Roxana Read Online

Novak, ‘Crime and Punishment in Defoe’s Roxana’, Journal of English and German Philology, 65 (1966), 445-65.

Spiro Peterson, ‘The Matrimonial Theme of Defoe’s Roxana’, PMLA, 70 (1955), 166-91.

G. A. Starr, ‘Sympathy v. Judgement in Roxana’s First Liaison’, in The Augustan Milieu: Essays Presented to Louis Landa, ed. Henry Knight Miller et al., Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1970.

Raymond Stephanson, ‘Defoe’s “Malade Imaginaire”: The Historical. Foundation of Mental Illness in Roxana’, Huntington Library Quarterly 45 (1982), 99-118.

Facsimile of title-page of first edition (1724)

THE 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 Cloaths than the Lady, whose Words he speaks, prepared it for the World.

He takes the Liberty to say, That this Story differs from most of the Modern Performances of this Kind, tho’ 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.1

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, shou’d be remember’d, and the Facts trac’d back too plainly, by the many People yet living, who wou’d know the Persons by the Particulars.

It is not always necessary that the Names of Persons shou’d be discover’d,2 tho’ the History may be many Ways useful; and if we shou’d be always oblig’d to name the Persons, or not to relate the Story, the Consequence might be only this, That many a pleasant and delightful History wou’d be Buried in the Dark, and the World be depriv’d 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, tho’ the Latter Part of her History lay Abroad, and cou’d not so well be vouch’d 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,3 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 rowl’d in; the Gayety of her Appearance; the Equipages,4 and the Honours, she was attended with, cou’d quiet her Mind, abate the Reproaches of her Conscience, or procure her an Hour’s Sleep, when just Reflections kept her waking.

The Noble Inferences that are drawn from this one Part, are worth all the rest of the Story; and abundantly justifie (as they are the profess’d Design of) the Publication.

If there are Parts in her Story, which being oblig’d 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 ‘tis hop’d you will find nothing to prompt a vicious Mind, but every-where 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-priz’d Colours, ‘tis 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 mean time, 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.5

THE
FORTUNATE MISTRESS:
OR,
A HISTORY
OF
THE LIFE, &C.

I Was BORN, as my Friends told me, at the City of POICTIERS, in the Province, or County of POICTOU, 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 Banish’d from France1 by the Cruelty of their Persecutors.

I, who knew little or nothing of what I was brought over hither for, was well-enough pleas’d with being here; London, a large and gay City took with me mighty well, who, from my being a Child, lov’d a Crowd, and to see a great-many fine Folks.

I retain’d nothing of France, but the Language: My Father and Mother being People of better Fashion, than ordinarily the People call’d REFUGEES at that Time were; and having fled early, while it was easie 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 throng’d with miserable Objects of the poor starving Creatures, who at that Time fled hither for Shelter, on Account of Conscience, or something else.2

I have indeed, heard my Father say, That he was pester’d with a great-many of those, who, for any Religion they had, might e’en have stay’d where they were, but who flock’d over hither in Droves, for what they call in English, a Livelihood; hearing with what Open Arms the REFUGEES were receiv’d in England, and how they fell readily into Business, being, by the charitable Assistance of the People in London, encourag’d to Work in their Manufactures, in Spittle-Fields,3 Canterbury, 4 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 pester’d with the Clamours of these People, than by those who were truly REFUGEES, and fled in Distress, merely5 for Conscience.

I was about ten Years old when I was brought over hither, where, as I have said, my Father liv’d in very good Circumstances, and died in about eleven Years more; in which time, as I had accomplish’d 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 pick’d-up three or four Play-Fellows and Companions, suitable to my Years; so as we grew bigger; we learnt to call one-another Intimates and Friends; and this forwarded very much the finishing me for Conversation6, and the World.

I went to English Schools, and being young, I learnt the English Tongue perfectly well, with all the Customs of the English Young-Women; so that I retain’d nothing of the French, but the Speech; nor did I so much as keep any Remains of the French Language tagg’d 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 excus’d 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 as 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 Satyrical; full of Repartee, and a little too forward in Conversation; or, as we call it in English, BOLD, tho’ perfectly Modest in my Behaviour. Being French Born, I danc’d, as some say, naturally, lov’d it extremely, and sung 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 cou’d 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, 25000 Livres,7 that is to say, two Thousand Pounds Portion,8 and married me to an Eminent Brewer in the City; pardon me if I conceal his Name, for tho’ he was the Foundation of my Ruin, I cannot take so severe a Revenge upon him.

With this Thing call’d a Husband, I liv’d 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 cou’d agree about it;9 which, by the way, was not very often: But of that hereafter.

