ROXANA
[Illustration: _I was rich, beautiful, and agreeable, and not yet old_
PAGE 244]
The Cripplegate Edition
THE WORKS OF DANIEL DEFOE
THE FORTUNATE MISTRESS
OR A HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE DE BELEAU
KNOWN BY THE NAME OF THE LADY ROXANA
NEW YORK · · _MCMVIII_
GEORGE D. SPROUL
_Copyright, 1904, by_ THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ROXANA _Frontispiece_
THE BREWER AND HIS MEN _Page_ 12
THE JEWELLER IS ABOUT TO LEAVE FOR VERSAILLES 74
THE VISIT OF THE PRINCE 90
THE DUTCH MERCHANT CALLS ON ROXANA. 286
THE AMOUR DRAWS TO AN END 302
ROXANA'S DAUGHTER AND THE QUAKER 479
ROXANA IS CONFRONTED WITH HER DAUGHTER 534
INTRODUCTION
In March, 1724, was published the narrative in which Defoe came, perhaps
even nearer than in _Moll Flanders_, to writing what we to-day call a
novel, namely: _The Fortunate Mistress; or, a History of the Life and
Vast Variety of Fortunes of Mademoiselle de' Belau; afterwards called
the Countess of Wintelsheim, in Germany. Being the Person known by the
name of the Lady Roxana, in the Time of King Charles II_. No second
edition appeared till after Defoe's death, which occurred in 1731. Then
for some years, various editions of _The Fortunate Mistress_ came out.
Because Defoe had not indicated the end of his chief characters so
clearly as he usually did in his stories, several of these later
editions carried on the history of the heroine. Probably none of the
continuations was by Defoe himself, though the one in the edition of
1745 has been attributed to him. For this reason, and because it has
some literary merit, it is included in the present edition.
That this continuation was not by Defoe is attested in various ways. In
the first place, it tells the history of Roxana down to her death in
July, 1742, a date which Defoe would not have been likely to fix, for
he died himself in April, 1731. Moreover, the statement that she was
sixty-four when she died, does not agree with the statement at the
beginning of Defoe's narrative that she was ten years old in 1683. She
must have been born in 1673, and consequently would have been sixty-nine
in 1742. This discrepancy, however, ceases to be important when we
consider the general confusion of dates in the part of the book
certainly by Defoe. The title-page announces that his heroine was "known
by the name of the Lady Roxana, in the Time of King Charles II." She
must have been known by this name when she was a child of eleven or
twelve, then, for she was ten when her parents fled to England "about
1683," and Charles II. died in February, 1685. Moreover, she was not
married till she was fifteen; she lived eight years with her husband;
and then she was mistress successively to the friendly jeweller, the
Prince, and the Dutch merchant. Yet after this career, she returned to
London in time to become a noted toast among Charles II.'s courtiers and
to entertain at her house that monarch and the Duke of Monmouth.
A stronger argument for different authorship is the difference in style
between the continuation of _Roxana_ and the earlier narrative. In the
continuation Defoe's best-known mannerisms are lacking, as two instances
will show. Critics have often called attention to the fact that
_fright_, instead of _frighten_, was a favourite word of Defoe. Now
_frighten_, and not _fright_, is the verb used in the continuation.
Furthermore, I have pointed out in a previous introduction[1] that Defoe
was fond of making his characters _smile_, to show either kindliness or
shrewd penetration. They do not _smile_ in the continuation.
There are other differences between the original story of _The Fortunate
Mistress_ and the continuation of 1745. The former is better narrative
than the latter; it moves quicker; it is more real. And yet there is a
manifest attempt in the continuation to imitate the manner and the
substance of the story proper. There is a dialogue, for example, between
Roxana and the Quakeress, modelled on the dialogues which Defoe was so
fond of. Again, there is a fairly successful attempt to copy Defoe's
circumstantiality; there is an amount of detail in the continuation
which makes it more graphic than much of the fiction which has been
given to the world. And finally, in understanding and reproducing the
characters of Roxana and Amy, the anonymous author has done remarkably
well. The character of Roxana's daughter is less true to Defoe's
conception; the girl, as he drew her, was actuated more by natural
affection in seeking her mother, and less by interest. The character of
the Dutch merchant, likewise, has not changed for the better in the
continuation. He has developed a vindictiveness which, in our former
meetings with him, seemed foreign to his nature.
I have said that in _The Fortunate Mistress_ Defoe has come nearer than
usual to writing what we to-day call a novel; the reason is that he has
had more success than usual in making his characters real. Though many
of them are still wooden--lifeless types, rather than individuals--yet
the Prince, the Quakeress, and the Dutch merchant occasionally wake to
life; so rather more does the unfortunate daughter; and more yet, Amy
and Roxana. With the exception of Moll Flanders, these last two are more
vitalised than any personages Defoe invented. In this pair, furthermore,
Defoe seems to have been interested in bringing out the contrast between
characters. The servant, Amy, thrown with another mistress, might have
been a totally different woman. The vulgarity of a servant she would
have retained under any circumstances, as she did even when promoted
from being the maid to being the companion of Roxana; but it was
unreasoning devotion to her mistress, combined with weakness of
character, which led Amy to be vicious.
