The Vicar of Wakefield (20 page)

Mr Jenkinson interupted 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 exprest 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 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 that oppresses me. He can at once be facetious
and cruel; but let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in
spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an
abode that looks brighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers
my afflictions, and though I leave an helpless 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 mister, tho' 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 children when I shall be no
more.' 'We have indeed lost,' returned she, 'a darling child. My
Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us, carried off by
ruffians!'

'How madam,' cried my fellow prisoner, 'Miss Sophia carried off
by villains, sure it cannot be?'

She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears.
But one of the prisoners' wives, who was present, and came in with
her, gave us a more distinct account: she informed us that as my
wife, my daughter, and herself, 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 Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the
waist, and forcing her in, bid the postillion drive on, so that
they were out of sight in a moment.

'Now,' cried I, 'the sum of my misery 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! 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 comfort
shut out; while all our bright prospects only lie beyond 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 lieutenancy 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 really 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 bitterness 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 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:—

Honoured Sir,—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 little fire-side at home. My
fancy draws that harmless groupe as listening to every line 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 himself my friend, takes me with him to
all companies where he is acquainted, and after my first visit I
generally find myself 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 purpose. Olivia and Sophia too, promised to write,
but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little
baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent passion with
them: yet still, I know not how, tho' 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
supporter 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 compassion 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 find 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 an
intrepid voice. 'I must suffer, my life is forfeited, and let them
take it.'

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence,
but I thought I should have died with the effort—'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 lived 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 unpardonable 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 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 permitted 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 according
to my direction, for they loved to hear my council, 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.

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

My friends, my children, and fellow sufferers, when I reflect on
the distribution of good and evil here 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
have nothing left to wish for; but we daily see thousands who by
suicide shew us they have nothing left to hope. 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 of 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.