  building  erected  for  his  preaching  a  few  years  before  in 
the  Tottenham  Court  Road : — 

'  One  of  the  historic  landmarks  of  London  Nonconformity 
seems  destined  to  disappear  by  the  coming  sale  of  Whitefield's 
Tabernacle,  not  the  one  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  but  the  less 
known  original  preaching-place  of  Whitefield  in  Finsbury.  This 
was  at  first  a  huge  wooden  shed,  with  a  sugar-cask  for  pulpit, 
erected  by  Calvinistic  admirers  for  Whitefield  after  his  separation 
from  Wesley.  They  called  their  temporary  structure  a  tabernacle 
from  the  movable  place  of  worship  of  the  Israelites ;  and  the 
name  became  a  designation  for  all  chapels  of  the  Calvinistic 
Methodists.  The  permanent  edifice  was  rebuilt  forty  years  ago.' — 
Westminster  OazeUe,  May  3,  1907. 

See  also  Wheatley,  London,  Past  and  Present,  iii.  503  seq. 

Note  7. — Land-Carriage  Fishery.    Page  30. 

Amongst  the  notable  persons  who  interested  themselves  in 
the  carriage  of  fish  must  be  reckoned  Sir  Richard  Steele,  who 
published,  in  1718,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Joseph  Gillmore, 
mathematician,  a  pamphlet  bearing  the  title,  '  An  Account  of 
the  Fishpool :  consisting  of  a  Description  of  the  Vessel  so  called* 
lately  invented  and  built  for  the  Importation  of  Fish  alive,  and 
in  good  health,  from  parts  however  distant.  A  Proof  of  the 
Imperfection  of  the  WeU-Boai  hitherto  used  in  the  Fishing  Trade. 
The  true  Reasons  why  Ships  become  stifE  or  crank  in  sailing ; 
with  other.  Improvements,  very  useful  to  all  Persons  concerned 
in  Trade  and  Navigation.  Likewise,  a  Description  of  the 
Carriage  intended  for  the  Conveyance  of  Fish  by  land,  in  the 
same  good  Condition  as  in  the  Fish-Pool  by  Sea.'  Annexed  to 
this  pamphlet  is  the  patent  which  his  Majesty,  King  George  I, 
gave  for  the  use  of  this  invention. 

Matthew  Bramble,  the  irascible  but  good-natured  squire  in 
Smollett's  Humphry  Clinker,  saw  little  that  was  good  in  this 


THE   DEAF   POSTILION 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  497 

ft 

mode  of  conveyance.  '  Of  the  fish,  I  need  say  nothing  in  this 
hot  weather,  but  that  it  comes  sixty,  seventy,  fourscore,  and 
a  hundred  miles  by  land  carriage ;  a  circumstance  sufficient, 
without  any  comment,  to  turn  a  Dutchman's  stomach,  even 
if  his  nose  was  not  saluted  in  every  alley  with  the  sweet  flavour 
of  "  frfesh "  mackerel,  selling  by  retail.* — Humphry  Clinker 
(1771)149,  ed.  1905. 

Note  8. — Scotch  Marriages.    Pages  20,  37,  50,  55,  67. 

A  useful  little  companion  to  Goldsmith's  allusions  to  Scotch 
marriages  will  be  found  in  Oretna  Qreen  and  its  Trctditions^  by 
'  Claverhouse  ',  with  twenty-two  illustrations,  facsimiles  of  hand- 
writing, &c.  It  contains  as  much  information  as  most  readers 
are  likely  to  require  on  Scottish  runaway  marriages.  A  word 
must  be  spoken  also  in  favour  of  a  highly  interesting  article 
on  the  subject  which  appeared  in  the  Strand  Magazine  of  Decem- 
ber, 1908.  When  this  article  was  first  published  a  footnote 
was  appended,  stating  that  at  that  time  the  Gretna  Green 
registers  (1825-57  and  '  relative  certificates ')  were  for  sale  pri- 
vately. It  is  understood  that  they  have  since  passed  into 
official  or  semi-official  hands. 

Note  9. — The  House  of  Lorbtto.    Page  63. 

An  interesting  accoimt  of  Loretto  from  the  point  of  view  of  a 
Roman  Catholic  traveller  in  the  seventeenth  century  is  to  be 
found  in  The  Voyage  of  Italy,  by  Richard  Lassels,  Gent.  (London, 
1686),  from  which  the  following  extract  is  quoted : — 

'  From  hence  we  went  to  see  the  Cellar  of  the  Holy  House, 
which  furnished  with  Wine  not  only  the  Govemour's  House,  the 
Canons  and  the  Churchmen,  the  College  of  the  Penitentiaries,  the 
Convent  of  the  Cajmcin^,  the  Seminarists,  the  Hospital,  and  all 
those  belonging  to  the  Church  any  way ;  but  also  furnished  all 
Pilgrims,  yea,  even  all  Princes,  Cardinals,  Bishops,  Embassadors, 
and  great  Men  of  known  quality,  with  Wine,  as  long  as  they 
stay  here  upon  Devotion.  For  this  reason  there  belong  large 
revenues  to  this  Church ;  and  this  Cellar  is  absolutely  the  best 
I  saw  in  Italy.  The  Vessels  are  hugely  great,  and  not  to  be 
removed  from  hence.  They  have  a  way  to  take  out  a  piece  of 
their  broad  sides,  and  so  make  them  clean.     They  are  all  hooped 


408  APPENDIX 

with  Ircnit  and  some  of  them  are  so  contriTed  that  they  can 
draw  three  several  sorts  of  wine  oat  of  one  Vessel,  and  by  the 
same  tap.  The  experience  is  pretty,  bat  the  wine  is  better. 
Tarselinas  in  his  Hist,  of  I^yreio,  1.  3.  c.  25,  writes  that  between 
Easter  and  Whitsantide,  there  have  flocked  thither  scxnetimes 
five  sometimes  six  handred  thoasand  Ck>mmanicant8 ;  and  in 
two  days'  space  in  September  (aboat  the  Feast  of  the  Nativity 
of  our  Blessed  Savioor)  there  have  appeared  two  Hundred 
Thoasand  Commimicants,  most  of  which  were  Pilgrims. 

*  Having  refreshed  oorselves  in  this  Cellar,  we  wait  to  the 
Apothecaries-shop,  belonging  to  the  Holy  House  also;  and 
furnishing  Physic  to  sick  Pilgrims  for  nothing.  There  we  saw 
those  famous  Pots,  which  make  even  Physic  itself  look  sweeUy, 
and  draw  all  cnrioos  strangers  to  visit  them.  For  round  aboot 
a  great  inner  Shop,  stand  Pots  of  a  great  size  painted  by  Baphad 
UriMs  own  hand,  and  therefore  judged  by  Viriuoei  to  be  of 
great  value.  Witness  these  four  only,  on  which  are  painted  the 
four  Evangdieiat  for  the  which  were  offered  by  a  French  Embas- 
sador in  his  King's  name  four  Pots  of  Gold  6t  tiie  same  bigness, 
and  were  refused.  Brave  Baphad,  whose  only  touch  of  a  finger 
could  Midaa  like,  turn  Gallipots  into  Gold.  But  as  Fhydias  his 
Statues  of  Clay  were  as  much  adored  anciently  as  his  Golden 
ones :  so  Raphaels  hand  is  as  much  admired  in  the  Apothecaries 
Shop  of  Loreto  as  in  the  Vatican  Pallace  of  Borne,  These  pots 
were  given  to  the  Holy  House  by  a  Duke  of  Urbif^  whose  Subject 
Baphad  was,  and  for  whom  he  had  made  them  with  more  than 
ordinary  art.' — Vat^e  of  Italy,  Part  II,  pp.  213-4. 

In  1809,  a  Guide  to  the  Holy  House  was  printed  and  published 
at  Loretto,  containing  an  *  Historical  Abridgment  of  the  Pro- 
digious translations  of  the  Holy  House  of  Nazareth  ',  by  M.  Morn, 
translated  by  a  member  of  the  order  of  Cordeliers,  and  dedicated 
to  his  Excellency  Lemarois,  Govemor-General  of  the  three  com- 
biued  departments  of  Metauro,  Musone,  and  Tronto,  Aide  de 
Camp  to  Napoleon,  Emperor  and  King.  It  is  illustrated  with 
rude  wood-cuts,  and  was  no  doubt  bought  in  large  numbers  by 
pilgrims  and  others. 