Roxana, for her part, had to the full the independence, the initiative,
which her woman was without,--or rather was without when acting for
herself; for when acting in the interests of her mistress, Amy was a
different creature. Like all of Defoe's principal characters, Roxana is
eminently practical, cold-blooded and selfish. After the first pang at
parting with her five children, she seldom thinks of them except as
encumbrances; she will provide for them as decently as she can without
personal inconvenience, but even a slight sacrifice for the sake of one
of them is too much for her. Towards all the men with whom she has
dealings, and towards the friendly Quakeress of the Minories, too, she
shows a calculating reticence which is most unfeminine. The continuator
of our story endowed the heroine with wholly characteristic selfishness
when he made her, on hearing of Amy's death, feel less sorrow for the
miserable fate of her friend, than for her own loss of an adviser.
And yet Roxana is capable of fine feeling, as is proved by those tears
of joy for the happy change in her fortunes, which bring about that
realistic love scene between her and the Prince in regard to the
supposed paint on her cheeks. Again, when shipwreck threatens her and
Amy, her emotion and repentance are due as much to the thought that she
has degraded Amy to her own level as to thoughts of her more flagrant
sins. That she is capable of feeling gratitude, she shows in her
generosity to the Quakeress. And in her rage and remorse, on suspecting
that her daughter has been murdered, and in her emotion several times
on seeing her children, Roxana shows herself a true woman. In short,
though for the most part monumentally selfish, she is yet saved from
being impossible by several displays of noble emotion. One of the
surprises, to a student of Defoe, is that this thick-skinned, mercantile
writer, the vulgarest of all our great men of letters in the early
eighteenth century, seems to have known a woman's heart better than a
man's. At least he has succeeded in making two or three of his women
characters more alive than any of his men. It is another surprise that
in writing of women, Defoe often seems ahead of his age. In the argument
between Roxana and her Dutch merchant about a woman's independence,
Roxana talks like a character in a "problem" play or novel of our own
day. This, perhaps, is not to Defoe's credit, but it is to his credit
that he has said elsewhere:[2] "A woman well-bred and well-taught,
furnished with the ... accomplishments of knowledge and behaviour, is a
creature without comparison; her society is the emblem of sublime
enjoyments; ... and the man that has such a one to his portion, has
nothing to do but to rejoice in her, and be thankful." After reading
these words, one cannot but regret that Defoe did not try to create
heroines more virtuous than Moll Flanders and Roxana.
It is not only in drawing his characters that Defoe, in _The Fortunate
Mistress_, comes nearer than usual to producing a novel. This narrative
of his is less loosely constructed than any others except _Robinson
Crusoe_ and the _Journal of the Plague Year_, which it was easier to
give structure to. In both of them--the story of a solitary on a desert
island and the story of the visitation of a pestilence--the nature of
the subject made the author's course tolerably plain; in _The Fortunate
Mistress_, the proper course was by no means so well marked. The more
credit is due Defoe, therefore, that the book is so far from being
entirely inorganised that, had he taken sufficient pains with the
ending, it would have had as much structure as many good novels. There
is no strongly defined plot, it is true; but in general, if a character
is introduced, he is heard from again; a scene that impresses itself on
the mind of the heroine is likely to be important in the sequel. The
story seems to be working itself out to a logical conclusion, when
unexpectedly it comes to an end. Defoe apparently grew tired of it for
some reason, and wound it up abruptly, with only the meagre information
as to the fate of Roxana and Amy that they "fell into a dreadful course
of calamities."
G.H. MAYNADIER.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Memoirs of a Cavalier
[2] _An Essay upon Projects, An Academy for Women._
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
The history of this beautiful lady is to speak for itself; if it is not
as beautiful as the lady herself is reported to be; if it is not as
diverting as the reader can desire, and much more than he can reasonably
expect; and if all the most diverting parts of it are not adapted to the
instruction and improvement of the reader, the relator says it must be
from the defect of his performance; dressing up the story in worse
clothes than the lady whose words he speaks, prepared for the world.
He takes the liberty to say that this story differs from most of the
modern performances of this kind, though some of them have met with a
very good reception in the world. I say, it differs from them in this
great and essential article, namely, that the foundation of this is laid
in truth of fact; and so the work is not a story, but a history.
The scene is laid so near the place where the main part of it was
transacted that it was necessary to conceal names and persons, lest what
cannot be yet entirely forgot in that part of the town should be
remembered, and the facts traced back too plainly by the many people
yet living, who would know the persons by the particulars.
It is not always necessary that the names of persons should be
discovered, though the history may be many ways useful; and if we should
be always obliged to name the persons, or not to relate the story, the
consequence might be only this--that many a pleasant and delightful
history would be buried in the dark, and the world deprived both of the
pleasure and the profit of it.
