WEDNESDAY Morning. Her master takes an airing with her in the chariot. An interesting conversation between them. Her delightful prospects. He clears up, to her satisfaction, the gipsey’s information. Tells her that the neighbouring ladies intend to make him a visit, on purpose to see and admire her. She resolves, throughout her future life, to rely on Providence, who has brought such real good to her out of such evil appearances.
THURSDAY. He declares his intentions of marriage. His kindness to her in a particular instance, when she dreaded he would have been disobliged. She has hopes that her master will be reconciled to Mr Williams.
FRIDAY. She gives the particulars of what passed in the visit of the neighbouring gentry, who admire her. Miss Polly Darnford particularly fond of her.
FRIDAY Afternoon. Her father’s unexpected arrival, while all the guests are together. Is kindly received by her master, and all his fears for his daughter’s virtue dissipated. The company greatly affected at the first interview between her father and her.
SATURDAY. Her master offers to dismiss Mrs Jewkes. He is pleased with her forgiving temper. Takes an airing with her father and her, and designedly falls in with Mr Williams. His kindness to that gentleman. Gives him up his bond, and requests him to officiate next day in his newly fitted up chapel.
SUNDAY. Mr Williams accordingly officiates. Her father performs the clerk’s part with applause. Mr B.’s pleasant remarks on her paraphrase on the cxxxviith psalm. Mr Andrews joyfully takes leave, to carry the good tidings of all these things to his wife.
MONDAY. Mr B. brings her a licence, and presses for the day. The Thursday following fixed upon.
TUESDAY. Her serious reflections on the near prospect of her important change of condition. Is diffident of her own worthiness. Prays for humility, that her new condition may not be a snare to her.
WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY. Her alternate fears and exultation, as the day draws nigh. His generous and polite tenderness to her. Her modest, humble and thankful returns.
THURSDAY Afternoon. Her nuptials celebrated. Her joyful exultations to her parents upon it. Mrs Jewkes’s dutiful and submissive behaviour to her. The different aspect everything bears to her, now that her prison is become her palace.
FRIDAY Evening. Instances of his politeness and generosity to her. He kindly complies with her intercession in favour of Mr Longman, Mrs Jervis, Jonathan, and John Arnold, whom he had dismissed.
SATURDAY Morning. Copy of Mr B.’s letter to Mr Longman, and of hers to Mrs Jervis, in the kindest manner desiring them to take possession, with Jonathan, of their former offices. Rejoices in her happiness, and prays that her will to do good may be enlarged with her opportunities.
SATURDAY Evening. Mr B.’s kind intentions towards her parents. His annual allowance to her for private charities.
SUNDAY. His rules to her, in relation to dress, and to different parts of family management; and to her own deportment, on particular occasions. With other interesting particulars.
MONDAY. In Mr B.’s occasional absence, Lady Davers, with her nephew, arrive. Particulars of the harsh treatment she met with from that lady.
TUESDAY. Lady Davers’s outrageous behaviour to her brother on his return. At last a happy reconciliation takes place. Pamela gives the particulars of a conversation between Mr B. and herself, when alone, in which he tells her what he expects from her future conduct. She is a little tinctured with jealousy upon a charge made by Lady Davers, in her passion, of an intrigue between him and Miss Sally Godfrey.
WEDNESDAY. She relates briefly to Lady Davers her past trials and distresses, who is greatly delighted with her story; and desires to see all her papers.
WEDNESDAY Night. The neighbouring gentry take leave of Mr and Mrs B. on their setting out for Bedfordshire. Mrs Jewkes, with tears, begs her to forgive her past wickedness to her. Miss Darnford and Mrs B. agree upon a correspondence by letters. Her value and esteem for that young lady.
SATURDAY. Lady Davers sets out for her own seat; and Mr and Mrs B. for Bedfordshire. Her emotions on her arrival as mistress of the house she was lately turned out of. Her kind reception of Mrs Jervis, and affable behaviour to the servants. Mr B.’s generosity to her.