In  May,  1868,  there  was  some  discussion  in  the  Athenaeum, 
No.  2115,  on  the  whole  of  the  alleged  miraculous  elements  of 
the  story. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN  499 

Note    10. — Sxtpposbd   Novel   pounded   upon    'The   Good- 

Natub*d  Man  * 

Goldsmith  is  said  to  have  contemplated  a  narrative  version 
of  The  Oood'Naiur*d  Man :  this  novel  is  stated  to  have  been  read 
by  the  author  to  the  family  of  Mr.  Bmibury,  and  there  seems 
to  be  sufficient  evidence  that  Goldsmith  had  another  novel  in 
preparation  a  little  before  his  death,  but  no  traces  of  it  remain. 
The  story,  as  told  by  Prior,  connects  itself  with  Goldsmith^s  great 
dramatic  success.  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  *'  Being  pressed  by 
pecuniary  difficulties  in  1771-2,  Goldsmith  had  at  various  periods 
obtained  the  advance  of  two  or  three  hundred  pounds  from 
Newbery  under  the  engagement  of  writing  a  novel,  which  after 
the  success  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  promised  to  be  one  of  the 
most  popular  speculations.  Considerable  delay  took  place  in 
the  execution  of  this  undertaking,  and  when  at  length  submitted 
to  the  perusal  of  the  bookseller,  it  proved  to  be  in  great  measure 
the  plot  of  Th/e  Oood-Natured  Man,  turned  into  a  tale.  Objections 
being  taken  to  this,  the  manuscript  was  returned.  Goldsmith 
declared  himself  unable  or  unwilling  to  write  another,  but  in 
liquidation  of  the  debt  now  pressingly  demanded,  said  he  should 
require  time  to  look  round  for  means  of  raising  the  money, 
unless  Mr.  Newbery  chose  to  take  the  chance  of  a  play  coming 
forward  at  Covent  Garden.  ''  And  yet  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Frank,"  added  the  candid  poet  in  making  the  proposal,  "  there 
are  great  doubts  of  its  success.*'  Newbery  accepted  the  offer, 
doubtful  of  being  otherwise  repaid,  and  the  popularity  of  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  gained,  according  to  the  recollection  of  the 
narrator,  above  three  hundred  pounds  more  than  the  sum 
advanced  to  the  author.'    (Prior's  Life  of  Ooldsmith,  ii.  417.) 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

This  play  was  represented  at  Covent  Garden  for  the  first  time 
on  March  16,  1773.  As  in  the  case  of  Tlie  Oood-Natur'd  Man, 
there  was  the  same  period  of  suspense,  and  the  same  dilatory 
proceedings  on  the  part  of  the  manager.  Goldsmith  in  vain 
implored  Colman  to  '  take  the  play  and  let  us  make  the  best  of  it, 
and  let  us  have  the  same  measure  at  least  which  you  have  given 


600  APPENDIX 

as  bad  plays  as  mine '.  The  MS.  was  returned  with  some  not 
wholly  onjustifiable  criticisms,  accompanied  by  a  promise  Hiat  the 
play  should  nevertheless  be  acted.  Goldsmith  then  submitted 
the  manuscript  to  Garrick,  who  hesitated  to  approve.  Johnscm 
intervened,  and  consulted  both  managers  with  a  view  to  an 
arrangement,  and  eventually  Colman  consented,  although 
reluctantly,  that  it  should  be  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden. 

Johnson^s  interest  in  the  play  was  great  from  the  first.  On 
February  22,  1773,  he  wrote  to  Boswell :  *■  Dr.  Goldsmith  has 
a  new  comedy  which  is  expected  in  the  spring.  No  name  is 
yet  given  it.  The  chief  diversion  arises  from  a  stratagem  by 
which  a  lover  is  made  to  mistake  his  future  father-in-law's  house 
for  an  inn.  This,  you  see,  borders  on  farce.  The  dialogue  is 
quick  and  gay,  and  the  incidents  are  so  prepared  as  not  to  seem 
improbable '  (BoswelFs  Life,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill,  u.  205-6).  And 
on  March  4,  eleven  days  before  the  representation,  Johnson 
wrote  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  White :  '  Dr.  Goldsmith  has  a  new  comedy 
in  rehearsal  at  Covent  Garden,  to  which  the  manager  predicts 
ill  success.  I  think  it  deserves  a  very  kind  reception  '  (Life,  ii. 
208). 

Fortune  was  to  prove  kinder  in  this  than  in  his  first  play. 
The  way  was  being  prepared  for  the  successful  revival  of  a 
comedy  of  manners  based  on  real  life,  as  contrasted  with  that  of 
the  *  sentimental '  or  French  school  which  had  been  so  long  .in 
fashion.  The  production  by  Foote  at  the  Haymarket,  by 
means  of  puppets,  of  a  piece  called  The  Handsome  Housemaid, 
or  Piety  in  Pattens,  which  was  intended  to  show  how  a  maiden 
of  low  degree,  by  the  mere  effects  of  morality  and  virtue,  raised 
herself  to  riches  and  honour,  struck  a  blow  at  sentimental  comedy 
from  which  it  was  slow  to  recover.  Garrick  was  swift  to  note 
the  change  in  taste,  and  sent  Goldsmith  a  Prologue  with  which 
to  lead  off  his  play. 

Colman,  however,  remained  sceptical  to  the  last ;  he  had  set 
his  mind  against  the  play,  refused  to  supply  new  dresses  and 
fresh  scenery,  and  sent  out  his  dismal  forebodings  in  the  most 
approved  manner  of  Croaker.  Then  troubles  arose  with  the 
actors.  Smith  threw  up  Young  Marlow ;  Woodward  refused 
the  part  of  Tony  Lumpkin.  If  there  was  any  conspiracy  against 
poor  Goldsmith,  he  was  to  have  a  signal  revenge  on  his  enemies. 


\ 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  501 

Nor  was  this  all,  for  the  mere  finding  a  title  for  the  play  proved 
almost  insuperable  ;  but  Goldsmith's  own  suggestion  was  at  last 
adopted,  and  the  final  difficulty  was  thus  surmounted.  '  We  are 
all  in  labour,'  wrote  Johnson,  *  for  a  name  to  Goldy's  play.' 
What  now  stands  as  the  sub-title,  '  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night,' 
-was  the  original  title  fixed  on.  The.  Old  House  a  New  Inn  was 
put  forward  as  an  alternative,  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  suggested 
^Ae  Beliefs  Stratagem,  The  question  was  solved  by  Goldsmith 
himself,  possibly  from  remembering  Dryden's  line — '  But  kneels 
to  Conquer,  and  but  stoops  to  Bise' — and  the  play  was  thus 
happily  named. 

When  at  last  the  play  was  produced  its  reception  exceeded  the 
expectation  of  the  author  or  his  friends.  The  members  of  the 
Club  were  present  in  force  to  applaud  the  play ;  but  the  spon- 
taneous acclamations  and  enjoyment  of  the  audience  were  so 
great  as  to  render  extraneous  assistance  of  this  kind  unnecessary. 
Even  a  hostile  critic  such  as  Horace  Walpole  was  obliged  to  admit 
its  success.  Writing  to  Lady  Ossory  on  March  16  he  sajrs, 
*  There  was  a  new  play  by  Dr.  Goldsmith  last  night,  which 
succeeded  prodigiously'  (Letters,  viii.  256).  As  for  his  enthu- 
siastic friends,  Johnson's  opinion  may  be  given :  *  I  know  of 
no  comedy  for  many  years  that  has  so  much  exhilarated  an' 
audience  ;  that  has  answered  so  much  the  great  end  of  comedy, 
n^aking  an  audience  merry.' 