Before I proceed in the History of the Marry’d 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 ungentile;10 he danc’d well, which, I think, was the first thing that brought us together: He had an old Father, who manag’d the Business carefully; so that he had little of that Part lay11 on him, but now-and-then to appear, and show himself; and he took the Advantage of it, for he troubl’d himself very little about it, but went Abroad, kept Company, hunted much, and lov’d 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;12 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 wou’d, he cannot make you easie; every thing he does is so awkward, every thing he says is so empty, a Woman of any Sence 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 oblig’d to Blush for him every time she hears him speak? To hear other Gentlemen talk Sence, and he able to say nothing? And so look like a Fool, or, which is worse, hear him talk Nonsence, and be laugh’d 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 oblig’d to say, No Fool, Ladies, at all, no kind of Fool; whether a mad Fool, or a sober Fool, a wise Fool,13 or a silly Fool; take any thing but a Fool; nay, be any thing, be even an Old Maid, the worst of Nature’s Curses, rather than take up with a Fool.

But to leave this a-while, 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,14 every thing he said, was Right, was Best, and was to the Purpose, whoever was in Company, and whatever was advanc’d by others, tho’ 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 any-body that heard him, sick and asham’d of him.

Secondly, He was positive and obstinate, and the most positive in the most simple and inconsistent Things, such as were intollerable 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 suppos’d 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 gain’d 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 deliver’d.

I could enlarge here much, upon the Method I took to make my Life passable and easie 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 lik’d my Match so ill, and saw so little Room to be satisfied with the Conduct of my Husband, that tho’ he left me 5000 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, fail’d, 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 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 Malt-Man, and the Excise, and put some in his Pocket, he was perfectly easie and indolent, let the main Chance go how it would.

I foresaw the Consequence of this, and attempted several times to perswade him to apply himself to his Business; I put him in Mind how his Customers complain’d of the Neglect of his Servants on one hand, and how abundance Broke in his Debt,15 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 declin’d, and that, in short, he could not carry on his Business, and once or twice his Brewing Utensils were extended for16 the Excise; and the last Time he was put to great Extremities to clear them.

This allarm’d him, and he resolv’d 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 forc’d 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 stript at Home, and be turn’d 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 of 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 Pound in his Pocket; and being now oblig’d 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 consider’d, that I was got off clear, upon so good Terms; and had my handsome Fellow had but one Cap full of Wit, I had been still well enough.

I propos’d to him either to buy some Place with the Money, or with Part of it, and offer’d to join my Part to it, which was then in Being, and might have been secur’d; so we might have liv’d tollerably, at least, during his Life. But as it is the Part of a Fool to be void of Council, so he neglected it, liv’d 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 decreas’d apace, and I thought I saw my Ruin hastening on, without any possible Way to prevent it.

I was not wanting with all that Perswasions 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 suppos’d to do; nor did he abate his Figure or Equipage, his Horses or Servants, even to the last, till he had not a Hundred Pound 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 Belch17 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 any thing of that Kind, as indeed, he had not much in any thing he ever said; so I thought they were but Words of Course18 now: When he said he wou’d be gone, I us’d to wish secretly, and even say in my Thoughts, I wish you wou’d, for if you go on thus, you will starve us all.

He staid, 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 look’d out towards the Stables, and sounds his French Horn, as he call’d 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 a-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 us’d to go out upon his Sport; neither did I rise, or say any thing to him that was material, but went to-sleep again after he was gone, for two Hours, or thereabouts.

It must be a little surprizing 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 open’d and swallow’d them all up, and no-body had known it; except as hereafter.

I was not, for the first Night or two, at-all surpriz’d, no nor very much the first Week or two, believing that if any thing 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 any thing could befal them all, but that I must some time or other hear of them.

But you will easily allow, that as Time run on a Week, two Weeks, a Month, two Months, and so on, I was dreadfully frighted at last, and the more when I look’d into my own Circumstances, and consider’d the Condition in which I was left; with five Children, and not one Farthing Subsistance for them, other than about seventy Pound in Money, and what few Things of Value I had about me, which, tho’ considerable in themselves, were yet nothing to feed a Family, and for a length of Time too.

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 Order, if my Husband should return, I could not think of that neither; so that I continued extremely perplex’d, melancholly, and discourag’d, to the last Degree.

I remain’d in this dejected Condition near a Twelvemonth. My Husband had two Sisters, who were married, and liv’d very well, and some other near Relations that I knew of, and I hop’d 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 declar’d 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 observ’d, that it was about half a Year before this Elopement of my Husband, that the Disaster I mention’d above befel my Brother; who Broke,19 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.20

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 Plate21 and some Jewels, as might be supposed, my Fortune and former Circumstances consider’d; and my Husband, who had never staid to be distress’d, 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 liv’d 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 liv’d in Plenty and 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 the Man, of all the Men in the World, the least able to help me, or to have turn’d 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 Sence, that he could not make Sence 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 wou’d stand leaning against a Post for half an Hour together, with a Pipe in his Mouth, with all the Tranquillity in the World, smoaking, like Dryden’s Countryman that Whistled as he went, for want of Thought;22 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; tho’ 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 astonish’d 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 Expence for a little while, but he did not; and I am morally certain he had not five Guineas23 with him in the World, when he went away: All that I cou’d come to the Knowledge of, about him, was, that he left his Hunting-Horn, which he call’d the French Horn, in the Stable, and his Hunting Saddle, went away in a handsome Furniture,24 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 enquire 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 reduc’d to, begg’d they would advise me what Course to take, laid myself as low as they could desire, and intreated 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 work’d 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 receiv’d not one Farthing of Assistance from any-body, was hardly ask’d to sit down at the two Sisters’ Houses, nor offer’d 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 refresh’d me with a kinder Treatment than any of the rest; but added the melancholly Part, viz: That she would have help’d me, but that, indeed, she was not able; which, however, I was satisfied was very true.