The writer says he was particularly acquainted with this lady's first
husband, the brewer, and with his father, and also with his bad
circumstances, and knows that first part of the story to be truth.
This may, he hopes, be a pledge for the credit of the rest, though the
latter part of her history lay abroad, and could not be so well vouched
as the first; yet, as she has told it herself, we have the less reason
to question the truth of that part also.
In the manner she has told the story, it is evident she does not insist
upon her justification in any one part of it; much less does she
recommend her conduct, or, indeed, any part of it, except her
repentance, to our imitation. On the contrary, she makes frequent
excursions, in a just censuring and condemning her own practice. How
often does she reproach herself in the most passionate manner, and guide
us to just reflections in the like cases!
It is true she met with unexpected success in all her wicked courses;
but even in the highest elevations of her prosperity she makes frequent
acknowledgments that the pleasure of her wickedness was not worth the
repentance; and that all the satisfaction she had, all the joy in the
view of her prosperity--no, nor all the wealth she rolled in, the gaiety
of her appearance, the equipages and the honours she was attended with,
could quiet her mind, abate the reproaches of her conscience, or procure
her an hour's sleep when just reflection kept her waking.
The noble inferences that are drawn from this one part are worth all the
rest of the story, and abundantly justify, as they are the professed
design of, the publication.
If there are any parts in her story which, being obliged to relate a
wicked action, seem to describe it too plainly, the writer says all
imaginable care has been taken to keep clear of indecencies and immodest
expressions; and it is hoped you will find nothing to prompt a vicious
mind, but everywhere much to discourage and expose it.
Scenes of crime can scarce be represented in such a manner but some may
make a criminal use of them; but when vice is painted in its low-prized
colours, it is not to make people in love with it, but to expose it; and
if the reader makes a wrong use of the figures, the wickedness is his
own.
In the meantime, the advantages of the present work are so great, and
the virtuous reader has room for so much improvement, that we make no
question the story, however meanly told, will find a passage to his best
hours, and be read both with profit and delight.
A HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF ROXANA
I was born, as my friends told me, at the city of Poitiers, in the
province or county of Poitou, in France, from whence I was brought to
England by my parents, who fled for their religion about the year 1683,
when the Protestants were banished from France by the cruelty of their
persecutors.
I, who knew little or nothing of what I was brought over hither for, was
well enough pleased with being here. London, a large and gay city, took
with me mighty well, who, from my being a child, loved a crowd, and to
see a great many fine folks.
I retained nothing of France but the language, my father and mother
being people of better fashion than ordinarily the people called
refugees at that time were; and having fled early, while it was easy to
secure their effects, had, before their coming over, remitted
considerable sums of money, or, as I remember, a considerable value in
French brandy, paper, and other goods; and these selling very much to
advantage here, my father was in very good circumstances at his coming
over, so that he was far from applying to the rest of our nation that
were here for countenance and relief. On the contrary, he had his door
continually thronged with miserable objects of the poor starving
creatures who at that time fled hither for shelter on account of
conscience, or something else.
I have indeed heard my father say that he was pestered with a great many
of those who, for any religion they had, might e'en have stayed where
they were, but who flocked over hither in droves, for what they call in
English a livelihood; hearing with what open arms the refugees were
received in England, and how they fell readily into business, being, by
the charitable assistance of the people in London, encouraged to work in
their manufactories in Spitalfields, Canterbury, and other places, and
that they had a much better price for their work than in France, and the
like.
My father, I say, told me that he was more pestered with the clamours of
these people than of those who were truly refugees, and fled in distress
merely for conscience.
I was about ten years old when I was brought over hither, where, as I
have said, my father lived in very good circumstances, and died in about
eleven years more; in which time, as I had accomplished myself for the
sociable part of the world, so I had acquainted myself with some of our
English neighbours, as is the custom in London; and as, while I was
young, I had picked up three or four playfellows and companions suitable
to my years, so, as we grew bigger, we learned to call one another
intimates and friends; and this forwarded very much the finishing me for
conversation and the world.
I went to English schools, and being young, I learned the English tongue
perfectly well, with all the customs of the English young women; so that
I retained nothing of the French but the speech; nor did I so much as
keep any remains of the French language tagged to my way of speaking, as
most foreigners do, but spoke what we call natural English, as if I had
been born here.
Being to give my own character, I must be excused to give it as
impartially as possible, and as if I was speaking of another body; and
the sequel will lead you to judge whether I flatter myself or no.
I was (speaking of myself at about fourteen years of age) tall, and very
well made; sharp as a hawk in matters of common knowledge; quick and
smart in discourse; apt to be satirical; full of repartee; and a little
too forward in conversation, or, as we call it in English, bold, though
perfectly modest in my behaviour. Being French born, I danced, as some
say, naturally, loved it extremely, and sang well also, and so well
that, as you will hear, it was afterwards some advantage to me. With
all these things, I wanted neither wit, beauty, or money. In this manner
I set out into the world, having all the advantages that any young woman
could desire, to recommend me to others, and form a prospect of happy
living to myself.