The  single  hisa  which  is  said  to  have  so  painfully  startled  Gold- 
smith at  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  Act,  and  to  have  caused  Colman 
to  remark,  '  Pshaw,  Doctor,  don't  be  afraid  of  a  squib,  when  we 
have  been  sitting  these  two  hours  on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder,' 
related  to  the  trick  played  off  by  Tony  Lumpkin  on  Mrs.  Hard- 
castle — an  incident  which  was  no  doubt  based  on  Madame  de 
Crenlis's  similar  adventure  at  the  hands  of  Sheridan.  It  is  said 
that  Goldsmith  never  forgave  Colman  for  his  ill-timed  jest,  if 
jest  it  were.  But  the  moderation  with  which  Goldsmith  in  the 
Dedication  treated  Colman's  criticisms  betrays  no  such  unforgiving 
resentment.  Indeed,  as  things  turned  out,  there  was  more  need 
for  pity,  as  may  be  judged  from  the  account  by  Prior :  '  The  fire 
of  squibs,  witticisms,  and  paragraphs  against  Colman  became 
incessant ;  his  opinion  of  the  play  was  attributed  to  extreme 
jealousy. ...  So  perseveringly  was  this  warfare  carried  on,  in  every 


502  APPENDIX 

variety  of  fonn,  that  the  manager  became  at  last  seriously 
amioyed ;  he  wrote  what  was  considered  a  penitential  letter  to 
Goldsmith,  requesting  he  would  ^^take  him  off  the  rack  of  the 
netv8papera^\  and  in  order  to  escape  the  annoyance  in  Ixxidon, 
took  flight,  in  the  beginning  of  the  second  week,  to  Bath.' 

The  first  representation,  as  has  been  said,  took  place  on 
March  15,  and  the  new  comedy  was  continued  each  night  the 
theatre  was  open  until  May  31.  The  author  took  three  nights 
for  his  benefit  (March  18,  April  12,  and  April  19),  by  which  it  is 
estimated  he  received  four  or  five  hundred  pounds.  On  the 
5th  of  May,  the  tenth  day  of  performance,  it  was  commanded 
by  the  King  and  Queen.  During  the  summer  Foote  produced 
the  play  at  the  Haymarket ;  and  at  Covent  Garden  it  was  fre- 
quently repeated  before*  the  following  Christmas.  From  that 
time  forward  it  took  its  place  as  one  of  the  standard  and  most 
acceptable  pieces  of  the  British  Drama. 

Goldsmith  had  now  come  to  the  parting  of  the  ways,  and, 
save  in  point  of  reputation  and  undyiog  fame,  the  future  had 
little  more  to  offer  him.  The  cop3night  of  his  play  had  passed 
into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Francis  Newbery,  under  circumstances , 
already  narrated  (see  Note  10) ;  by  that  publisher  it  was  entered 
at  Stationers'  Hall  on  March  26,  1773,  and  duly  issued,  reaching 
a  fifth  edition  in  the  same  year. 

NoTK  11. — Thb  Three  Pigeons.    Page  98. 

On  November  6,  1882,  at  a  meeting  of  the  Cambridge  Anti- 
quarian Society,  a  communication  from  Dr.  J.  B.  Pearson  was 
read,  in  which  he  suggested  that  The  Three  Pigeons,  at  the  point 
where  the  road  from  Thame  to  Abingdon  crosses  that  from 
London  to  Oxford,  was  possibly  the  site  where  Goldsmith  laid 
the  scene  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  This,  however,  does  not  seem 
probable.  The  name  was  often  used  as  the  sign  of  inns  and  shops 
in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  notably  The  Three 
Pigeons  at  Brentford,  an  inn  which  has  acquired  celebrity  owing 
to  its  being  one  of  the  few  haunts  of  Shakespeare  now  remaining. 
Cp.  Ben  Jonson's  Alchemist. 

Note  12. — Green  and  Yellow  Dinners.    Page  113. 

Horace  Walpole,  in  a  letter  written  April  7,  1765,  describes 
a  dinner  at  Northumberland  House  at  which  he  was  present,  and 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  503 

where,  after  long  waiting,  the  guests  '  sat  down  to  a  table  for  four- 
teen covers ;  but,  instead  of  substantials,  there  was  nothing  but 
a  profusion  of  plates  striped  red,  green,  and  yellow,  gilt  plate, 
blacks,  and  uniforms !  My  Lady  Finlater,  who  had  never  seen 
these  embroidered  dinners,  nor  dined  after  three,  was  famished.' 
(See  Letters,  vi.  2121-13,  ed.  Mrs.  Paget  Toynbee.) 

George  Selwyn  also  narrates  his  experience  at  the  Fre$ich 
Ambassador* 8,  some  four  years  after  such  dinners  had  been 
ridiculed  in  She  Siaops  to  Conquer :  '  [Febntaryy  1777]  I  dined  on 
Sunday  at  the  French  Ambassadoi^s ;  a  splendid  and  wretched 
dinner,  but  good  wine  ;  a  quantity  of  dishes  which  differed  firom 
one  another  only  in  appearance  ;  they  had  all  the  same  taste,  or 
equally  wanted  it.  The  middle  piece,  the  demewranty  as  it  is 
called,  a  fine  Oriental  arcade,  which  reached  from  one  end  of  the 
table  to  the  other,  fell  in  like  a  iremblemerU  de  terre.  The  wax, 
which  cemented  the  composing  parts,  melted  like  Icarus's  wings, 
and  down  it  fell.  Seventy  bougies  occasioned  this,  with  the 
numbers  all  adding  to  the  heat  of  the  room.  I  had  a  more 
private  and  much  better  dinner  yesterday  at  Devonshire  House.' 
From  George  Sdtoyn,  his  Letters  and  his  Life,  edited  by  E.  S. 
Boscoe  and  Helen  Clergue  (London,  Fisher  Unwin,  1899,  p.  116). 

Note  13. — Royal  Mabriaoe  Act  (12  Geo.  IU),  ui.  cap.  11. 

Page  115. 

This  Act  was  passed  in  consequence  of  the  marriage  of  William 
Henry,  Duke  of  Gloucester,  the  Eling's  brother,  to  the  Dowager 
Lady  Waldegrave,  and  that  of  William  Augustus,  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  to  the  widow  of  Colonel  Horton.  The  latter  mar- 
riage was  formally  annoimced  to  George  HI,  and  duly  authenti- 
cated (see  Walpole's  Letters,  i.  p.  li,  viii.  167,  205,  and  passim). 
The  Duke  of  Gloucester  was  present  at  the  representation  on  the 
first  night  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  and  the  allusion  in  Hastings's 
speech  to  '  the  laws  of  marriage  '  in  France  directed  the  applause 
of  the  audience  to  the  Duke.  See  Forster's  Life,  Book  IV, 
chap.  xvi.  Boswell,  at  a  dirmer  at  General  Paoli's,  endeavoured 
to  obtain  from  Goldsmith  an  admission  that  the  marriage  of  the 
Duke  was  in  his  mind,  but  without  any  decided"  success.  After 
all,  it  may  have  been  a  random  shot  which  happened  to  hit  the 
mark.    That  no  offence  was  taken  at  Court  is  shown  by  the  fact 


604  APPENDIX 

that  George  TH  conmiaiided  a  perfocmaooe  oo  the  tendi  lujg^t 
of  the  play»  and  again  in  the  f  <^lowing  aeaaosL. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Johnson  strongly  disappcoved  of 
the  Royal  Marriage  Bill  (see  Boswell's  Lifty  edited  by  Dr.  Birk- 
beck  Hill,  voL  ii,  p.  152) :  '  Becanse,  said  he,  I  would  not  have 
the  people  think  that  the  validity  of  marriage  dep^ids  on  the 
will  of  man,  or  that  the  right  of  a  King  depends  <Mi  the  will  <^ 
man.  I  should  not  have  been  against  making  the  mairia^  of 
anyone  of  the  royal  family,  without  the  approbaticm  of  King  and 
Parliament,  highly  criminaL' 

A  very  curious  complication  arose  through  the  careless  drafting 
of  the  Act.  This  was  drawn  by  Mans6eld,  Thuriow,  and  Wedder- 
bume,  who  had  unluckily  made  all  parties  ptes^it  at  the  mar- 
riage gnilty  of  felony ;  and  as  nobody  could  prove  the  marriage 
except  a  person  who  had  been  present  at  it,  there  could  be  no 
prosecution,  because  nobody  present  could  be  compeDed  to  be 
a  witness.    This  put  an  end  to  the  matter. 

Note  14. — ^Inns  with  Gaixjebies.    Page  134. 

A  miniature  book  on  (Hd  English  Inns  has  been  written  by 
Mr.  George  T.  Burrows  and  published  by  Mr.  Werner  Laurie, 
which  will  be  of  use  to  the  hasty  traveller ;  but  Mr.  C.  O.  Harper, 
by  his  many  publications  on  Our  Old  Inns  and  The  Great  Main 
BoadSf  has  fairly  made  this  branch  of  the  subject  his  own.  Tbe 
illustrations  to  Mr.  Harper's  numerous  works  from  his  own  pen 
add  much  to  their  value  and  interest 

Note  16. — Ehbboideby  and  Needlework  as  occupation  fob 

Ladies.    Pages  137,  242,  251. 