Here I reliev’d 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 cry’d 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 reduc’d to such inexpressible Distress, that it is not to be describ’d: I had been several times after this at the old Aunt’s; for I prevail’d 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 obtain’d by a kind of Collection among them all, about eleven or twelve Shillings in Money; which, tho’ it was a present Comfort, was yet not to be nam’d 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 Dependant upon our Family, and who 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 tho’ 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, tho’ I acknowleg’d 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 resolv’d 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 concern’d 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 Posture25 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, Linnen, and other things about me, looking them over, to see if I had any thing 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 knock’d at the Door, I thought it had been Amy, so I did not rise up, but one of the Children open’d 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 surpriz’d at their coming, you may be sure, especially seeing the Person I had but just before resolv’d to send for: But when they saw me, how I look’d, for my Eyes were swell’d 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,26 and said not one Word to me for a great while, but both of them cry’d as fast, and as heartily as I did.

The Truth was, there was no Need of much Discourse in the Case, the Thing spoke it self; they saw me in Rags and Dirt, who was but a little before riding in my Coach; thin, and looking almost like one Starv’d, who was before fat and beautiful: The House, that was before handsomely furnish’d with Pictures and Ornaments, Cabinets, Peir-Glasses,27 and every thing suitable, was now stripp’d, and naked, most of the Goods having been seiz’d by the Landlord for Rent, or sold to buy Necessaries; in a word, all was Misery and Distress, the Face of Ruin was every where to be seen; we had eaten up almost every thing, and little remain’d, unless, like one of the pitiful Women of Jerusalem,28 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 look’d 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 overwhelm’d at seeing these two Friends, for such they were, tho’ 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 talk’d 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 tho’ 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?29 I told her the Parish where we liv’d before, that four of them were born there; and one in the House where I now was, where the Landlord, after having seiz’d 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 expir’d.

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 mention’d 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 Church-Wardens 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 propos’d, 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 Starv’d at Nurse; of their being ruin’d, let grow crooked, lam’d, and the like, for want of being taken care of;30 and this sunk my very Heart within me.

But the Misery of my own Circumstances hardned my Heart against my own Flesh and Blood; and when I consider’d they must inevitably be Starv’d, and I too, if I continued to keep them about me, I began to be reconcil’d to parting with them all, any how, and any where, 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, knock’d 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 knock’d, and when she knock’d, she staid 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 liv’d, at which the Maid offer’d 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 cou’d.

Just in the Interval of this, and even while the Maid and her Mistress were quarrelling, for the Mistress rav’d and scolded at her like a Mad-Woman, and had order’d 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 contriv’d that they did so. When she came into the House, the Mistress was fuming and raging like one Distracted, and calling 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, turn’d about as if she would be gone again, and said, Madam, I’ll come again another time, I see you are engag’d. No, no, Mrs. —, says the Mistress, I am not much engag’d, 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 order’d them to be set in the Street, without the Door, and so let the Church-Wardens 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 Bratts 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 cou’d; but I see I am come too late.

How do you mean too late, says the Mistress? What, have you been concern’d in this Affair then? What, have you help’d 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 lock’d and bolted, and the House looking as if no-body was at Home.

I knock’d at the Door, but no-body came, till at last some of the Neighbours’ Servants call’d to me, and said, There’s no-body lives there, Mistress, what do you knock for? I seem’d surpriz’d at that: What, no-body live there! said I, what d’ ye mean! Does not Mrs. — live there? The Answer was, No, she is gone; at which I parly’d with one of them, and ask’d her what was the Matter; Matter, says she, why ’tis Matter enough, the poor Gentlewoman has liv’d there all alone, and without any thing to subsist her, a long time, and this Morning the Landlord turn’d 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 starv’d 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 Church-Wardens 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, liv’d in the Parish where they were born.

I was not so surpriz’d at this, as not presently to foresee that this Trouble would be brought upon you, or upon Mr. —; so I came immediately to bring you word of it, that you might be prepar’d for it, and might not be surpriz’d, but I see they have been too nimble for me, so that I know not what to advise; the poor Woman, it seems, is turn’d out of Doors into the Street; and another of the Neighbours there told me, that when they took her Children from her, she swoon’d away, and when they recover’d her out of that, she run distracted, and is put into a Mad-House by the Parish; for there is no-body else to take any Care of her.

