The Vicar of Wakefield

our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful.⁠—“My child,” cried I, “look round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out; while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave!”⁠—“My dear father,” returned he, “I hope there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction; for I have a letter from my brother George.”⁠—“What of him, child,” interrupted I, “does he know our misery. I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers?”⁠—“Yes, sir,” returned he, “he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant!”

“And are you sure of all this,” cried my wife, “are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?”⁠—“Nothing indeed, madam,” returned my son, “you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure; and if anything can procure you comfort, I am sure that will.” “But are you sure,” still repeated she, “that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so happy?”⁠—“Yes, Madam,” replied he, “it is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support of our family!”⁠—“Then I thank providence,” cried she, “that my last letter to him has miscarried.” “Yes, my dear,” continued she, turning to me, “I will now confess that though the hand of heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother’s blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But thanks be to him that directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest.” “Woman,” cried I, “thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin. Providence, indeed, has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy and insensible of our afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and to protect his brothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left, he has no sisters now, they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone.”⁠—“Father,” interrupted my son, “I beg you will give me leave to read this letter, I know it will please you.” Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows:⁠—

Honoured Sir,

I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that harmless group as listening to every line of this with great composure. I view those faces with delight which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress! But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition to it, to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy here.

Our regiment is countermanded and is not to leave the kingdom; the colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me with him to all companies where he is acquainted, and after my first visit I generally find myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. I danced last night with Lady G⁠⸺, and could I forget you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. But it is my fate still to remember others, while I am myself forgotten by most of my absent friends, and in this number, I fear, Sir, that I must consider you; for I have long expected the pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia too, promised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent passion with them: yet still, I know not how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, sir, that after all, I love them affectionately, and be assured of my ever remaining

Your dutiful son.

“In all our miseries,” cried I, “what thanks have we not to return, that one at least of our family is exempted from what we suffer. Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy to be the supporter of his widowed mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the temptations of want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour.” I had scarce said these words, when a noise, like that of a tumult, seemed to proceed from the prison below; it died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was heard along the passage that led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded and fettered with the heaviest irons. I looked with compassion on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror when I found it was my own son.⁠—“My George! My George! and do I find thee thus. Wounded! Fettered! Is this thy happiness! Is this the manner you return to me! O that this sight could break my heart at once and let me die!”

“Where, Sir, is your fortitude,” returned my son with an intrepid voice. “I must suffer, my life is forfeited, and let them take it.”

I tried to