There  are  several  interesting  records  in  literature  concerning 
household  industry  similar  to  that  displayed  by  Miss  Hardcastle 
and  the  Vicar's  daughters,  Olivia  and  Sophia.  Cp.  Shakespeare, 
Titus  Andronicvs,  n.  iv.  39-40 : 

Fair  Philomela,  she  but  lost  her  tongue. 
And  in  a  tedious  sampler  sew'd  her  mind. 

Midsummer  Nights  Dream,  m.  ii.  203-8 : 

We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods. 

Have  with  our  neelds  created  both  one  flower. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER  605 

Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion. 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key, 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds. 
Had  been  incorporate. 

See  also  Milton,  Comua,  750-3 : 

It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home. 
They  had  their  name  thence ;  coarse  complexions. 
And  cheeks  of  sorry  grain,  will  serve  to  ply 
The  sampler,  and  to  tease  the  housewife's  wool, 

with  the  Lady's  lofty  reply  to  this  false  reasoning. 


SCENE  FROM  '  THE  GRUMBLER  ' 

Page  173. 

Of  this  piece  little  need  be  said.  It  was  produced  for  the 
benefit  of  Quick  (to  whom  Goldsmith  was  deeply  grateful  for 
the  successful  way  in  which  he  had  acted  the  part  of  Tony 
Lumpkin)  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  May  8,  1773,  and  this 
seems  to  have  been  its  only  representation.  It  is  merely  an 
adaptation  of  Sir  Charles  Sedley's  The  Grumbler,  itself  a  transla- 
tion of  Brueys's  French  comedy,  Le  Orondeur,  The  scene  here 
given  was  first  printed  by  Prior  in  his  edition  of  1837,  and  has 
appeared  in  several  editions  of  the  plays  since  that  time,  but  it 
cannot  be  said  to  add  anything  to  Goldsmith's  reputation. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 

In  March,  1766,  the  following  advertisement  appeared  in  The 
SL  Jameses  Chronicle :  '  In  a  few  days  will  be  published,  in  two 
volumes,  twelves,  price  six  shillings  bound,  or  five  shillings 
sewed*  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  A  tale,  supposed  to  be  written 
by  himself.  Printed  for  F.  Newbery  at  the  Crown  in  Paternoster 
Row.'  On  the  27th  of  March  the  book  was  issued.  It  had  been 
practically  finished,  in  all  probability,  as  early  as  1762,  for  in  the 
account  books  kept  by  Benjamin  Collins  of  Salisbury,  Mr.  Charles 
Welsh  discovered  the  following  entry :  *  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
2  vols.  12mo,  |rd.     B.  Collins,  Salisbury,  bought  of  Dr.  Gold- 


506  appendix; 

smith,  the  author,  October  28,  1762,  £21.*  {A  BookaeUer  of  the 
Last  Century,  1885,  pp.  58-9.)  Collins,  it  will  be  observed  by 
reference  to  the  facsimile  title,  was  ultimately  the  printer  of  the 
book.  This  diacovery  has  given  rise  to  some  doubts  as  to  the 
reliance  to  be  placed  <Mi  certain  details  in  Boswell's  account 
of  Johnson's  connezicm  with  the  publication.  'Johnscm  in- 
formed me,'  says  Boswell,  *  that  he  had  made  the  bargain  for 
Groldsmith,  and  the  price  was  sixty  pounds.  ' '  And,  Sir,  (said  he), 
a  sufficient  price  too,  when  it  was  sold ;  for  ihenk  the  fame  of 
Goldsmith  had  not  been  elevated,  as  it  afterwards  was,  by  his 
Traveller ;  and  the  bookseller  had  such  faint  hopes  of  profit  by 
his  bargain,  that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by  him  a  kmg  time, 
and  did  not  publish  it  till  after  The  TravfUer  had  ai^eaiecL 
Then,  to  be  sure,  it  was  accidentally  worth  more  money." 
Mrs.  Piozzi  and  Sir  John  Hawkins  have  atningely  mis-stated  the 
history  of  Goldsmith's  situation  and  Johnscm's  friendly  inter- 
ference when  this  novel  was  sold.  I  shall  give  it  anthentica]ly 
from  Johnson's  own  exact  narration : — ^I  received  cme  moniing 
a  message  from  poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distiesB,  and 
as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  bagging  that  I  would 
cometohimassoonaspossiUe.  I  senthim  a  guinea  and  promised 
to  come  to  him  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was 
drest,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent, 
at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived  that  he  had 
already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had  got  a  bottie  of  Madeira 
and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork  in  the  bottle,  desired  he 
would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which 
he  might  be  extricated.  He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel 
ready  for  the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me.  I  kx^ced  into  it, 
and  saw  its  merit ;  told  the  landlady  I  should  socm  return,  and 
having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  sixty  pounds.  I  brov^t 
Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  witiiout 
rating  his  landlady  in  a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so  ilL'  ^ 
(BosweU's  Life,  L  415^,  ed.  Birkbeck  HiU.) 

^  A  sentence  m  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (p.  391)  furnishes  an  apt 
commentary  on  this  story :  '  The  greatest  object  in  the  univose, 
says  a  certain  philosophy',  is  a  good  man  straggling  with  adversity; 
yet  there  is  still  a  greater,  which  is  the  good  man  that  comes  to 
relieve  it.' 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  507 

To  a  certain  extent  the  entry  in  Collins's  account-book  bears  out 
Boswell's  narrative :  the  sums  of  money  are  identical,  if  we  allow 
that  '  sixty  pounds'  was  a  slip  for  '  sixty  guineas  %  or,  as  some 
say,  that  'guineas*  and  'pounds'  were  convertible  terms.  But 
are  we  to  accept  the  statement  'bought  of  Dr.  Goldsmith' 
with  literal  exactness  ?  May  it  not  have  happened  that  Johnson 
interviewed  Francis  Newbery,  nephew  of  the  '  philanthropic 
bookseller ',  John  Newbery,  and  actually  received  the  whole  of 
the  money  on  Goldsmith's  behalf  ?  Newbery  would  then  ap- 
proach Collins,  the  Salisbury  printer,  to  offer  him  a  share,  which 
seems  a  more  likely  proceeding  than  that  Johnson  or  Goldsmith 
should  do  so.  But  if  the  manuscript  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
booksellers  in  1762,  why  was  publication  deferred  until  1766  ? 
At  the  earlier  period,  it  must  be  remembered,  as  Boswell 
points  out,  that  Gc^dsmith  '  had  published  nothing  with  his 
name ' :  he  was  known  in  some  degree  as  an  essayist,  his  fame 
as  a  poet  was  not  yet.  The  booksellers,  in  thinking  the  matter 
over,  may  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Goldsmith's 
reputation  would  grow,  and  that  when  he  had  become  known  to 
the  public  by  the  issue  of  some  of  his  works  under  his  own  name 
the  novel  would  stand  a  better  chance  of  acceptance.  Even 
Johnson  was  doubtful,  as  appears  from  a  statement  made  after 
Goldsmith's  death.  '  His  Vicar  of  Wakefield,^  he  said,  '  I  myself 
did  not  think  would  have  much  success.  It  was  written  and 
sold  to  a  bookseller  before  his  Traveller,  but  published  after,  so 
little  expectation  had  the  bookseller  from  it.  Had  it  been  sold 
after  the  Traveller,  he  might  have  had  twice  as  much  money  for 
it,  though  sixty  guineas  was  no  mean  price.  The  bookseller  had 
the  advantage  of  Goldsmith's  reputation  &om  The  Traveller  ia  the 
sale,  though  Goldsmith  had  it  not  in  selling  the  copy '  {Life,  iii. 
321).  It  may  also  be  urged,  in  substantiation  of  Johnson's 
statement,  that  if  the  author  had  not  been  already  paid  for  his 
work  he  would  have  been  more  eager  to  see  it  published. 