This was all acted to the Life by this good, kind, poor Creature; for tho’ her Design was perfectly good and charitable, yet there was not one Word of it true in Fact; for I was not turn’d out of Doors by the Landlord, nor gone distracted; it was true, indeed, that at parting with my poor Children, I fainted, and was like one Mad when I came to myself and found they were gone; but I remain’d in the House a good while after that; as you shall hear.

While the poor Woman was telling this dismal Story, in came the Gentlewoman’s Husband, and tho’ her Heart was harden’d against all Pity, who was really and nearly related to the Children, for they were the Children of her own Brother; yet the good Man was quite soften’d with the dismal Relation of the Circumstances of the Family; and when the poor Woman had done, he said to his Wife, This is a dismal Case, my Dear, indeed, and something must be done: His Wife fell a raving at him, What says she, do you want to have four Children to keep? Have we not Children of our own? Would you have these Bratts come and eat up my Children’s Bread? No, no, let ’em go to the Parish, and let them take Care of them, I’ll take Care of my own.

Come, come, my Dear, says the Husband, Charity is a Duty to the Poor, and he that gives to the Poor, lends to the Lord;31 let us lend our Heavenly Father a little of our Children’s Bread, as you call it, it will be a Store well laid up for them, and will be the best Security that our Children shall never come to want Charity, or be turn’d out of Doors, as these poor innocent Creatures are.

Don’t tell me of Security, says the Wife, ’tis a good Security for our Children, to keep what we have together, and provide for them, and then ’tis time enough to help keep other Folks’ Children; Charity begins at home.

Well, my Dear, says he again, I only talk of putting out a little Money to Interest, our Maker is a good Borrower, never fear making a bad Debt there, Child; I’ll be Bound for it.

Don’t banter me with your Charity, and your Allegories,32 says the Wife angrily, I tell you they are my Relations, not yours, and they shall not roost here, they shall go to the Parish.

All your Relations are my Relations now, says the good Gentleman very calmly, and I won’t see your Relations in Distress and not pity them, any more than I would my own; indeed, my Dear, they shan’t go to the Parish, I assure you none of my Wife’s Relations shall come to the Parish, if I can help it.

What, will you take four Children to keep? says the Wife.

No, no, my Dear, says he, there’s your Sister —, I’ll go and talk with her, and your Uncle —, I’ll send for him and the rest; I’ll warrant you when we are all together we will find Ways and Means to keep four poor little Creatures from Beggary and Starving, or else it will be very hard; we are none of us in so bad Circumstances but we are able to spare a Mite for the Fatherless; don’t shut up your Bowels of Compassion33 against your own Flesh and Blood: Could you hear these poor innocent Children cry at your Door for Hunger, and give them no Bread?34

Prethee35 what need they cry at our Door? says she, ’tis the Business of the Parish to provide for them, they shan’t cry at our Door; if they do, I’ll give them nothing: Won’t you, says he, but I will, remember that dreadful Scripture is directly against us, Prov.2l: 13. Whoso stoppeth his Ears at the Cry of the Poor, he also shall cry himself, but shall not be heard.

Well, well, says she, you must do what you will, because you pretend36 to be Master; but if I had my Will, I would send them where they ought to be sent, I would send them from whence they came.

Then the poor Woman put in, and said, But, Madam, that is sending them to starve indeed; for the Parish has no Obligation to take Care of ’em, and so they would lie and perish in the Street.

Or be sent back again, says the Husband, to our Parish in a Cripple-Cart, by the Justice’s Warrant,37 and so expose us and all the Relations to the last Degree, among our Neighbours, and among those who knew the good Old Gentleman their Grandfather, who liv’d and flourish’d in this Parish so many Years, and was so well belov’d among all People, and deserv’d it so well.

I don’t value that one Farthing, not I, says the Wife, I’ll keep none of them.

Well, my Dear, says her Husband, but I value it, for I won’t have such a Blot lie upon the Family, and upon your Children; he was a worthy, ancient, and good Man, and his Name is respected among all his Neighbours; it will be a Reproach to you, that are his Daughter, and to our Children, that are his Grand-Children, that we should let your Brother’s Children perish, or come to be a Charge to the Publick, in the very Place where your Family once flourish’d: Come, say no more, I’ll see what can be done.

Upon this, he sends and gathers all the Relations together at a Tavern hard-by, and sent for the four little Children that they might see them; and they all, at first Word, agreed to have them taken Care of; and because his Wife was so furious that she would not suffer one of them to be kept at Home, they agreed to keep them all together for a-while; so they committed them to the poor Woman that had manag’d the Affair for them, and enter’d into Obligations to one another to supply the needful Sums for their Maintenance; and not to have one separated from the rest, they sent for the Youngest from the Parish where it was taken in, and had them all brought up together.