SUNDAY Night. Has the pleasure to think, she is not puffed up with this great change of condition.
MONDAY. Her justice and generosity with respect to her father’s creditors, &c.
WEDNESDAY Evening. Mr B. brings home to dinner with him four of the neighbouring gentry. What passed on that occasion. She tells her parents, how much Mr B. is pleased with their undertaking to manage the Kentish estate, as he had directed her to propose to them.
THURSDAY. Mr B. carries her to breakfast ten miles off, to a neat dairy–house; and by surprize introduces to her Miss Goodwin, the daughter he had by Miss Sally Godfrey. Her generous and affecting behaviour on this occasion. As they return, he gives the moving particulars of that amour, and of the lady’s remarkable penitence and prudence.
MONDAY Morning. She gives an account of their public appearance the preceding day, at church; and of what passed in the morning and afternoon on that occasion.
TUESDAY. An affecting instance of Mr B.’s goodness to her, in settling his affairs in such a manner, that, in case of his death without children by her, neither she nor her parents should lie at the mercy of his heirs. Other tender particulars on this affecting occasion. Her verses on humility.
FRIDAY. The most considerable of the neighbouring gentry visit them, to congratulate their nuptials, and all join to admire her. She resolves to have no other pride but in making deserving objects happy. Relates, that Lady Davers has sent for her papers, and promises that her lord and she will soon be her guests. Hopes, as Miss Goodwin grows older, she shall have her committed to her care. Has just received the news, that her parents are on the point of setting out to be with her. Prays for a happy meeting. Impatiently longs for it.
VOLUME I
LETTER I
My dear Father and Mother,
I have great trouble, and some comfort, to acquaint you with. The trouble is, that my good lady died of the illness I mentioned to you, and left us all much grieved for the loss of her; for she was a dear good lady, and kind to all us her servants. Much I feared, that as I was taken by her ladyship to wait upon her person, I should be quite destitute again, and forced to return to you and my poor mother, who have enough to do to maintain yourselves; and, as my lady’s goodness had put me to write and cast accompts,5 and made me a little expert at my needle, and otherwise qualified above my degree, it was not every family that could have found a place that your poor Pamela was fit for: But God, whose graciousness to us we have so often experienced, put it into my good lady’s heart, on her death-bed, just an hour before she expired, to recommend to my young master all her servants, one by one; and when it came to my turn to be recommended (for I was sobbing and crying at her pillow) she could only say, ‘My dear son!’ and so broke off a little; and then recovering, ‘Remember my poor Pamela!’ And those were some of her last words! O how my eyes overflow! Don’t wonder to see the paper so blotted!
Well, but God’s will must be done! and so comes the comfort, that I shall not be obliged to return back to be a burden to my dear parents! For my master said, ‘I will take care of you all, my good maidens; and for you, Pamela,’ (and took me by the hand; yes, he took my hand before them all), ‘for my dear mother’s sake, I will be a friend to you, and you shall take care of my linen.’ God bless him! and pray with me, my dear father and mother, for a blessing upon him: For he has given mourning6 and a year’s wages to all my lady’s servants; and I having no wages as yet, my lady having said she would do for me as I deserved, ordered the housekeeper to give me mourning with the rest, and gave me with his own hand four guineas, and some silver, which were in my lady’s pocket when she died; and said, if I was a good girl, and faithful and diligent, he would be a friend to me, for his mother’s sake. And so I send you these four guineas for your comfort. I formerly sent you such
little matters as arose from my lady’s bounty, loth as you was always to take any thing from me: But Providence will not let me want; and I have made, in case of sudden occasions, a little reserve (besides the silver now given me) that I may not be obliged to borrow, and look little in the eyes of my fellow-servants: And so you may pay some old debt with part; and keep the other part to comfort you both. If I get more, I am sure it is my duty, and it shall be my care, to love and cherish you both; for you have loved and cherished me, when I could do nothing for myself. I send them by John our footman, who goes your way; but he does not know what he carries; because I seal them up in one of the little pill-boxes,7 which my lady had, wrapped close in paper, that they may not chink; and be sure don’t open it before him.
