home. As we traveled along, I strove by every persuasion to calm her
sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence
of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a
fine country through which we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven
was to us than we were to each other, and that the misfortunes of
nature's making were very few. I assured her that she should never
perceive any change in my affections, and that during my life, which yet
might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I
armed her against the censures of the world; showed her that books were
sweet, unreproaching companions to the miserable, and that if they could
not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it.
The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by
the way, within about five miles from my house; and as I was willing to
prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her
that night at the inn, and to return for her accompanied by my daughter
Sophia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached our
appointed stage; however, after seeing her provided with a decent
apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper
refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my heart
caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer I approached that peaceful
mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections
outwent my haste, and hovered round my little fireside with all the
rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say,
and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's
tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but
slowly, the night waned apace. The laborers of the day were all retired
to rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no sounds were heard but
of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog at the hollow
distance. I approached my little abode of pleasure, and before I was
within a furlong of the place our honest mastiff came running to welcome
me.
It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door; all was still
and silent; my heart dilated with unutterable happiness; when to my
amazement I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every
aperture red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and
fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till
this been asleep, and he perceiving the flames instantly waked my wife
and daughter, and all running out naked and wild with apprehension,
recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of
new terror; for the flames had by this time caught the roof of our
dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood
with silent agony looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon
them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two little
ones: but they were not to be seen. Oh misery! "Where," cried I, "where
are my little ones?" "They are burnt to death in the flames," said my
wife calmly, "and I will die with them." That moment I heard the cry of
the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire; and nothing could
have stopped me. "Where, where are my children?" cried I, rushing
through the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in which they
were confined; "where are my little ones?" "Here, dear papa, here we
are," cried they together, while the flames were just catching the bed
where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them through
the fire as fast as possible, while just as I was got out, the roof
sunk in. "Now," cried I, holding up my children, "now let the flames
burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are; I have saved my
treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet be
happy." We kissed our little darlings a thousand times, they clasped us
round the neck and seemed to share our transports, while their mother
laughed and wept by turns.
I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time began to
perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner.
It was therefore out of my power to give my son any assistance, either
in attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames spreading to
our corn. By this time the neighbors were alarmed, and came running to
our assistance; but all they could do was to stand, like us, spectators
of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for
my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box with some
papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more of little
consequence which my son brought away in the beginning. The neighbors
contributed, however, what they could to lighten our distress. They
brought us clothes, and furnished one of our out-houses with kitchen
utensils; so that by daylight we had another, though a wretched
dwelling, to retire to. My honest next neighbor and his children were
not the least assiduous in providing us with everything necessary, and
offering whatever consolation untutored benevolence could suggest.
When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause of
my long stay began to take place; having therefore informed them of
every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our
lost one, and though we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I
was willing to procure her a welcome to what we had. This task would
have been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled
my wife's pride and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being
unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I
sent my son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched
delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no
instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for
women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. "Ah, madam,"
cried her mother, "this is but a poor place you have come to after so
much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment
to persons who have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes,
Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I
hope Heaven will forgive you." During this reception the unhappy victim
stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply; but I could not
continue a silent spectator of her distress; wherefore, assuming a
degree of severity in my voice and manner which was ever followed with
instant submission:--"I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked
once for all: I have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her
return to duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships
of life are now coming fast upon us; let us not therefore increase them
by dissension among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we may
yet be contented, as there are enough of us to shut out the censuring
world and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is
promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example.
Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner
than ninety-nine persons who have supported a course of undeviating
rectitude. And this is right; for that single effort by which we stop
short in the down-hill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion
of virtue than a hundred acts of justice."
* * * * *
Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient
as possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy our former
serenity. Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual
occupations, I read to my family from the few books that were saved, and
particularly from such as by amusing the imagination contributed to ease
the heart. Our good neighbors, too, came every day with the kindest
condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at
repairing my former dwelling. Honest Farmer Williams was not last among
these visitors, but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have
renewed his addresses to my daughter; but she rejected them in such a
manner as totally repressed his future solicitations. Her grief seemed
formed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little society
that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She had now lost that
unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to
seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession of
her mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and
neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet
bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her
eye; and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where it has
been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left
jealousy and envy behind. I strove in a thousand ways to lessen her
care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such
amusing passages of history as a strong memory and some reading could
suggest. "Our happiness, my dear," I would say, "is in the power of One
who can bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways that mock our
foresight."