At about fifteen years of age, my father gave me, as he called it in
French, 25,000 livres, that is to say, two thousand pounds portion, and
married me to an eminent brewer in the city. Pardon me if I conceal his
name; for though he was the foundation of my ruin, I cannot take so
severe a revenge upon him.
With this thing called a husband I lived eight years in good fashion,
and for some part of the time kept a coach, that is to say, a kind of
mock coach; for all the week the horses were kept at work in the
dray-carts; but on Sunday I had the privilege to go abroad in my
chariot, either to church or otherways, as my husband and I could agree
about it, which, by the way, was not very often; but of that hereafter.
Before I proceed in the history of the married part of my life, you must
allow me to give as impartial an account of my husband as I have done of
myself. He was a jolly, handsome fellow, as any woman need wish for a
companion; tall and well made; rather a little too large, but not so as
to be ungenteel; he danced well, which I think was the first thing that
brought us together. He had an old father who managed the business
carefully, so that he had little of that part lay on him, but now and
then to appear and show himself; and he took the advantage of it, for he
troubled himself very little about it, but went abroad, kept company,
hunted much, and loved it exceedingly.
After I have told you that he was a handsome man and a good sportsman, I
have indeed said all; and unhappy was I, like other young people of our
sex, I chose him for being a handsome, jolly fellow, as I have said; for
he was otherwise a weak, empty-headed, untaught creature, as any woman
could ever desire to be coupled with. And here I must take the liberty,
whatever I have to reproach myself with in my after conduct, to turn to
my fellow-creatures, the young ladies of this country, and speak to them
by way of precaution. If you have any regard to your future happiness,
any view of living comfortably with a husband, any hope of preserving
your fortunes, or restoring them after any disaster, never, ladies,
marry a fool; any husband rather than a fool. With some other husbands
you may be unhappy, but with a fool you will be miserable; with another
husband you may, I say, be unhappy, but with a fool you must; nay, if he
would, he cannot make you easy; everything he does is so awkward,
everything he says is so empty, a woman of any sense cannot but be
surfeited and sick of him twenty times a day. What is more shocking than
for a woman to bring a handsome, comely fellow of a husband into
company, and then be obliged to blush for him every time she hears him
speak? to hear other gentlemen talk sense, and he able to say nothing?
and so look like a fool, or, which is worse, hear him talk nonsense, and
be laughed at for a fool.
In the next place, there are so many sorts of fools, such an infinite
variety of fools, and so hard it is to know the worst of the kind, that
I am obliged to say, "No fool, ladies, at all, no kind of fool, whether
a mad fool or a sober fool, a wise fool or a silly fool; take anything
but a fool; nay, be anything, be even an old maid, the worst of nature's
curses, rather than take up with a fool."
But to leave this awhile, for I shall have occasion to speak of it
again; my case was particularly hard, for I had a variety of foolish
things complicated in this unhappy match.
First, and which I must confess is very unsufferable, he was a conceited
fool, _tout opiniatre_; everything he said was right, was best, and was
to the purpose, whoever was in company, and whatever was advanced by
others, though with the greatest modesty imaginable. And yet, when he
came to defend what he had said by argument and reason, he would do it
so weakly, so emptily, and so nothing to the purpose, that it was enough
to make anybody that heard him sick and ashamed of him.
Secondly, he was positive and obstinate, and the most positive in the
most simple and inconsistent things, such as were intolerable to bear.
These two articles, if there had been no more, qualified him to be a
most unbearable creature for a husband; and so it may be supposed at
first sight what a kind of life I led with him. However, I did as well
as I could, and held my tongue, which was the only victory I gained over
him; for when he would talk after his own empty rattling way with me,
and I would not answer, or enter into discourse with him on the point he
was upon, he would rise up in the greatest passion imaginable, and go
away, which was the cheapest way I had to be delivered.
I could enlarge here much upon the method I took to make my life
passable and easy with the most incorrigible temper in the world; but it
is too long, and the articles too trifling. I shall mention some of them
as the circumstances I am to relate shall necessarily bring them in.
After I had been married about four years, my own father died, my mother
having been dead before. He liked my match so ill, and saw so little
room to be satisfied with the conduct of my husband, that though he left
me five thousand livres, and more, at his death, yet he left it in the
hands of my elder brother, who, running on too rashly in his adventures
as a merchant, failed, and lost not only what he had, but what he had
for me too, as you shall hear presently.
Thus I lost the last gift of my father's bounty by having a husband not
fit to be trusted with it: there's one of the benefits of marrying a
fool.
Within two years after my own father's death my husband's father also
died, and, as I thought, left him a considerable addition to his estate,
the whole trade of the brewhouse, which was a very good one, being now
his own.