It would take up too long a Part of this Story to give a particular Account with what a charitable Tenderness this good Person, who was but Uncle-in-Law to them, manag’d that Affair; how careful he was of them; went constantly to see them, and to see that they were well provided for, cloath’d, put to School, and at last put out in the World for their Advantage; but ’tis enough to say he acted more like a Father to them, than an Uncle-in-Law, tho’ all along much against his Wife’s Consent, who was of a Disposition not so tender and compassionate as her Husband.

You may believe I heard this with the same Pleasure which I now feel at the relating it again; for I was terribly frighted at the Apprehensions of my Children being brought to Misery and Distress, as those must be who have no Friends, but are left to Parish Benevolence.

I was now, however, entring on a new Scene of Life; I had a great House upon my Hands, and some Furniture left in it, but I was no more able to maintain myself and My Maid Amy in it, than I was my five Children; nor had I any thing to subsist with, but what I might get by working, and that was not a Town where much Work was to be had.

My Landlord had been very kind indeed, after he came to know my Circumstances, tho’s before I38 was acquainted with that Part, he had gone so far as to seize my Goods, and to carry some of them off too.

But I had liv’d three Quarters of a Year in his House after that, and had paid him no Rent, and which was worse, I was in no Condition to pay him any; however, I observ’d he came oftner to see me, look’d kinder upon me, and spoke more friendly to me, than he us’d to do; particularly the last two or three times he had been there, he observ’d, he said, how poorly I liv’d, how low I was reduc’d, and the like, told me it griev’d him for my sake; and the last time of all he was kinder still, told me he came to Dine with me, and that I should give him leave to Treat me; so he call’d my Maid Amy, and sent her out to buy a Joint of Meat; he told her what she should buy, but naming two or three things, either of which she might take; the Maid, a cunning Wench, and faithful to me, as the Skin to my Back, did not buy any thing outright, but brought the Butcher along with her, with both the things that she had chosen, for him to please himself; the one was a large very good Leg of Veal; the other a Piece of the Fore-Ribs of Roasting Beef; he look’d at them, but bade me chaffer with the Butcher for him, and I did so, and came back to him, and told him what the Butcher demanded for either of them, and what each of them came to; so he pulls out 11 s. and 3 d. which they came to together, and bade me take them both, the rest, he said, would serve another time.

I was surpriz’d, you may be sure, at the Bounty of a Man that had but a little while ago been my Terror, and had torn the Goods out of my House, like a Fury; but I consider’d that my Distresses had mollified his Temper, and that he had afterwards been so compassionate as to give me Leave to live Rent-free in the House a whole Year.

But now he put on the Face, not of a Man of Compassion only, but of a Man of Friendship and Kindness, and this was so unexpected, that it was surprizing: We chatted together, and were, as I may call it, Chearful, which was more than I could say I had been for three Years before; he sent for Wine and Beer too, for I had none; poor Amy and I had drank nothing but Water for many Weeks, and indeed, I have often wonder’d at the faithful Temper of the poor Girl; for which I but ill requited her at last.

When Amy was come with the Wine, he made her fill a Glass to him, and with the Glass in his Hand, he came to me, and kiss’d me, which I was, I confess, a little surpriz’d at, but more at what follow’d; for he told me, That as the sad Condition which I was reduc’d to, had made him pity me, so my Conduct in it, and the Courage I bore it with, had given him a more than ordinary Respect for me, and made him very thoughtful for my Good; that he was resolv’d for the present to do something to relieve me, and to employ his Thoughts in the mean time, to see if he could, for the future, put me into a Way to support myself.

While he found me change Colour, and look surpriz’d at his Discourse, for so I did to be sure, he turns to my Maid Amy, and looking at her, he says to me, I say all this Madam, before your Maid, because both she and you shall know that I have no ill Design, and that I have, in meer Kindness, resolv’d to do something for you, if I can; and as I have been a Witness of the uncommon Honesty and Fidelity of Mrs. Amy here, to you in all your Distresses, I know she may be trusted with so honest a Design as mine is; for, I assure you, I bear a proportion’d Regard to your Maid too, for her Affection to you.

Amy made him a Curtsie, and the poor Girl look’d so confounded with Joy, that she could not speak, but her Colour came and went, and every now and then she blush’d as red as Scarlet, and the next Minute look’d as pale as Death: Well, having said this, he sat down, made me sit down, and then drank to me, and made me drink two Glasses of Wine together; for, says he, you have Need of it, and so indeed I had: When he had done so, Come Amy, says he, with your Mistress’s Leave, you shall have a Glass too, so he made her drink two Glasses also, and then rising up; and now Amy, says he, go and get Dinner; and you, Madam, says he to me, go up and dress you, and come down and smile and be merry; adding, I’ll make you easie, if I can; and in the mean time, he said, he would walk in the Garden.