In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but she listened
with divided attention, for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity
she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company
she dreaded contempt, and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was
the color of her wretchedness, when we received certain information that
Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always
suspected he had a real passion, though he took every opportunity before
me to express his contempt both of her person and fortune. This news
only served to increase poor Olivia's affliction; such a flagrant breach
of fidelity was more than her courage could support. I was resolved
however to get more certain information, and to defeat if possible the
completion of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot's with
instructions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot
a letter intimating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my family. My son went in
pursuance of my directions, and in three days returned, assuring us of
the truth of the account; but that he had found it impossible to deliver
the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill
and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were to be
married, he said, in a few days, having appeared together at church the
Sunday before he was there, in great splendor; the bride attended by six
young ladies, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials
filled the whole country with rejoicing, and they usually rode out
together in the grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for
years. All the friends of both families, he said, were there,
particularly the Squire's uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good
a character. He added that nothing but mirth and feasting were going
forward; that all the country praised the young bride's beauty and the
bridegroom's fine person, and that they were immensely fond of each
other; concluding that he could not help thinking Mr. Thornhill one of
the most happy men in the world.
"Why, let him if he can," returned I; "but my son, observe this bed of
straw and unsheltering roof, those moldering walls and humid floor, my
wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping round me
for bread. You have come home, my child, to all this; yet here, even
here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange
situations. O my children, if you could but learn to commune with your
own hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would
little regard the elegance and splendor of the worthless. Almost all men
have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the travelers.
The similitude still may be improved, when we observe that the good are
joyful and serene, like travelers that are going towards home; the
wicked but by intervals happy, like travelers that are going into
exile."
My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster,
interrupted what I had further to observe. I bade her mother support
her, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from that time
more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution; but
appearances deceived me, for her tranquillity was the languor of
overwrought resentment. A supply of provisions charitably sent us by my
kind parishioners seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness among the rest of
the family; nor was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly and
at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their satisfactions merely to
condole with resolute melancholy, or to burden them with a sadness they
did not feel. Thus once more the tale went round, and the song was
demanded, and cheerfulness condescended to hover round our little
habitation.
* * * * *
The next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for the season; so
that we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank; where,
while we sat, my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to
the concert on the trees about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia
first met her seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness.
But that melancholy which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired
by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her
mother, too, upon this occasion felt a pleasing distress, and wept, and
loved her daughter as before. "Do, my pretty Olivia," cried she, "let us
have that little melancholy air your papa was so fond of; your sister
Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child; it will please your old
father." She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me:
"When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
"The only art her guilt to cover,
"To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is--to die."
As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in her
voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr.
Thornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly
increased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of
shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In a few
minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place
where I was still sitting, inquired after my health with his usual air
of familiarity. "Sir," replied I, "your present assurance only serves to
aggravate the baseness of your character; and there was a time when I
would have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to appear before
me. But now you are safe; for age has cooled my passions, and my calling
restrains me."
"I vow, my dear sir," returned he, "I am amazed at all this, nor can I
understand what it means. I hope you don't think your daughter's late
excursion with me had anything criminal in it."
"Go," cried I; "thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every way
a liar; but your meanness secures you from my anger. Yet, sir, I am
descended from a family that would not have borne this! And so, thou
vile thing! to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor
creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but
honor for their portion."
"If she or you," returned he, "are resolved to be miserable, I cannot
help it. But you may still be happy; and whatever opinion you may have
formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can
marry her to another in a short time, and what is more, she may keep
her lover beside; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true
regard for her."
I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading proposal; for
although the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little
villainy can at any time get within the soul and sting it into rage.
"Avoid my sight, thou reptile," cried I, "nor continue to insult me with
thy presence. Were my brave son at home he would not suffer this; but I
am old and disabled, and every way undone."
"I find," cried he, "you are bent upon obliging me to talk in a harsher
manner than I intended. But as I have shown you what may be hoped from
my friendship, it may not be improper to represent what may be the
consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has
been transferred, threatens hard; nor do I know how to prevent the
course of justice except by paying the money myself, which, as I have
been at some expenses lately previous to my intended marriage, is not so
easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driving for the rent: it
is certain he knows his duty, for I never trouble myself with affairs of
that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even to have you
and your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be
solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is even the request of my charming
Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse."
"Mr. Thornhill," replied I, "hear me once for all: as to your marriage
with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to; and though your
friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the
grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once woefully, irreparably
deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honor, and have found its
baseness. Never more, therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, and
possess what fortune has given thee--beauty, riches, health, and
pleasure. Go and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet
humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity, and though
thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt."
"If so," returned he, "depend upon it you shall feel the effects of this
insolence; and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object of
scorn, you or me." Upon which he departed abruptly.
PICTURES FROM 'THE DESERTED VILLAGE'
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs,--and God has given my share,--
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes--for pride attends us still--
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill;
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
And as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return--and die at home at last.
Oh, blest retirement! friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these
A youth of labor with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
No surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate:
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below:
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool;
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind:
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail;
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale;
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled.
All but yon widowed, solitary thing
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron,--forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn,--
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place:
Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,--
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away,
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side:
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest;
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven:
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.