But this addition to his stock was his ruin, for he had no genius to
business, he had no knowledge of his accounts; he bustled a little about
it, indeed, at first, and put on a face of business, but he soon grew
slack; it was below him to inspect his books, he committed all that to
his clerks and book-keepers; and while he found money in cash to pay the
maltman and the excise, and put some in his pocket, he was perfectly
easy and indolent, let the main chance go how it would.
I foresaw the consequence of this, and attempted several times to
persuade him to apply himself to his business; I put him in mind how his
customers complained of the neglect of his servants on one hand, and how
abundance broke in his debt, on the other hand, for want of the clerk's
care to secure him, and the like; but he thrust me by, either with hard
words, or fraudulently, with representing the cases otherwise than they
were.
However, to cut short a dull story, which ought not to be long, he began
to find his trade sunk, his stock declined, and that, in short, he could
not carry on his business, and once or twice his brewing utensils were
extended for the excise; and, the last time, he was put to great
extremities to clear them.
This alarmed him, and he resolved to lay down his trade; which, indeed,
I was not sorry for; foreseeing that if he did not lay it down in time,
he would be forced to do it another way, namely, as a bankrupt. Also I
was willing he should draw out while he had something left, lest I
should come to be stripped at home, and be turned out of doors with my
children; for I had now five children by him, the only work (perhaps)
that fools are good for.
I thought myself happy when he got another man to take his brewhouse
clear off his hands; for, paying down a large sum of money, my husband
found himself a clear man, all his debts paid, and with between two and
three thousand pounds in his pocket; and being now obliged to remove
from the brewhouse, we took a house at ----, a village about two miles
out of town; and happy I thought myself, all things considered, that I
was got off clear, upon so good terms; and had my handsome fellow had
but one capful of wit, I had been still well enough.
I proposed to him either to buy some place with the money, or with part
of it, and offered to join my part to it, which was then in being, and
might have been secured; so we might have lived tolerably at least
during his life. But as it is the part of a fool to be void of counsel,
so he neglected it, lived on as he did before, kept his horses and men,
rid every day out to the forest a-hunting, and nothing was done all this
while; but the money decreased apace, and I thought I saw my ruin
hastening on without any possible way to prevent it.
I was not wanting with all that persuasions and entreaties could
perform, but it was all fruitless; representing to him how fast our
money wasted, and what would be our condition when it was gone, made no
impression on him; but like one stupid, he went on, not valuing all that
tears and lamentations could be supposed to do; nor did he abate his
figure or equipage, his horses or servants, even to the last, till he
had not a hundred pounds left in the whole world.
It was not above three years that all the ready money was thus spending
off; yet he spent it, as I may say, foolishly too, for he kept no
valuable company neither, but generally with huntsmen and
horse-coursers, and men meaner than himself, which is another
consequence of a man's being a fool; such can never take delight in men
more wise and capable than themselves, and that makes them converse
with scoundrels, drink, belch with porters, and keep company always
below themselves.
This was my wretched condition, when one morning my husband told me he
was sensible he was come to a miserable condition, and he would go and
seek his fortune somewhere or other. He had said something to that
purpose several times before that, upon my pressing him to consider his
circumstances, and the circumstances of his family, before it should be
too late; but as I found he had no meaning in anything of that kind, as,
indeed, he had not much in anything he ever said, so I thought they were
but words of course now. When he had said he would be gone, I used to
wish secretly, and even say in my thoughts, I wish you would, for if you
go on thus you will starve us all.
He stayed, however, at home all that day, and lay at home that night;
early the next morning he gets out of bed, goes to a window which looked
out towards the stable, and sounds his French horn, as he called it,
which was his usual signal to call his men to go out a-hunting.
It was about the latter end of August, and so was light yet at five
o'clock, and it was about that time that I heard him and his two men go
out and shut the yard gates after them. He said nothing to me more than
as usual when he used to go out upon his sport; neither did I rise, or
say anything to him that was material, but went to sleep again after he
was gone, for two hours or thereabouts.
It must be a little surprising to the reader to tell him at once, that
after this I never saw my husband more; but, to go farther, I not only
never saw him more, but I never heard from him, or of him, neither of
any or either of his two servants, or of the horses, either what became
of them, where or which way they went, or what they did or intended to
do, no more than if the ground had opened and swallowed them all up, and
nobody had known it, except as hereafter.
I was not, for the first night or two, at all surprised, no, nor very
much the first week or two, believing that if anything evil had befallen
them, I should soon enough have heard of that; and also knowing, that as
he had two servants and three horses with him, it would be the strangest
thing in the world that anything could befall them all but that I must
some time or other hear of them.
But you will easily allow, that as time ran on, a week, two weeks, a
month, two months, and so on, I was dreadfully frighted at last, and the
more when I looked into my own circumstances, and considered the
condition in which I was left with five children, and not one farthing
subsistence for them, other than about seventy pounds in money, and what
few things of value I had about me, which, though considerable in
themselves, were yet nothing to feed a family, and for a length of time
too.
