by Daniel Defoe
them; they shan't cry at our door. If theydo, I'll give them nothing." "Won't you?" says he; "but I will. Rememberthat dreadful Scripture is directly against us, Prov. xxi. 13, 'Whosostoppeth his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself, butshall not be heard.'"
"Well, well," says she, "you must do what you will, because you pretendto be master; but if I had my will I would send them where they ought tobe sent: I would send them from whence they came."
Then the poor woman put in, and said, "But, madam, that is sending themto starve indeed, for the parish has no obligation to take care of 'em,and so they will lie and perish in the street."
"Or be sent back again," says the husband, "to our parish in acripple-cart, by the justice's warrant, and so expose us and all therelations to the last degree among our neighbours, and among those whoknow the good old gentleman their grandfather, who lived and flourishedin this parish so many years, and was so well beloved among all people,and deserved it so well."
"I don't value that one farthing, not I," says the wife; "I'll keep noneof them."
"Well, my dear," says her husband, "but I value it, for I won't havesuch a blot lie upon the family, and upon your children; he was aworthy, ancient, and good man, and his name is respected among all hisneighbours; it will be a reproach to you, that are his daughter, and toour children, that are his grandchildren, that we should let yourbrother's children perish, or come to be a charge to the public, in thevery place where your family once flourished. Come, say no more; I willsee what can be done."
Upon this he sends and gathers all the relations together at a tavernhard by, and sent for the four little children, that they might seethem; 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 ofthem to be kept at home, they agreed to keep them all together for awhile; so they committed them to the poor woman that had managed theaffair for them, and entered into obligations to one another to supplythe needful sums for their maintenance; and, not to have one separatedfrom the rest, they sent for the youngest from the parish where it wastaken in, and had them all brought up together.
It would take up too long a part of this story to give a particularaccount with what a charitable tenderness this good person, who was butan uncle-in-law to them, managed that affair; how careful he was ofthem; went constantly to see them, and to see that they were wellprovided for, clothed, put to school, and, at last, put out in the worldfor their advantage; but it is enough to say he acted more like a fatherto them than an uncle-in-law, though all along much against his wife'sconsent, who was of a disposition not so tender and compassionate asher husband.
You may believe I heard this with the same pleasure which I now feel atthe relating it again; for I was terribly affrighted at theapprehensions of my children being brought to misery and distress, asthose must be who have no friends, but are left to parish benevolence.
I was now, however, entering on a new scene of life. I had a great houseupon my hands, and some furniture left in it; but I was no more able tomaintain myself and my maid Amy in it than I was my five children; norhad I anything to subsist with but what I might get by working, and thatwas not a town where much work was to be had.
My landlord had been very kind indeed after he came to know mycircumstances; though, before he was acquainted with that part, he hadgone so far as to seize my goods, and to carry some of them off too.
But I had lived three-quarters of a year in his house after that, andhad paid him no rent, and, which was worse, I was in no condition to payhim any. However, I observed he came oftener to see me, looked kinderupon me, and spoke more friendly to me, than he used to do, particularlythe last two or three times he had been there. He observed, he said, howpoorly I lived, how low I was reduced, and the like; told me it grievedhim for my sake; and the last time of all he was kinder still, told mehe came to dine with me, and that I should give him leave to treat me;so he called my maid Amy, and sent her out to buy a joint of meat; hetold her what she should buy; but naming two or three things, either ofwhich she might take, the maid, a cunning wench, and faithful to me asthe skin to my back, did not buy anything outright, but brought thebutcher along with her, with both the things that she had chosen, forhim to please himself. The one was a large, very good leg of veal; theother a piece of the fore-ribs of roasting beef. He looked at them, butmade me chaffer with the butcher for him, and I did so, and came back tohim and told him what the butcher had demanded for either of them, andwhat each of them came to. So he pulls out eleven shillings andthreepence, which they came to together, and bade me take them both; therest, he said, would serve another time.
I was surprised, you may be sure, at the bounty of a man that had but alittle while ago been my terror, and had torn the goods out of my houselike a fury; but I considered that my distresses had mollified histemper, and that he had afterwards been so compassionate as to give meleave 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 aman of friendship and kindness, and this was so unexpected that it wassurprising. We chatted together, and were, as I may call it, cheerful,which was more than I could say I had been for three years before. Hesent for wine and beer too, for I had none; poor Amy and I had dranknothing but water for many weeks, and indeed I have often wondered atthe faithful temper of the poor girl, for which I but ill requited herat last.
When Amy was come with the wine, he made her fill a glass to him, andwith the glass in his hand he came to me and kissed me, which I was, Iconfess, a little surprised at, but more at what followed; for he toldme, that as the sad condition which I was reduced to had made him pityme, so my conduct in it, and the courage I bore it with, had given him amore than ordinary respect for me, and made him very thoughtful for mygood; that he was resolved for the present to do something to relieveme, and to employ his thoughts in the meantime, to see if he could forthe future put me into a way to support myself.
While he found me change colour, and look surprised 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 bothshe and you shall know that I have no ill design, and that I have, inmere kindness, resolved to do something for you if I can; and as I havebeen a witness of the uncommon honesty and fidelity of Mrs. Amy here toyou in all your distresses, I know she may be trusted with so honest adesign as mine is; for I assure you, I bear a proportioned regard toyour maid too, for her affection to you."
Amy made him a curtsey, and the poor girl looked so confounded with joythat she could not speak, but her colour came and went, and every nowand then she blushed as red as scarlet, and the next minute looked aspale 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 haddone so, "Come, Amy," says he, "with your mistress's leave, you shallhave a glass too." So he made her drink two glasses also; and thenrising 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 bemerry;" adding, "I'll make you easy if I can;" and in the meantime, hesaid, he would walk in the garden.
When he was gone, Amy changed her countenance indeed, and looked asmerry as ever she did in her life. "Dear madam," says she, "what doesthis gentleman mean?" "Nay, Amy," said I, "he means to do us good, yousee, don't he? I know no other meaning he can have, for he can getnothing by me." "I warrant you, madam," says she, "he'll ask you afavour by-and-by." "No, no, you are mistaken, Amy, I dare say," said I;"you have heard what he said, didn't you?" "Ay," says Amy, "it's nomatter 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 youropinion: I don't see anything in him yet that looks like it." "As tothat, madam," says Amy, "I don't see anything of it yet neither; butwhat should move a gentleman to take pity of us as he does?" "Nay," saysI, "tha
t's a hard thing too, that we should judge a man to be wickedbecause he's charitable, and vicious because he's kind." "Oh, madam,"says Amy, "there's abundance of charity begins in that vice; and he isnot so unacquainted with things as not to know that poverty is thestrongest incentive--a temptation against which no virtue is powerfulenough 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 andhandsome, and he has the surest bait in the world to take you with."
"Well, Amy,"