I know, my dear father and mother, I must give you both grief and pleasure; and so I will only say, pray for your Pamela; who will ever be
Your dutiful Daughter.
I have been scared out of my senses; for just now, as I was folding up this letter, in my late lady’s dressing-room, in comes my young master! Good sirs! how I was frightened! I went to hide the letter in my bosom, and he, seeing me tremble, said smiling, ‘To whom have you been writing, Pamela?’ I said, in my confusion, ‘Pray your honour, forgive me! Only to my father and mother.’ ‘Well, then, let me see what a hand you write.’ He took it, without saying more, and read it quite through, and then gave it me again; and I said, ‘Pray your honour, forgive me! ‘Yet I know not for what: For he was not undutiful to his parents; and why should he be angry that I was dutiful to mine! And indeed he was not angry; for he took me by the hand, and said, ‘You are a good girl, to be kind to your aged father and mother. I am not angry with you for writing such innocent matters as these; though you ought to be wary what tales you send out of a family. Be faithful and diligent; and do as you should do, and I like you the better for this.’ And then he said, ‘Why, Pamela, you write a pretty hand, and spell very well too. You may look into any of my mother’s books to improve yourself, so you take care of them.’
To be sure I did nothing but curt’sy and cry, and was all in confusion, at his goodness. Indeed, he was once thought to be wildish; but he is now the best of gentlemen, I think!
But I am making another long letter: So will only add to it, that I shall ever be
Your dutiful Daughter,
PAMELA ANDREWS.
LETTER II
HER FATHER IN ANSWER
My dear Child,
Your letter was indeed a great trouble, and some comfort, to me, and to your poor mother. We are troubled, to be sure, for your good lady’s death, who took such care of you, and gave you learning, and for three or four years past has always been giving you clothes and linen, and every thing that a gentlewoman need not be ashamed to appear in. But our chief trouble is, and indeed a very great one, for fear you should be brought to any thing dishonest or wicked, by being set so above yourself. Every body talks how you are come on, and what a genteel girl you are; and some say, you are very pretty; and, indeed, when I saw you last, which is about six months ago, I should have thought so myself, if you was not our child. But what avails all this, if you are to be ruined and undone! Indeed, my dear Pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you; for what signify all the riches in the world, with a bad conscience, and to be dishonest? We are, it is true, very poor, and find it hard enough to live; though once, as you know, it was better with us. But we would sooner live upon the water, and, if possible, the clay of the ditches I contentedly dig, than live better at the price of our dear child’s ruin.
I hope the good ’squire has no design; but, as he was once, as you own, a little wildish, and as he has given you so much money, and speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on; and, Oh! that frightful word, that he would be kind to you, if you would do as you should do; these things make us very fearful for your virtue.
I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, who, you know, has formerly lived in good families; and she gives us some comfort; for she says, it is not unusual, when a lady dies, to give what she has about her person to her waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in her illness. But then, why should he smile so kindly upon you? Why should he take such a poor girl as you by the hand, as your letter says he has done twice? Why should he deign to read your letter written to us, and commend your writing and spelling? Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts ake for you; and then you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so taken with his kind expressions (which, truly, are very great favours, if he means well) that we fear – Yes, my dear child, we fear – you should be too grateful, and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no riches, nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.
I, too, have written a long letter; but will say one thing more; and that is, that in the midst of our poverty and misfortunes, we have trusted in God’s goodness, and been honest, and doubt not to be happy hereafter, if we continue to be good, though our lot is hard here: But the loss of our dear child’s virtue would be a grief that we could not bear, and would very soon bring our grey hairs to the grave.
If, then, you love us, if you wish for God’s blessing, and your own future happiness, we charge you to stand upon your guard; and, if you find the least thing that looks like a design upon your virtue, be sure you leave every thing behind you, and come away to us; for we had rather see you all covered with rags, and even follow you to the church-yard, than have it said, a child of our’s preferred any worldly conveniencies to her virtue.