[Illustration: THE BREWER AND HIS MEN
I heard him and his two men go out and shut the yard gates after them]
What to do I knew not, nor to whom to have recourse: to keep in the
house where I was, I could not, the rent being too great; and to leave
it without his orders, if my husband should return, I could not think of
that neither; so that I continued extremely perplexed, melancholy, and
discouraged to the last degree.
I remained in this dejected condition near a twelvemonth. My husband had
two sisters, who were married, and lived very well, and some other near
relations that I knew of, and I hoped would do something for me; and I
frequently sent to these, to know if they could give me any account of
my vagrant creature. But they all declared to me in answer, that they
knew nothing about him; and, after frequent sending, began to think me
troublesome, and to let me know they thought so too, by their treating
my maid with very slight and unhandsome returns to her inquiries.
This grated hard, and added to my affliction; but I had no recourse but
to my tears, for I had not a friend of my own left me in the world. I
should have observed, that it was about half a year before this
elopement of my husband that the disaster I mentioned above befell my
brother, who broke, and that in such bad circumstances, that I had the
mortification to hear, not only that he was in prison, but that there
would be little or nothing to be had by way of composition.
Misfortunes seldom come alone: this was the forerunner of my husband's
flight; and as my expectations were cut off on that side, my husband
gone, and my family of children on my hands, and nothing to subsist
them, my condition was the most deplorable that words can express.
I had some plate and some jewels, as might be supposed, my fortune and
former circumstances considered; and my husband, who had never stayed to
be distressed, had not been put to the necessity of rifling me, as
husbands usually do in such cases. But as I had seen an end of all the
ready money during the long time I had lived in a state of expectation
for my husband, so I began to make away one thing after another, till
those few things of value which I had began to lessen apace, and I saw
nothing but misery and the utmost distress before me, even to have my
children starve before my face. I leave any one that is a mother of
children, and has lived in plenty and in good fashion, to consider and
reflect what must be my condition. As to my husband, I had now no hope
or expectation of seeing him any more; and indeed, if I had, he was a
man of all the men in the world the least able to help me, or to have
turned his hand to the gaining one shilling towards lessening our
distress; he neither had the capacity or the inclination; he could have
been no clerk, for he scarce wrote a legible hand; he was so far from
being able to write sense, that he could not make sense of what others
wrote; he was so far from understanding good English, that he could not
spell good English; to be out of all business was his delight, and he
would stand leaning against a post for half-an-hour together, with a
pipe in his mouth, with all the tranquillity in the world, smoking, like
Dryden's countryman, that whistled as he went for want of thought, and
this even when his family was, as it were, starving, that little he had
wasting, and that we were all bleeding to death; he not knowing, and as
little considering, where to get another shilling when the last was
spent.
This being his temper, and the extent of his capacity, I confess I did
not see so much loss in his parting with me as at first I thought I did;
though it was hard and cruel to the last degree in him, not giving me
the least notice of his design; and indeed, that which I was most
astonished at was, that seeing he must certainly have intended this
excursion some few moments at least before he put it in practice, yet he
did not come and take what little stock of money we had left, or at
least a share of it, to bear his expense for a little while; but he did
not; and I am morally certain he had not five guineas with him in the
world when he went away. All that I could come to the knowledge of about
him was, that he left his hunting-horn, which he called the French horn,
in the stable, and his hunting-saddle, went away in a handsome
furniture, as they call it, which he used sometimes to travel with,
having an embroidered housing, a case of pistols, and other things
belonging to them; and one of his servants had another saddle with
pistols, though plain, and the other a long gun; so that they did not go
out as sportsmen, but rather as travellers; what part of the world they
went to I never heard for many years.
As I have said, I sent to his relations, but they sent me short and
surly answers; nor did any one of them offer to come to see me, or to
see the children, or so much as to inquire after them, well perceiving
that I was in a condition that was likely to be soon troublesome to
them. But it was no time now to dally with them or with the world; I
left off sending to them, and went myself among them, laid my
circumstances open to them, told them my whole case, and the condition I
was reduced to, begged they would advise me what course to take, laid
myself as low as they could desire, and entreated them to consider that
I was not in a condition to help myself, and that without some
assistance we must all inevitably perish. I told them that if I had had
but one child, or two children, I would have done my endeavour to have
worked for them with my needle, and should only have come to them to beg
them to help me to some work, that I might get our bread by my labour;
but to think of one single woman, not bred to work, and at a loss where
to get employment, to get the bread of five children, that was not
possible--some of my children being young too, and none of them big
enough to help one another.
It was all one; I received not one farthing of assistance from anybody,
was hardly asked to sit down at the two sisters' houses, nor offered to
eat or drink at two more near relations'. The fifth, an ancient
gentlewoman, aunt-in-law to my husband, a widow, and the least able also
of any of the rest, did, indeed, ask me to sit down, gave me a dinner,
and refreshed me with a kinder treatment than any of the rest, but added
the melancholy part, viz., that she would have helped me, but that,
indeed, she was not able, which, however, I was satisfied was very true.