When he was gone, Amy chang’d her Countenance indeed, and look’d as merry as ever she did in her Life; Dear Madam! says she, what does this Gentleman mean? Nay, Amy, said I, he means to do us Good, you see, don’t he? I know no other Meaning he can have, for he can get nothing by me: I warrant you Madam, says she, he’ll ask you a Favour by and by: No, no, you are mistaken, Amy, I dare say, said I; you heard what he said, didn’t you? Ay, says Amy it’s no matter for that, you shall see what he will do after Dinner: Well, well, Amy, says I, you have hard Thoughts of him, I cannot be of your Opinion; I don’t see any thing in him yet that looks like it: As to that, Madam, says Amy, I don’t see any thing of it yet neither; but what should move a Gentleman to take Pity of us, as he does? Nay, says I, that’s a hard thing too, that we should judge a Man to be wicked because he’s charitable; and vicious because he’s kind: O Madam, says Amy, there’s abundance of Charity begins in that Vice, and he is not so unacquainted with things, as not to know, that Poverty is the strongest Incentive;39 a Temptation, against which no Virtue is powerful enought to stand out; he knows your Condition as well as you do: Well, and what then? Why then he knows too that you are young and handsome, and he has the surest Bait in the World to take you with.

Well, Amy, said I, but he may find himself mistaken too in such a thing as that: Why, Madam, says Amy, I hope you won’t deny him, if he should offer it.

What d’ye mean by that, Hussy, said I? No, I’d starve first.

I hope not, Madam, I hope you would be wiser; I’m sure if he will set you up, as he talks of, you ought to deny him nothing; and you will starve if you do not consent, that’s certain.

What, consent to lye with him for Bread? Amy, said I, How can you talk so?

Nay, Madam, says Amy, I don’t think you wou’d for any thing else; it would not be Lawful for any thing else, but for Bread, Madam; why nobody can starve, there’s no bearing that, I’m sure.

Ay, says I, but if he would give me an Estate to live on, he should not lye with me, I assure you.

Why look you, Madam, if he would but give you enough to live easie upon, he should lye with me for it with all my Heart.

That’s a Token, Amy, of inimitable Kindness to me, said I, and I know how to value it; but there’s more Friendship than Honesty in it, Amy.

O Madam, says Amy, I’d do any thing to get you out of this sad Condition; as to Honesty, I think Honesty is out of the Question, when Starving is the Case; are not we almost starv’d to Death?

I am indeed, said I, and thou art for my sake; but to be a Whore, Amy! and there I stopt.

Dear Madam, says Amy, if I will starve for your sake, I will be a Whore, or any thing, for your sake; why I would die for you, if I were put to it.

Why that’s an Excess of Affection, Amy, said I, I never met with before; I wish I may be ever in Condition to make you some Returns suitable: But however, Amy, you shall not be a Whore to him, to oblige him to be kind to me; no, Amy, nor I won’t be a Whore to him, if he would give me much more than he is able to give me, or do for me.

Why Madam, says Amy, I don’t say I will go and ask him; but I say, if he should promise to do so and so for you, and the Condition was such, that he would not serve you unless I would let him lye with me, he should lye with me as often as he would, rather than you should not have his Assistance; but this is but Talk, Madam, I don’t see any need of such Discourse, and you are of Opinion that there will be no need of it.

Indeed so I am, Amy; but, said I, if there was, I tell you again, I’d die before I would consent, or before you should consent for my sake.

Hitherto I had not only preserv’d the Virtue itself, but the virtuous Inclination and Resolution; and had I kept myself there, I had been happy, tho’ I had perish’d of meer Hunger;40 for, without question, a Woman ought rather to die, than to prostitute her Virtue and Honour, let the Temptation be what it will.

But to return to my Story; he walk’d about the Garden; which was, indeed, all in Disorder, and over-run with Weeds, because I had not been able to hire a Gardener to do any thing to it, no not so much as to dig up Ground enough to sow a few Turnips and Carrots for Family-Use: After he had view’d it, he came in, and sent Amy to fetch a poor Man, a Gardener, that us’d to help our Man-Servant, and carry’d him into the Garden, and order’d him to do several things in it, to put it into a little Order; and this took him up near an Hour.

By this time I had dress’d me, as well as I could, for tho’ I had good Linnen left still, yet I had but a poor Head-Dress, and no Knots, but old Fragments; no Necklace, no Ear-Rings; all those things were gone long ago for meer Bread.

However, I was tight41 and clean, and in better Plight than he had seen me in a great while, and he look’d extreamly pleas’d to see me so; for he said I look’d so disconsolate, and so afflicted before, that it griev’d him to see me; and he bade me pluck up a good Heart, for he hop’d to put me in a Condition to live in the World, and be beholden to nobody.

I told him that was impossible, for I must be beholden to him for it, for all the Friends I had in the World wou’d not, or cou’d not, do so much for me as that he spoke of. Well, Widow, says he, so he call’d me, and so indeed I was in the worst Sence that desolate Word cou’d be us’d in, if you are beholden to me, you shall be beholden to nobody else.