That  the  novel  was  written  as  early  as  1762  may  be  deduced 
from  the  foUowing  facts :  (1)  The  Auditor,  which  is  spoken  of  in 
chapter  xix  as  though  living,  was  started  on  June  10,  1762,  and 
ceased  to  exist  February  8,  1763 ;  (2)  the  musical  glasses  (see 
pages  238,  242)  were  all  the  craze  in  1761-2  ;  (3)  in  chapter  xviii 
Goldsmith  speaks  of  '  the  philanthropic  bookseller  in  St.  Paul's 


508  APPENDIX 

Cburcbyaid  .  .  .  compiliiig  materiaiB  for  the  luBtofy  of  ofiie  Mr. 
Thcmas  Trip ' :  this  book  appean  on  John  Newfaery^s  list  for 
nC2 ;  (4)  Boswell  did  not  make  Johnaon's  aoqoaintanoe  imtil 
1763,  and  it  will  be  noted  that  he  does  not  teD  of  what  paased 
under  his  own  eyes,  hat '  authentically  from  Jobinacm's  own  exact 
narration  \  Additions  were  made  later  to  the  novel — such  as 
The  EermU  and  the  Elegy  <m  a  Mad  Dog ;  hot  tfaese,  admirable 
in  themselves,  were  mere  padding  to  help  the  volumes  oat  to  ibe 
required  length,  and  do  not  carry  the  story  forwaid  in  any  way. 
But  reluctant  as  all  concerned  seem  to  have  been  to  bring  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefidd  to  life,  once  published  it  began  to  make  its 
way.  Issued  on  March  27,  1766,  a  second  edition  was  called 
for  by  the  end  of  May ;  on  Ihe  25th  of  August  a  third  edition 
appeared.  There  were  also  in  the  same  year  two  unautfaoriied 
reprints-"One  at  Dublin,  the  other  at  London.  A  fourth  edition 
came  out  in  1770,  a  fifth  in  1773,  a  sixth  in  1779.  These  were  aU 
small  editions,  according  to  the  booksellers'  accounts,  so  that  the 
success  of  the  book  was  not  at  first  overwhelming.  In  1792  an 
edition  appeared  with  plates  after  Stothard's  design,  and  by  this 
time  the  twenty-second  edition  had  been  reached,  lliere  is  no 
need  to  further  enumerate  the  successive  editions  of  what  has 
proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  popular  books  of  English  literature. 
Those  interested  in  pictorial  art  may  be  referred  to  an  article  by 
Mr.  Austin  Dobson  entitled,  '  The  Vicar  of  Wakefidd  and  its 
illustrators,'  in  Side-walk  Studies,  pp.  130-47. 

The  question  has  been  asked  and  partially  answered,  *  Why  did 
Goldsmith  call  his  masterpiece  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefisld"?' 
The  place  itself  plays  only  a  small  part  in  the  story.  In  the  first 
chapter  its  name  is  merely  mentioned ;  in  chapter  ii  we  are  told 
that  there  were  three  strange  wants  there :  *  a  parson  wanting 
pride,  young  men  wanting  wives,  and  ale-houses  wanting  cus- 
tomers' ;  in  the  third  chapter  the  Vicar  and  his  family  migrate 
to  a  distant  neighbourhood.  There  is  probably  no  trace  of  any 
direct  connexion  between  Goldsmith  and  Wakefield  now  discover- 
able ;  but  Mr.  Ford  in  his  interesting  and  persuasive  article 
published  in  the  National  Review  of  May,  1883,  shows  how  the 
somewhat  puzzling  topography  may  be  accounted  for  on  the 
basis  of  Goldsmith's  own  hints  and  figures.  See  also  under 
Wakefield,  p.  484. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  60» 

SUPPRESSED  OR  ALTERED  PASSAGES 

CflAPTEB  III 

Page  204,  lines  19-22.  '  I  could  not  but  smile  •  .  .  make  us 
more  happy.'  1766  edition  reada — *  I  could  not  but  smile  to 
hear  her  talk  in  this  strain :  one  almost  at  the  verge  of  beggar^r 
thus  to  assume  language  of  the  most  insulting  affluence,  might 
excite  the  ridicule  of  ill-nature  ;  but  I  was  never  much  displeased 
with  those  innocent  delusions  that  tend  to  make  us  more  happy.*^ 

Chapter  V 

Page  212,  line  30.  After  '  for  which  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
being  laughed  at '  1766  edition  has — *  for  he  always  ascribed  to 
his  wit  that  laughter  which  was  lavished  at  his  simplicity.'  This 
may  have  been  struck  out  by  Goldsmith  from  self-conscious- 
motives,  as  the  passage  conveys  a  striking  image  of  his  own 
character  as  seen  by  his  intimates. 

Page  213,  lines  12-14.  Far  *  nor  why  Mr.  Simkins  got  the  ten 
thousand  prize  in  the  lottery,  and  we  sate  down  with  a  blank ' 
1766  edition  reada — *  nor  why  one  got  the  ten  thousand  prize  in 
the  lottery^  and  another  sate  down  with  a  blank.  *'  But  those," 
added  I,  "  who  either  aim  at  husbands  greater  than  themselves, 
or  at  the  ten  thousand  pound  prize,  have  been  fools  for  their 
ridiculous  claims,  whether  successful  or  not."  ' 

Chapter  VII 

Page  224,  lines  9-11.  After  *  The  vice  does  not  lie  in  assenting 
to  the  proofs  they  see  ;  but  in  being  blind  to  many  of  the  proofs 
that  offer '  1766  has — *  Like  corrupt  judges  on  a  bench,  they 
determine  right  on  that  part  of  the  evidence  they  hear ;  but 
they  will  not  hear  all  the  evidence.    Thus,  my  son,  though,  &c.' 

Chapter  XV 

Page  275,  lines  30-3.  '  Thus  my  children  .  . .  still  remaining.' 
1766  edition  reada — ^  Thus,  my  children,  after  men  have  travelled 
through  a  few  stages  in  vice,  they  no  longer  continue  to  have 
shame  at  doing  evil,  and  shame  attends  only  upon  their  virtues.*' 


610  APPENDIX 

Chapter  XVI 

Page  277,  lines  18-19.  For  *  in  the  composition  of  a  pudding, 
it  was  her  judgment  that  mixed  the  ingredients  *  1766  edition 
reads  '  in  the  composition  of  a  pudding,  her  judgment  was 
infallible.' 

Chapter  XXVm 

Page  377,  lines  31  -2.  After  *  I  must  suffer,  my  life  is  forfeited, 
and  let  them  take  it '  1766  edition  adds — '  it  is  my  last  happiness 
that  I  have  conmiitted  no  murder,  tho*  I  have  lost  all  hopes  of 
pardon.' 

Page  378,  lines  34  seq.  For  '  I  have  sent  a  challenge,  and  as 
I  am  the  first  transgressor  upon  the  statute,  I  see  no  hopes  of 
pardon '  1766  edition  reads — '  I  have  sent  a  challenge,  and  that 
is  death  by  a  late  act  of  parliament.' 

Mr.  Burchell  might  here  have  'ingeminated'  Fudge  with  good 
reason  ;  there  was  no  such  enactment  on  the  statute-book.  See 
Note  26. 

Other  Imputed  Sxtppressions. 

Johnson,  in  conversation  with  Boswell,  mentions  other  passages 
as  having  been  deleted : — 

*  Johnson.  I  remember  a  passage  in  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of 
Wakefieldf  which  he  was  afterwards  fool  enough  to  expunge: 
"  I  do  not  love  a  man  who  is  zealous  for  nothing."  Boswell. 
That  was  a  fine  passage.  Johnson.  Yes,  Sir:  There  was 
another  fine  passage  too,  which  he  struck  out :  "  When  I  was 
a  young  man,  being  anxious  to  distinguish  myself,  I  was  per- 
petually starting  new  propositions.  But  I  soon  gave  this  over ; 
for,  I  found  that  generally  what  was  new  was  false."  '  (Boswell's 
Life,  iii.  375-6,  ed.  Birkbeck  Hill.) 

With  respect  to  the  second  instance  Johnson's  memory  (he 
was  speaking  in  1779)  may  have  misled  him,  for  the  same  thought 
occurs,  in  rather  different  words,  in  chapter  xx,  pp.  310-11. 

Note  16. — Goldsmith  and  Dr.  Whiston,    Page  193. 