Here I relieved myself with the constant assistant of the afflicted, I
mean tears; for, relating to her how I was received by the other of my
husband's relations, it made me burst into tears, and I cried vehemently
for a great while together, till I made the good old gentlewoman cry too
several times.
However, I came home from them all without any relief, and went on at
home till I was reduced to such inexpressible distress that is not to be
described. I had been several times after this at the old aunt's, for I
prevailed with her to promise me to go and talk with the other
relations, at least, that, if possible, she could bring some of them to
take off the children, or to contribute something towards their
maintenance. And, to do her justice, she did use her endeavour with
them; but all was to no purpose, they would do nothing, at least that
way. I think, with much entreaty, she obtained, by a kind of collection
among them all, about eleven or twelve shillings in money, which, though
it was a present comfort, was yet not to be named as capable to deliver
me from any part of the load that lay upon me.
There was a poor woman that had been a kind of a dependent upon our
family, and whom I had often, among the rest of the relations, been very
kind to; my maid put it into my head one morning to send to this poor
woman, and to see whether she might not be able to help in this dreadful
case.
I must remember it here, to the praise of this poor girl, my maid, that
though I was not able to give her any wages, and had told her so--nay, I
was not able to pay her the wages that I was in arrears to her--yet she
would not leave me; nay, and as long as she had any money, when I had
none, she would help me out of her own, for which, though I acknowledged
her kindness and fidelity, yet it was but a bad coin that she was paid
in at last, as will appear in its place.
Amy (for that was her name) put it into my thoughts to send for this
poor woman to come to me; for I was now in great distress, and I
resolved to do so. But just the very morning that I intended it, the old
aunt, with the poor woman in her company, came to see me; the good old
gentlewoman was, it seems, heartily concerned for me, and had been
talking again among those people, to see what she could do for me, but
to very little purpose.
You shall judge a little of my present distress by the posture she found
me in. I had five little children, the eldest was under ten years old,
and I had not one shilling in the house to buy them victuals, but had
sent Amy out with a silver spoon to sell it, and bring home something
from the butcher's; and I was in a parlour, sitting on the ground, with
a great heap of old rags, linen, and other things about me, looking them
over, to see if I had anything among them that would sell or pawn for a
little money, and had been crying ready to burst myself, to think what I
should do next.
At this juncture they knocked at the door. I thought it had been Amy,
so I did not rise up; but one of the children opened the door, and they
came directly into the room where I was, and where they found me in that
posture, and crying vehemently, as above. I was surprised at their
coming, you may be sure, especially seeing the person I had but just
before resolved to send for; but when they saw me, how I looked, for my
eyes were swelled with crying, and what a condition I was in as to the
house, and the heaps of things that were about me, and especially when I
told them what I was doing, and on what occasion, they sat down, like
Job's three comforters, and said not one word to me for a great while,
but both of them cried as fast and as heartily as I did.
The truth was, there was no need of much discourse in the case, the
thing spoke itself; they saw me in rags and dirt, who was but a little
before riding in my coach; thin, and looking almost like one starved,
who was before fat and beautiful. The house, that was before handsomely
furnished with pictures and ornaments, cabinets, pier-glasses, and
everything suitable, was now stripped and naked, most of the goods
having been seized by the landlord for rent, or sold to buy necessaries;
in a word, all was misery and distress, the face of ruin was everywhere
to be seen; we had eaten up almost everything, and little remained,
unless, like one of the pitiful women of Jerusalem, I should eat up my
very children themselves.
After these two good creatures had sat, as I say, in silence some time,
and had then looked about them, my maid Amy came in, and brought with
her a small breast of mutton and two great bunches of turnips, which she
intended to stew for our dinner. As for me, my heart was so overwhelmed
at seeing these two friends--for such they were, though poor--and at
their seeing me in such a condition, that I fell into another violent
fit of crying, so that, in short, I could not speak to them again for a
great while longer.
During my being in such an agony, they went to my maid Amy at another
part of the same room and talked with her. Amy told them all my
circumstances, and set them forth in such moving terms, and so to the
life, that I could not upon any terms have done it like her myself, and,
in a word, affected them both with it in such a manner, that the old
aunt came to me, and though hardly able to speak for tears, "Look ye,
cousin," said she, in a few words, "things must not stand thus; some
course must be taken, and that forthwith; pray, where were these
children born?" I told her the parish where we lived before, that four
of them were born there, and one in the house where I now was, where the
landlord, after having seized my goods for the rent past, not then
knowing my circumstances, had now given me leave to live for a whole
year more without any rent, being moved with compassion; but that this
year was now almost expired.
Upon hearing this account, they came to this resolution, that the
children should be all carried by them to the door of one of the
relations mentioned above, and be set down there by the maid Amy, and
that I, the mother, should remove for some days, shut up the doors, and
be gone; that the people should be told, that if they did not think fit
to take some care of the children, they might send for the churchwardens
if they thought that better, for that they were born in that parish, and
there they must be provided for; as for the other child, which was born
in the parish of ----, that was already taken care of by the parish
officers there, for indeed they were so sensible of the distress of the
family that they had at first word done what was their part to do.