By this time Dinner was ready, and Amy came in to lay the Cloth, and indeed, it was happy there was none to Dine but he and I, for I had but six Plates left in the House, and but two Dishes; however, he knew how things were, and bade me make no Scruple about bringing out what I had, he hop’d to see me in a better Plight, he did not come, he said, to be Entertain’d, but to Entertain me, and Comfort and Encourage me: Thus he went on, speaking so chearfully to me, and such chearful things, that it was a Cordial to my very Soul, to hear him speak.

Well, we went to Dinner, I’m sure I had not eat a good Meal hardly in a Twelvemonth, at least, not of such a Joint of Meat as the Loin of Veal was; I eat indeed very heartily, and so did he, and he made me drink three or four Glasses of Wine, so that, in short, my Spirits were lifted up to a Degree I had not been us’d to, and I was not only chearful, but merry, and so he press’d me to be.

I told him, I had a great deal of Reason to be merry, seeing he had been so kind to me, and had given me Hopes of recovering me from the worst Circumstances that ever Woman of any sort of Fortune, was sunk into; that he cou’d not but believe that what he had said to me, was like Life from the Dead; that it was like recovering one Sick from the Brink of the Grave; how I should ever make him a Return any way suitable, was what I had not yet had time to think of; I cou’d only say, that I should never forget it while I had Life, and shou’d be always ready to acknowlege it.

He said, That was all he desir’d of me, that his Reward would be, the Satisfaction of having rescued me from Misery; that he found he was obliging one that knew what Gratitude meant; that he would make it his Business to make me compleatly Easie, first or last, if it lay in his Power; and in the mean time, he bade me consider of any thing that I thought he might do for me, for my Advantage, and in order to make me perfectly easie.

After we had talk’d thus, he bade me be chearful; come, says he, lay aside these melancholly things, and let us be merry: Amy waited at the Table, and she smil’d, and laugh’d, and was so merry she could hardly contain it, for the Girl lov’d me to an Excess, hardly to be describ’d; and it was such an unexpected thing to hear any one talk to her Mistress, that the Wench was besides herself almost, and as soon as Dinner was over, Amy went up-Stairs, and put on her Best Clothes too, and came down dress’d like a Gentlewoman.

We sat together talking of a thousand Things, of what had been, and what was to be, all the rest of the Day, and in the Evening he took his Leave of me, with a thousand Expressions of Kindness and Tenderness, and true Affection to me, but offer’d not the least of what my Maid Amy had suggested.

At his going away, he took me in his Arms, protested an honest Kindness to me; said a thousand kind things to me, which I cannot now recollect, and after kissing me twenty times, or thereabouts, put a Guinea into my Hand; which, he said, was for my present Supply, and told me, that he would see me again, before ’twas out; also he gave Amy Half a Crown.

When he was gone, Well, Amy, said I, are you convinc’d now that he is an honest as well as a true Friend, and that there has been nothing, not the least Appearance of any thing of what you imagin’d, in his Behaviour: Yes, says Amy, I am, but I admire at it; he is such a Friend as the World, sure, has not abundance of to show.

I am sure, says I, he is such a Friend as I have long wanted, and as I have as much Need of as any Creature in the World has, or ever had; and, in short, I was so overcome with the Comfort of it, that I sat down and cry’d for Joy a good-while, as I had formerly cry’d for Sorrow. Amy and I went to Bed that Night (for Amy lay with me) pretty early, but lay chatting almost all Night about it, and the Girl was so transported, that she got up two or three times in the Night, and danc’d about the Room in her Shift; in short, the Girl was half distracted with the Joy of it; a Testimony still of her violent Affection for her Mistress, in which no Servant ever went beyond her.

We heard no more of him for two Days, but the third Day he came again; then he told me, with the same Kindness, that he had order’d me a Supply of Houshold Goods for the furnishing the House; that in particular, he had sent me back all the Goods that he had seiz’d for Rent, which consisted, indeed, of the best of my former Furniture; and now, says he, I’ll tell you what I have had in my Head for you, for your present Supply, and that is, says he, that the House being well furnish’d, you shall Let it out to Lodgings, for the Summer Gentry, says he, by which you will easily get a good comfortable Subsistance, especially seeing you shall pay me no Rent for two Years, nor after neither, unless you can afford it.

This was the first View I had of living comfortably indeed, and it was a very probable Way, I must confess; seeing we had very good Conveniences, six Rooms on a Floor, and three Stories high: While he was laying down the Scheme of my Management, came a Cart to the Door with a Load of Goods, and an Upholsterer’s Man to put them up; they were chiefly the Furniture of two Rooms, which he had carried away for his two Years Rent, with two fine Cabinets, and some Peir-Glasses, out of the Parlour, and several other valuable things.

These were all restor’d to their Places, and he told me he gave them me freely, as a Satisfaction for the Cruelty he had us’d me with before; and the Furniture of one Room being finish’d, and set up, he told me, he would furnish one Chamber for himself, and would come and be one of my Lodgers, if I would give him Leave.