William  Whiston,  from  whom  Goldsmith  borrowed  several 
traits — ^more  especially  as  regards  the  Vicar's  views  on  mono- 
gamy in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield — and  who  was  a  thorn  in  the  side 
of  many  authOTities,  ecclesiastical,  scientific,  and  academical. 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  511 

during  his  stormy  life  played  many  parts,  and  stirred  up  many 
hornets'  nests.  In  the  Memoirs  of  his  Life  and  Writings  written 
by  himself  (London,  ed.  2,  1749),  he  expresses  his  views  on 
monogamy  and  other  subjects  with  a  plain-spoken  asperity 
which  can  scarcely  have  faOed  to  raise  him  up  many  powerful 
enemies,  as  did  Dr.  Primrose  when  he  trampled  Mr.  Wilmot 
under  foot,  and  would  not  allow  him  to  be  a  husband  in  any 
sense  of  the  word.  The  pith  of  the  Vicar's  remarks  on  mono- 
gamy, by  which  he  meant  in  brief  the  remarriage  of  a  clergyman 
of  the  Church  of  England,  will  be  found  at  p.  540  of  Whiston's 
Memoirs,  At  p.  197  there  is  an  obvious  reference  to  Archbishop 
Tenison's  harsh  treatment  of  hun,  likewise  mentioned  in  The 
Vicar  (p.  265)  in  almost  identical  terms.  Sir  Leslie  Stephen 
contributed  a  full  life  of  Whiston  to  volume  Ixi  of  the  Dictionary 
of  National  Biography.  Whiston  identified  the  Lost  Ten  Tribes 
with  the  Tartars;  claimed  to  have. identified  Mary  Tofts,  the 
*'  rabbit  woman ',  with  the  woman  mentioned  in  the  book  of 
Esdras ;  claimed  to  have  predicted  an  earthquake  of  about  the 
same  date  ;  and  assured  Prince  Eugene  on  the  general's  famous 
visit  to  Queen  Anne  that  he  had  fulfilled  some  of  the  prophecies 
of  the  Apocalypse,  whereto  the  Prince  replied  that  '  he  had  not 
been  aware  that  he  had  the  honour  of  being  known  to  St.  John  '. 
It  is  only  fair  to  the  Prince  to  say  that  he  presented  Dr.  Whiston 
with  an  honorarium  of  fifteen  guineas  in  recognition  of  the 
*  dedication  of  his  first  imperfect  Essay  on  the  Revelation  of 
St.  John '. 

Whiston  was  buried  near  his  wife,  who  died  in  January,  1750-1, 
at  Lyndon,  Rutlandshire.  I  have  not  found  any  record  of  the 
alleged  inscription  on  her  tomb  ( Vicar  of  Wakefield,  p.  193) ;  it 
is,  no  doubt,  a  simple  fabrication  of  Goldsmith's,  who  is  fond  of 
similar  mystifications,  even  when  they  can  be  dismissed  by  a 
moment's  comparison  of  facts.  Whiston  is  now  remembered 
chiefly,  if  at  all,  by  his  translation  of  Josephus,  now  itself  happily 
superseded  by  that  of  Prof.  Margoliouth.  His  Memoirs  still 
retain  distinct  value  as  a  picture  of  the  state  of  religion  and 
manners  in  the  seventeenth  and  early  eighteenth  centuries. 
Whiston's  learning  was  certainly  vast  in  bulk  and  many-sided, 
but  he  lacked  conmion-sense  and  critical  power,  so  that  very 
few  of  his  numerous  writings  can  be  read  to-day.     The  trail  of 


612  APPENDIX 

forgotten  contaroverBies  k  over  ihem  all;  but  it  is  not  amiss 
perhaps  that  a  few  readers  should  now  and  then  linger  over  their 
dusty  pages.  He  would  doubtless  have  been  a  far  happier  man 
if  he  had  abjured  his  own  strange  theology  for  the  mathematical 
studies  in  which  he  might  have  made  a  great  and  unassailable 
reputation. 

NoTs  17. — Johnny  Abmstronq's  Last  Good-Nioht.   Page  207. 

Groldsmith  more  than  once  shows  his  ke^i  regard  for  this  old 
ballad.  *  The  music  ol  the  most  aceom^^ished  singer,'  he  says 
in  his  Essays, '  is  dissonance  to  ^at  I  felt  when  an  old  dairymaid 
sang  me  into  tears  with  Johnnie  Arm8irong*s  Last  Qood-Night.' 
The  verses  are  said  to  have  been  composed  by  one  of  the  Arm- 
strongs, executed  fcnr  the  murder  of  Sir  John  Carmiehael  of 
Edrom,  Warden  of  the  Middle  Marches.  Two  stanzas  are  printed 
by  Scott  in  The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border  (vol.  ii,  p.  123) : — 

This  night  is  my  departing  night. 

For  here  nae  langer  must  I  stay ; 
There  *s  neither  friend  nor  foe  o'  mine 

But  whes  me  away. 

What  I  have  done  thro'  lack  of  wit 

I  never,  never  can  recall; 
I  hope  ye're  a'  my  friends  as  yet; 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  with  you  all ! 

Note  18. — ^Two  Lovebs  stbuck  dbad  by  Liohtning.  Page  226. 

The  story  of  '  the  two  lovers  so  sweetly  described  by  JMfr.  Gay, 
who  were  struck  dead  in  each  other's  arms '  was  told  by  Gay 
in  a  letter  to  Mr.  F[ortescue],  written  from  Stanton  Harcourt, 
where  he  was  staying  with  Pope,  on  August  9, 1718,  and  published 
in  1737.     It  runs  thus  in  Pope's  Works,  viii.  115,  ed.  1751 :— 

*  The  only  news  that  you  can  expect  to  have  from  me  here,  is  M 
news  from  heaven,  for  I  am  quite  out  of  the  world,  and  there  is 
scarce  any  thing  can  reach  me  except  the  noise  of  thunder, 
which  undoubtedly  you  have  heard  too.  .  .  A  cock  of  barley  in 
our  next  field  has  been  burned  to  ashes.  Would  to  God  that 
this  heap  of  barley  had  been  all  that  perished !  for  unhappily 
beneath  this  little  shelter  sat  two  more  such  constant  lovers  than 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD  515 

ever  were  tound  in  Romance  under  the  shade  of  a  beech  tree. 
John  Hewet  was  a  well-set  man  of  about  five  and  twenty.  Savah 
Drew  might  be  called  rather  comely  than  beautiful,  and  was 
about  the  same  age.  They  had  passed  thro*  the  various  labours 
of  the  years  together,  with  the  greatest  satisfaction ;  if  she 
milk'd,  'twas  hicr  morning  and  evening  care,  to  bring  the  cows  to 
her  hand ;  it  was  but  last  fair  he  bought  her  a  present  of  green 
eilk  for  her  hat,  and  the  posies  on  her  silver  ring  wa«  of  his 
chusing.  .  .  It  was  that  very  morning  that  he  had  obtained  the 
consent  of  her  parents,  and  it  was  but  till  the  next  week  that 
they  were  to  be  happy.  Perhaps  in  the  intervals  of  their  work 
they  were  now  talking  of  the  wedding  cloaths.  .  .  .  While  they 
were  thus'busied,  (it  was  on  the  last  day  of  July  between  two  or 
three  in  the  afternoon)  the  clouds  grew  bleick,  and  such  a  storm  of 
thunder  and  lightning  ensued,  that  all  the  labourers  made  the 
best  of  their  way  to  what  shelter  the  trees  and  hedges  afforded. 
Sarah  was  frightened,  and  fell  down  in  a  swoon  on  a  heap  of 
barley.  John,  who  never  separated  from  her,  sat  down  by  her 
side,  having  raked  together  two  or  three  heaps,  the  better  to 
secure  her  from  the  storm.  Immediately  there  was  heard  so 
loud  a  crack,  as  if  heaven  had  split  asunder ;  every  one  was  now 
BoHcitous  for  the  safety  of  his  neighbour,  and  called  to  one 
another  throughout  the  field.  No  answer  being  returned  to  those 
who  called  for  our  Lovers,  they  stept  to  the  place  where  they 
lay ;  they  perceived  the  barley  in  a  smoke,  and  then  spied  this 
faithful  pair :  John  with  one  arm  about  Sarah's  neck,  and  the 
other  held  over  her,  as  to  skreen  her  from  lightning.  They  were 
-struck  dead,  and  stiffened  in  this  tender  posture.  .  .  My  Lord 
Harcourt,  at  Mr.  Pope's  and  my  request,  has  caused  a  stone  to 
he  placed  over  them,  upon  condition  that  we  fumish'd  the 
Epitaph,  which  is  as  foUows : — 

When  Eastern  lovers  feed  the  fun'ral  fire, 
On  the  same  pile  their  faithful  fair  expire: 
Here  pitying  Heav'n  that  virtue  mutual  found. 
And  blasted  both,  that  it  might  neither  wound. 
Hearts  so  sincere  th'  Almighty  saw  well  pleas'd. 
Sent  his  own  lightning,  and  the  victims  seiz'd. 

