The Vicar of Wakefield (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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