I told him, he ought not to ask me Leave, who had so much Right to make himself welcome; so the House began to look in some tollerable Figure, and clean; the Garden also, in about a Fortnight’s Work, began to look something less like a Wilderness than it us’d to do; and he order’d me to put up a Bill for Letting Rooms, reserving one for himself, to come to as he saw Occasion.

When all was done to his Mind, as to placing the Goods, he seem’d very well pleas’d, and we din’d together again of his own providing, and the Upholsterer’s Man gone; after Dinner he took me by the Hand, Come, now Madam, says he, you must show me your House, (for he had a-Mind to see every thing over again). No, Sir, said I, but I’ll go show you your House, if you please; so we went up thro’ all the Rooms, and in the Room which was appointed for himself, Amy was doing something; Well, Amy, says he, I intend to Lye with you to Morrow-Night; To Night, if you please Sir, says Amy very innocently, your Room is quite ready: Well Amy, says he, I am glad you are so willing: No, says Amy, I mean your Chamber is ready to-Night, and away she run out of the Room asham’d enough; for the Girl meant no Harm, whatever she had said to me in private.

However, he said no more then; but when Amy was gone, he walk’d about the Room, and look’d at every thing, and taking me by the Hand, he kiss’d me, and spoke a great many kind, affectionate things to me indeed; as of his Measures for my Advantage, and what he wou’d do to raise me again in the World; told me, that my Afflictions, and the Conduct I had shown in bearing them to such an Extremity, had so engag’d him to me, that he valued me infinitely above all the Women in the World; that tho’ he was under such Engagements that he cou’d not Marry me, [his Wife and he had been parted, for some Reasons, which make too long a Story to intermix with mine] yet that he wou’d be every thing else that a Woman cou’d ask in a Husband, and with that he kiss’d me again, and took me in his Arms, but offer’d not the least uncivil Action to me, and told me, he hop’d I would not deny him all the Favours he should ask, because he resolv’d to ask nothing of me but what it was fit for a Woman of Virtue and Modesty, for such he knew me to be, to yield.

I confess, the terrible Pressure of my former Misery, the Memory of which lay heavy upon my Mind, and the surprizing Kindness with which he had deliver’d me, and withal, the Expectations of what he might still do for me, were powerful things, and made me have scarce the Power to deny him any thing he wou’d ask; however, I told him thus, with an Air of Tenderness too, that he had done so much for me, that I thought I ought to deny him nothing, only I hop’d, and depended upon him, that he wou’d not take the Advantage of the infinite Obligations I was under to him, to desire any thing of me, the yielding to which, would lay me lower in his Esteem than I desir’d to be; that as I took him to be a Man of Honour, so I knew he could not like me the better for doing any thing that was below a Woman of Honesty and Good Manners to do.

He told me, that he had done all this for me, without so much as telling me what Kindness or real Affection he had for me; that I might not be under any Necessity of yielding to him in any thing, for want of Bread; and he would no more oppress my Gratitude now, than he would my Necessity before, nor ask any thing, supposing he would stop his Favours, or withdraw his Kindness, if he was deny’d; it was true, he said, he might tell me more freely his Mind now, than before, seeing I had let him see that I accepted his Assistance, and saw that he was sincere in his Design of serving me; that he had gone thus far to shew me that he was kind to me, but that now he would tell me, that he lov’d me, and yet wou’d demonstrate that his Love was both honourable, and that what he shou’d desire, was what he might honestly ask, and I might honestly grant.

I answer’d, That within those two Limitations, I was sure I ought to deny him nothing, and I should think myself not ungrateful only, but very unjust, if I shou’d; so he said no more, but I observ’d he kiss’d me more, and took me in his Arms in a kind of familiar Way, more than usual, and which once or twice put me in Mind of my Maid Amy’s Words; and yet, I must acknowlege, I was so overcome with his Goodness to me in those many kind things he had done, that I not only was easie at what he did, and made no Resistance, but was inclin’d to do the like, whatever he had offered to do: But he went no farther than what I have said, nor did he offer so much as to sit down on the Bed-side with me, but took his Leave, said he lov’d me tenderly, and would convince me of it by such Demonstrations as should be to my Satisfaction: I told him, I had a great deal of Reason to believe him; that he was full Master of the whole House, and of me, as far as was within the Bounds we had spoken of, which I believ’d he would not break; and ask’d him if he wou’d not Lodge there that Night.

He said, he cou’d not well stay that Night, Business requiring him in London, but added, smiling, that he wou’d come the next Day, and take a Night’s Lodging with me. I press’d him to stay that Night, and told him, I should be glad a Friend so valuable should be under the same Roof with me; and indeed, I began at that time not only to be much oblig’d to him, but to love him too, and that in a Manner that I had not been acquainted with myself.

O let no Woman slight the Temptation that being generously deliver’d from.