This was what these good women proposed, and bade me leave the rest to
them. I was at first sadly afflicted at the thoughts of parting with my
children, and especially at that terrible thing, their being taken into
the parish keeping; and then a hundred terrible things came into my
thoughts, viz., of parish children being starved at nurse; of their
being ruined, let grow crooked, lamed, and the like, for want of being
taken care of; and this sunk my very heart within me.
But the misery of my own circumstances hardened my heart against my own
flesh and blood; and when I considered they must inevitably be starved,
and I too if I continued to keep them about me, I began to be reconciled
to parting with them all, anyhow and anywhere, that I might be freed
from the dreadful necessity of seeing them all perish, and perishing
with them myself. So I agreed to go away out of the house, and leave the
management of the whole matter to my maid Amy and to them; and
accordingly I did so, and the same afternoon they carried them all away
to one of their aunts.
Amy, a resolute girl, knocked at the door, with the children all with
her, and bade the eldest, as soon as the door was open, run in, and the
rest after her. She set them all down at the door before she knocked,
and when she knocked she stayed till a maid-servant came to the door;
"Sweetheart," said she, "pray go in and tell your mistress here are her
little cousins come to see her from ----," naming the town where we
lived, at which the maid offered to go back. "Here, child," says Amy,
"take one of 'em in your hand, and I'll bring the rest;" so she gives
her the least, and the wench goes in mighty innocently, with the little
one in her hand, upon which Amy turns the rest in after her, shuts the
door softly, and marches off as fast as she could.
Just in the interval of this, and even while the maid and her mistress
were quarrelling (for the mistress raved and scolded her like a mad
woman, and had ordered her to go and stop the maid Amy, and turn all the
children out of the doors again; but she had been at the door, and Amy
was gone, and the wench was out of her wits, and the mistress too), I
say, just at this juncture came the poor old woman, not the aunt, but
the other of the two that had been with me, and knocks at the door: the
aunt did not go, because she had pretended to advocate for me, and they
would have suspected her of some contrivance; but as for the other
woman, they did not so much as know that she had kept up any
correspondence with me.
Amy and she had concerted this between them, and it was well enough
contrived that they did so. When she came into the house, the mistress
was fuming, and raging like one distracted, and called the maid all the
foolish jades and sluts that she could think of, and that she would take
the children and turn them all out into the streets. The good poor
woman, seeing her in such a passion, turned about as if she would be
gone again, and said, "Madam, I'll come again another time, I see you
are engaged." "No, no, Mrs. ----," says the mistress, "I am not much
engaged, sit down; this senseless creature here has brought in my fool
of a brother's whole house of children upon me, and tells me that a
wench brought them to the door and thrust them in, and bade her carry
them to me; but it shall be no disturbance to me, for I have ordered
them to be set in the street without the door, and so let the
churchwardens take care of them, or else make this dull jade carry 'em
back to ---- again, and let her that brought them into the world look
after them if she will; what does she send her brats to me for?"
"The last indeed had been the best of the two," says the poor woman, "if
it had been to be done; and that brings me to tell you my errand, and
the occasion of my coming, for I came on purpose about this very
business, and to have prevented this being put upon you if I could, but
I see I am come too late."
"How do you mean too late?" says the mistress. "What! have you been
concerned in this affair, then? What! have you helped bring this family
slur upon us?" "I hope you do not think such a thing of me, madam," says
the poor woman; "but I went this morning to ----, to see my old mistress
and benefactor, for she had been very kind to me, and when I came to the
door I found all fast locked and bolted, and the house looking as if
nobody was at home.
"I knocked at the door, but nobody came, till at last some of the
neighbours' servants called to me and said, 'There's nobody lives there,
mistress; what do you knock for?' I seemed surprised at that. 'What,
nobody lives there!' said I; 'what d'ye mean? Does not Mrs. ---- live
there?' The answer was, 'No, she is gone;' at which I parleyed with one
of them, and asked her what was the matter. 'Matter!' says she, 'why, it
is matter enough: the poor gentlewoman has lived there all alone, and
without anything to subsist her a long time, and this morning the
landlord turned her out of doors.'
"'Out of doors!' says I; 'what! with all her children? Poor lambs, what
is become of them?' 'Why, truly, nothing worse,' said they, 'can come to
them than staying here, for they were almost starved with hunger; so the
neighbours, seeing the poor lady in such distress, for she stood crying
and wringing her hands over her children like one distracted, sent for
the churchwardens to take care of the children; and they, when they
came, took the youngest, which was born in this parish, and have got it
a very good nurse, and taken care of it; but as for the other four, they
had sent them away to some of their father's relations, and who were
very substantial people, and who, besides that, lived in the parish
where they were born.'