We accept kindly of your dutiful present; but till we are out of our pain, cannot make use of it, for fear we should partake of the price of our poor daughter’s shame: So have laid it up in a rag among the thatch, over the window, for a while, lest we should be robbed.
With our blessings, and our hearty prayers for you, we remain,
Your careful, but loving Father and Mother,
JOHN AND ELIZ. ANDREWS.
LETTER III
I must needs say, my dear father, that your letter has filled me with trouble: for it has made my heart, which was overflowing with gratitude for my master’s goodness, suspicious and fearful; and yet, I hope I shall never find him to act unworthy of his character; for what could he get by ruining such a poor young creature as me? But that which gives me most trouble is, that you seem to mistrust the honesty of your child. No, my dear father and mother, be assured, that, by God’s grace, I never will do any thing that shall bring your grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. I will die a thousand deaths, rather than be dishonest any way. Of that be assured, and set your hearts at rest; for although I have lived above myself for some time past, yet I can be content with rags and poverty, and bread and water, and will embrace them, rather than forfeit my good name, let who will be the tempter. And of this, pray rest satisfied, and think better of
Your dutiful Daughter.
My master continues to be very affable to me. As yet I see no cause to fear any thing. Mrs Jervis the house-keeper too is very civil to me, and I have the love of every body. Sure they can’t all have designs against me because they are civil! I hope I shall always behave so as to be respected by every one; and that nobody would do me more hurt, than I am sure I would do them.
Our John so often goes your way, that I will always get him to call, that you may hear from me, either by writing (for it keeps my hand in) or by word of mouth.
LETTER IV
My dear Mother,
As my last was to my father, in answer to his letter, I will now write to you; though I have nothing to say but what will make me look more like a vain hussy, than any thing else: however, I hope I shan’t be so proud as to forget myself. Yet there is a secret pleasure one has to hear one’s self praised. You must know, then, that my Lady Davers, who, I need not tell you, is my master’s sister, has been a month at our house, and has taken great notice of me, and given me good advice to keep myself to myself. She told me I was a very pretty wench, and that every body gave me a very good character, an
d loved me; and bid me take care to keep the fellows at a distance; and said, that I might do, and be more valued for it, even by themselves.
But what pleased me much, was what I am going to tell you; for at table, as our butler Jonathan told Mrs Jervis, and she me, my master and her ladyship talking of me, she told him she thought me the prettiest wench she ever saw in her life; and that I was too pretty to live in a batchelor’s house; since no lady he might marry, would care to continue me with her. He said, I was vastly improved, and had a good share of prudence, and sense above my years; and it would be pity, that what was my merit should be my misfortune. ‘No,’ said my lady, ‘Pamela shall come and live with me, I think.’ With all his heart, he replied; he should be glad to have me so well provided for. ‘Well,’ said she, ‘I’ll consult my lord about it.’ She asked, how old I was; and Mrs Jervis said, I was fifteen last February. ‘O!’ said she, ‘if the wench’ (for so she calls us maiden-servants) ‘takes care of herself, she’ll improve yet more and more, as well in her person as mind.’
Now, my dear mother, though this may look too vain to be repeated by me, yet are you not rejoiced, as well as I, to see my master so willing to part with me? This shews that he has nothing bad in his heart. But John is just going away, and so I have only to say, that I am, and will always be,
Your honest, as well as dutiful Daughter.
Pray make use of the money. You may now do it safely.
LETTER V
My dear Father and Mother,
John being to go your way, I am willing to write, because he is so willing to carry any thing for me. He says it does him good at his heart to see you both, and to hear you talk: you are both so sensible, and so honest, that he always learns something from you to the purpose. It is a thousand pities, he says, that such worthy hearts should not have better luck in the world! and wonders, that you, my father, who are so well able to teach, and write so good a hand, succeeded no better in the school you attempted to set up; but was forced to go to such hard labour. But it is more pride to me that I am come of such honest parents, than if I had been born a lady.
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