But    my  Lord  is  apprehensive  the  country  people   will   not 
xmderstand  this,  and  Mr.  Pope  tsayn  he'll  make  one  with  some- 

OOLDBlflTn    II  S 


614  APPENDIX 

thing  of  Scripture  in  it,  and  with  as  little  of  poetry  as  Stemhold 
and  Hopkins.' 

The  Epitaph  which  Pope  wrote  was  this  : — 

Near  this  place  lie  the  bodies  of 

John  Hewbt  and  Sarah  Drew, 

an  industrious  young  Man 

and  Virtuous  Maiden  of  this  Parish ; 

Who  being  at  Harvest- Work 

(with  several  others) 

Were  in  one  instant  killed  by  Lightning 

the  last  day  of  July  1718. 

It  would  appear  that  the  letter  was  written  jointly  by  Gay  and 
Pope,  as  the  latter,  with  very  little  variation,  told  the  same  tale 
in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Mary  Blount,  dated  August  6, 1718,  three  days 
before  Gay*s  letter.  Pope  also  told  the  story  in  nearly  identical 
language  to  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague  on  September  1, 1718, 
sending  the  poetical  inscription  as  in  Gay's  letter,  and  adding: 
the  following : — 

I 

Think  not,  by  rig'rous  judgment  seiz'd, 

A  pair  so  faithful  could  expire; 
Victims  so  pure  Heav'n  saw,  well  plea&'d. 

And  snatch'd  them  in  celestial  fire. 

n 
Live  well,  and  fear  no  sudden  fate ; 

When  God  calls  virtue  to  the  grave. 
Alike  'tis  justice,  soon  or  late, 

Mercy  alike  to  kill  or  save. 
Virtue  unmov'd  can  hear  the  call. 
And  face  the  flash  that  melts  the  balL 

Pope  adds,  '  Of  the  epitaphs  which  I  made,  the  critics  have* 
chosen  the  godly  one :  I  like  neither  . . .  Upon  the  whole,  I  cannot 
think  these  people  unhappy.  The  greatest  happiness,  next  to- 
living  as  they  would  have  done,  was  to  die  as  they  did.' 

Thackeray,  in  his  Lectures  an  the  English  Humourists  (Lecture 
IV :   Prior,  Gay,  and  Pope),  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Gay'a 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  615 

letter  was  the  original,  and  that '  the  great  Mr.  Pope  admired  it  so 
much  that  he  thought  proper  to  steal  it ' ;  but  it  is  clear  from 
a  letter  written  to  Pope  by  Lord  Bathurst  on  August  14,  1718 
(first  published  in  Elwin  and  Courthope's  Pope^a  WorkSy  viii.  324), 
that  it  was  a  joint  production,  for  the  writer  acknowledges  the 
receipt  of  the  story  in  these  words:  *I  must  now  return  my 
thanks  to  Mr.  Gay  and  you  for  your  melancholy  novel  you  sent 
me  of  the  two  unhappy  lovers  ;  but  why  unhappy  after  all  ?  . . . 
I  will  only  say  that  their  names  would  never  have  been  recorded 
to  posterity  but  for  this  accident.' 

Note  19. — Musical  Glasses.    Pages  238,  242. 

The  power  of  producing  musical  sounds  from  glass  basins  or 
drinking-glasses  by  the  application  of  the  moistened  finger,  and 
of  tuning  them  so  as  to  obtain  concords  from  two  at  once,  was 
known  as  early  as  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Gluck, 
when  in  England,  played  at  the  Little  Theatre  in  the  Haymarket, 
1746,  a  concerto  on  26  drinking  glasses  tuned  with  spring  water. 
Horace  Walpole,  writing  to  Sir.  H.  Mann  (March  28,  1746),  says : 
*  He  [Gluck]  is  to  have  a  benefit,  at  which  he  is  to  play  on  a  set 
of  drinking-glasses,  which  he  modulates  with  water'  (Letters, 
ii.  184).  But  it  was  not  imtil  1761  and  1762  that  musical  glasses 
became  a  craze  of  *  genteel '  life.  Private  letters  and  newspapers 
teem  with  references  to  them  at  that  date.  Thus  Gray  to  Mason 
(December  8,  1761),  *  Dear  Mason, — Of  all  loves  come  to  Cam- 
bridge out  of  hand,  for  here  is  Mr.  Delaval  and  a  charming  set 
of  glasses  that  sing  like  nightingales  ;  and  we  have  concerts  every 
other  night,  and  shall  stay  here  this  month  or  two.'  See  Gray's 
Letters,  ed.  Tovey,  ii.  246  note ;  also  Thomas  Campbell,  A  PhUo- 
sophical  Survey  of  the  SotUh  of  Ireland,  in  a  series  of  Letters  to 
John  Watkinson,  M.D.,  p.  452 ;  and  the  article  on  Pockrich  in 
the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  For  further  information 
on  the  scientific  side,  see  Grove's  Dictioruiry  of  Music,  ii.  296  (ed. 
1906),  s.v.  Harmonica. 

The  same  idea  had  occurred  to  the  Chinese  hundreds  of  years 
before  this  time.  Musical  cups  were  known  to  them  in  the  tenth 
century  a.d.  They  put  a  greater  or  less  quantity'  of  water  in 
each,  and  thus  produced  modulation. 


516  APPENDIX 

Note  20. — Cutting  Paper.    Page  251. 

As  an  additional  illustration  to  this  once  fashionable  custom 
the  following  poem  by  Pope  is  given : — 

On  the  Countess  of  Burlington  cutting  paper. 

Pallas  grew  vapourish  once,  and  odd. 

She  would  not  do  the  least  right  thing. 
Either  for  goddess  or  for  god, 

Nor  work,  nor  play,  nor  paint,  nor  sing. 

Jove  frown'd,  and  *  Use,'  he  cried,  *  those  eyes 

So  skilful,  and  those  hands  so  taper ; 
Do  something  exquisite  and  wise — ' 

She  bow'd,  obey'd  him, — and  cut  paper. 

This  vexing  him  who  gave  her  birth. 

Thought  by  all  heaven  a  burning  shame; 

What  does  she  next,  but  bids  on  earth 
Her  Burlington  do  just  the  same. 

Pallas,  you  give  yourself  strange  airs ; 

But  sure  you'll  find  it  hard  to  spoil 
The  sense  and  taste  of  one  that  bears 

The  name  of  Saville  and  of  Boyle. 

Alas !  one  bad  example  shown ; 

How  quickly  all  the  sex  pursue ! 
See,  madam,  see  the  arts  overthrown 

Between  John  Overton*  and  you. 

Note  21.— The  Fear  op  Mad  Dogs.     Pages  286-7. 

Notwithstanding  the  ridicule  which  Goldsmith  poured  upon 
those  who  stood  in  dread  of  mad  dogs,  both  in  this  Elegy  and  in 
his  paper  on  the  subject  in  the  PvMic  Ledger  for  August  29,  1760 
(afterwards  reprinted  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World)^  people  still  went    m 
in  fear  of  hydrophobia,  an  example  of  which  appears  in  Oeorgt   ^ 
Selioyn's  Letters  (ed.  Roscoe  and  Clergue,  1899),  pp.  274^5  : — 

'  [1790,  August  12,  Richmond]  Now  d  d'autres  choses.  I  have 
yfi  my  last  fright  forgot  one  where  there  were  better  grounds  for 
it.     The  day  I  wrote  to  you  last,  as  you  know,  I  was  at  Isle  worth. 

^  Principal  vendor  of  mezzotints  of  his  day  {D.N.B.). 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD  517 

CcMEning  from  thence,  and  when  I  landed,  the  first  thing  I  heard 
was  that  people  with  guns  were  in  pursuit  of  a  mad  dog,  that  he 
had  run  into  the  Duke-s  garden.  Mie  Mie  [Maria  Fagniani]  came 
the  first  naturally  into  my  thoughts ;  she  is  there  sometimes 
by  herself  reading.  My  impatience  to  get  home,  and  uneasiness 
till  I  found  that  she  was  safe  and  in  her  room,  n^est  pas  a  concevoir. 
The  dog  bit  several  other  dogs,  a  bluecoat  boy,  and  two  children, 
before  he  was  destroyed.  John  St.  John,  who  dined  with  me, 
had  met  him  in  a  narrow  lane,  near  Mrs.  Boverie's,  him  and  his 
pursuers.  John  had  for  his  defence  a  stick,  with  a  heavy  handle. 
He  struck  him  with  this,  and  for  the  moment  got  clear  of  him ; 
il  Va  CtilhtUe,  It  is  really  dreadful ;  for  ten  days  to  come  we  shall 
be  in  a  terror,  not  knowing  what  dogs  may  have  been  bitten. 
Some  may  now  have  le  cerveau  qui  commence  a  se  trovbler,^ 

Note  22. — The  Levellers.    Page  301.    . 

