The Vicar of Wakefield (5 page)

'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, pappa,' replied Olivia,
'she does not: I have read a great deal of controversy. I have read
the disputes between Thwackum and Square; the controversy between
Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and I am now employed in
reading the controversy 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.'

An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be
productive of much

The next morning we were again visited by Mr Burchell, though I
began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of
his return; but I could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It
is true his labour more than requited his entertainment; for he
wrought among us with vigour, and either in the meadow or at the
hay-rick put himself foremost. Besides, he had always 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,
hers 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 redbreast 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 contributed 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
reprehend 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.'

'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To
where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray.

'For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and
slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I
go.'

'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'To tempt the dangerous
gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy
doom.

'Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; And
tho' my portion is but scant, I give it with good will.

'Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch, and frugal fare, My blessing and repose.

'No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn:
Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them.

'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.

'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are
wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little
long.'

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to
the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket opening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The
hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store, And gayly prest, and smil'd; And
skill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil'd.

Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The
cricket chirrups in the hearth; The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spy'd, With answering care opprest:
'And whence, unhappy youth,' he cry'd, 'The sorrows of thy
breast?

'From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove; Or
grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love?

'Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And
those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than
they.

'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?

'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.

'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.

Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient
too.

The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms.

'And, ah,'forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,' she cry'd;
'Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude Where heaven and you
reside.

'But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

'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.

'To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who
prais'd me for imputed charms, And felt or feign'd a flame.

'Each hour a mercenary crowd, With richest proffers strove:
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

'In humble simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me.

'The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin'd,
Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind.

'The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but woe to me, Their constancy was mine.

'For still I try'd each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And
while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain.

'Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And
sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died.

'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.

'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.'

'Forbid it heaven!' the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his
breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self
that prest.

'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see, Thy own,
thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee.

'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.

'No, never, from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that tends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's
too.'

While this ballad was reading, 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 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 entertained 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
Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, and intended that
night giving the young ladies a ball by moon-light, on the
grass-plot before our door. 'Nor can I deny,' continued 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 gentleman,' looking at Mr Burchell, 'who has been my
companion 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
conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest, could thus prefer a
man of broken fortunes 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.

Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior finery ever
seems to confer superior breeding

Mr Burchell had scarce taken leave, and Sophia consented to
dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came running out to
tell us that the 'Squire was come, with a crowd of company. Upon
our return, we found our landlord, with a couple of under gentlemen
and two young ladies richly drest, whom he introduced as 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 positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of
disapprobation from my wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to
borrow a couple of chairs; and as we were in want 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 gentlemen returned with my neighbour Flamborough's
rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots, but an unlucky
circumstance was not adverted to; though the Miss Flamboroughs were
reckoned the very best 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 Miss 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 sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse
manner, when she observed, that by the living jingo, she was all of
a muck of sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very
elegant cold supper, which Mr Thornhill 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 fashionable 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, (tho' I am since informed that
swearing 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
appeared 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 her 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 Thornhill, '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 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.'