The Vicar of Wakefield (21 page)

In this situation, man has called in the friendly assistance 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 comforts, 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 consolations
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 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 religion
every where 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
unceasing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the
miserable. 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 smooths the passage there. The wretched have had a long
familiarity with every face of terror. The man of sorrow 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 constitution, nature kindly covers
with insensibility.

Thus providence has given the wretched two advantages 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 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 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 philosophy 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
hereafter, 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 advantage, 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 sooth the wants of nature, can give elastic
sweetness to the dank vapour of a dungeon, or ease to 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! Death is slight,
and any man may sustain it; but torments are dreadful, and these no
man can endure.

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 shew 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, O 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 carrol 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 staff 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 certainly 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 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 the weary traveller with
the view, and like his horizon, still flies before him; yet the
time will certainly and shortly come, when we shall cease from our
toil; when the luxurious great ones of the world shall no more
tread us to the earth; when we shall think with pleasure on our
sufferings 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.

Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and
fortune will at last change in our favour

When I had thus finished and my audience was retired, the
gaoler, who was one of the most humane of his profession, hoped I
would not be displeased, 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 revisit 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.

I again, therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sate
by my bedside reading, when Mr Jenkinson entering, informed me that
there was news of my daughter; for that she was seen by a person
about two hours 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 scarce 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 delivered 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, pappa,' 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
undone me.'

'It is impossible,' replied Mr Burchell, 'that I should forgive
you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your
delusion then, and as it was out of my power to restrain, I could
only pity it!'

'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 exclamations
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, 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
compassion, 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 mortifying
refusal, and without the least reply to my offer, he demanded if we
could not be furnished with refreshments 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. 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
tho' 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 cheerfulness by
the relation. But it was in vain that I attempted to appear
chearful, the circumstances of my unfortunate son broke through all
efforts to dissemble; so that I was at last obliged 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 astonishment 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 deliverer: 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.'