Clarendon,  in  his  History  of  the  Rebelliony  x.  140,  thus  speaks 
of  the  Agitators,  a  name  given  to  the  agents  or  delegates  of  the 
private  soldiers  in  the  Parliamentary  army  of  1647-9 :  '  They 
entered  into  new  associations,  and  made  many  propositions  to 
their  officers  and  to  the  Parliament  to  introduce  an  equality  into 
all  conditions,  and  a  parity  amongst  all  men  ;  from  whence  they 
had  the  appellation  of  LeveUers,* 

Goldsmith  does  not  seem  to  have  altogether  grasped  the  aims 
and  intentions  of  the  Levellers.  Mr.  Alfred  Beesley,  in  his 
admirable  History  of  Banbury,  reprints  a  pamphlet  containing 
the  Levellers'  Declaration,  which  gives  a  summary  of  their  pro- 
gramme. It  is  entitled :  '  England's  Standard  Advanced  in 
Oxfordshire,  or  a  declaration  from  Mr.  Wil.  Thomson,  and  the 
oppressed  People  of  this  Nation  now  under  his  conduct  in  the 
said  County.  Dated  at  their  Randez-vous  May  6, 164d.  Where- 
unto  is  added  an  Agreement  of  the  Free  People  of  England,  as 
the  Grounds  of  their  Resolutions.  Printed  in  the  Yeer  1649.' 
In  this,  the  Levellers  enumerated  the  wrongs  under  which  the 
nation  suffered,  calling  upon  all  who  had  any  sense  of  the  bonds 
and  miseries  of  the  people  '  to  help  a  miserable  nation  to  break 
the  bands  of  cruelty,  and  set  the  people  free  '. 

On  Friday,  May  11,  the  House  took  into  consideration  the 
*  business  of  the  Levellers '  and  declared  Thomson's  adherents 


*-«  • 


518  APPENDIX 

rebels  and  traitors.  On  Saturday,  May  12,  it  was  reported  that 
'  It  hath  pleased  God  to  bring  this  great  Babble  of  the  Levellers 
about  Banbury  to  a  sudden  breaking,  and  that  Thomson  had 
escaped  with  a  party  of  about  300.'  The  end  of  the  abortive 
rising  was  that  Capt.  Thomson  was  taken  prisoner  and  shot 
together  with  his  brother,  whereon  tiie  insurrection  collapsed. 
The  two  Thomsons  were  shot  in  Burfoid  churchyard,  having 
refused  quarter. 

With  these  documents  should  be.  compared  the  correspondence 
of  the  Levellers  with  Charles  II  in  1656,  through  their  spokesman, 
William  Howard  (printed  in  Macray's  edition  of  Clarendon's 
History  of  the  Rebellion^  vol.  vi,  pp.  67  seq.),  one  sentence  of  which 
will  serve  to  show  its  general  purport.  It  runs:  'What  can  we 
do  more  worthy  of  Englishmen,  as  we  are  by  nation,  or  of  Chris- 
tians,  as  we  are  by  profession,  thap  every  one  of  us  to  put  our 
hand  to  an  oar,  and  try  if  it  be  the  -will  of  our  God  that  such 
weak  instruments  as  we  inay  be  in  any  measure  helpful  to  bring 
it  at  last  into  the  safe  and  quiet  harbour  of  justice  and  righteous- 
ness ! ' 

NoTB  23.— Eastern  Tales.    Page  313. 

A  very  valuable  contribution  to  the  History  of  the  Oriental  Tale 
in  England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century  has  been  made  recently 
by  Miss  Martha  Pike  Conant,  Ph.D.,  of  the  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, U.S.A.  This  interesting  book  may  be  cordially  recom- 
mended to  all  students  of  Goldsmith,  especially  of  that  phase  of 
his  work  in  which  he  was  so  deeply  interested — possibly  in  spite 
of  hiinself — in  tales  more  or  less  oriental.  Miss  Conant  has  dealt 
with  the  subject  very  sympathetically,  and  her  book  will  interest 
many  readers  in  England  as  well  as  in  the  United  States. 

Note  24. — Philautos,  Philalethes,  &c.     Page  313. 

The  Catalogues  of  the  Bodleian  and  other  great  Lilffaries  teem 
with  such  strange  compounds  as  those  here  glanced  at  by  Gold- 
smith, and  many  others  like  them.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting 
among  those  enumerated  is  a  work  by  Etigenius  PhUalethes 
(Thomas  Vaughan),  entitled  The  Man-Mouse  taken  in  a  Trap, 
and  tortured  to  death  for  gnamng  the  Margins  of  Eugenim 
Philalethes  (1650).  This  book  is  a  reply  to  Dr.  Moore,  who  is 
styled  in  the  Dedication  '  a  simple  Bedlam ',  '  a  certain  Master 


4 


THE  ViCAii  OF  WAKEFIELD  519 

of  Arts  of  Cambridge ',  and  '  a  Poet  in  the  Loll  and  Trot  of 
Spencer',  *a  very  Elf  in  Philosophie '. 

Note  25. — Pickering  as  the  supposed  scene  of  Dr.  Primrose's 

Imprisonment.     Page  353. 

Visitors  to  Pickering,  which  has  been  suggested  as  the  site> 
of  the  prison  which  was  the  scene  of  the  Vicar's  sufferings  and 
final  triumph  over  his  enemies,  may  be  safely  advised  to  read  The 
Evolution  of  an  English  Towny  by  Gordon  Home  (Methuen  &  Co.). 
This  book  contains  much  information  as  to  the  peculiarly  rich  folk- 
lore of  the  district  and  the  history  of  the  Castle  and  Vale  of 
Pickering,  together  with  many  other  interesting  details,  including 
a  sketch-map  of  the  district.  A  sketch  of  the  Black  Hole  of 
Thomton-le-Dale  shows  an  underground  cell  beneath  some 
cottages  which  was  formerly  the  village  prison,  and  has  been 
supposed  to  have  shelter^'  the  Vicar  and  his  family.  See  an 
article  by  Mr.  Edward  Ford  in  the  National  Review  for  May,  1883. 

Note  26.— Duelling.    Pages  378,  391. 

The  statement  of  George  Primrose,  that  by  sending  a  challenge 
to  'Squire  Thomhill  he  had  laid  himself  open  to  the  extreme 
punishment  of  the  law,  has  no  real  warrant  in  fact.  Curiously^ 
a  similar  statement  is  made  by  Sheridan  in  The  Rivals  (Act  v, 
sc.  1),  where  Faulkner  exclaims  to  Julia,  '  You  see  before  you 
a  wretch,  whose  life  is  forfeited, . .  I  left  you  fretful  and  passionate 
— an  untoward  event  drew  me  into  a  quarrel — the  event  is,  that 
I  must  fly  this  kingdom  instantly.'  The  law  on  the  subject  at 
that  time  is  thus  stated  in  Bum's  Law  Dictionary  (ed.  1792) : — 

'  Although  upon  the  single  combat  no  death  ensue,  nor  blood 
be  drawn,  yet  the  very  combat  for  revenge  is  an  afifray,  and  a 
great  breach  of  the  king's  peace ;  an  affright  and  terror  to  the 
king's  subjects  ;  and  is  to  be  punished  by  fine  and  imprisonment, 
and  to  find  sureties  for  the  good  behaviour.     3  Inst.  157. 

'  And  where  one  party  kills  the  other  it  comes  within  the 
notion  of  murder,  as  being  committed  by  malice  aforethought ; 
where  the  parties  meet  avowedly  with  an  intent  to  murder, 
thinking  it  their  duty,  as  gentlemen,  and  claiming  it  as  their 
right,  to  wanton  with  their  own  lives,  and  the  lives  of  others, 
without  any  warrant  for  it,  either  human  and  divine ;    and