8. CHAPTER VIII.
Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary
to most of our readers
Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned
Partridge to his presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty
pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this
with sparkling eyes, though, when he came to reflect farther, it
raised in him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour of
his master: to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the
disguise in which his master had gone out and returned, and his having
been abroad all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he
could possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by
robbery: and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should
suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly
imagine any other.
To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr. Jones, and to do justice to
the liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from
her, who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of
the age, such as building hospitals, etc., was not, however, entirely
void of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think)
that a young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was
no improper object of this virtue.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with
Mrs. Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young
gentlemen, with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they
waited from three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She
had been out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her return,
she gave the following account.
"I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if
you knew the occasion- I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six
miles off, who now lies in.- It should be a warning to all persons
(says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly.
There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how
shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor
cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and
not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire: her second
son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed
with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little
Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more;
for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good
health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is
but thirteen years old, Mr. Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I
never saw a better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother;
and, what is wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the
chearfulness in the world to her mother; and yet I saw her- I saw the
poor child, Mr. Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the
tears from her eyes." Here Mrs. Miller was prevented, by her own
tears, from going on, and there was not, I believe, a person present
who did not accompany her in them; at length she a little recovered
herself, and proceeded thus: "In all this distress the mother supports
her spirits in a surprizing manner. The danger of her son sits
heaviest upon her, and yet she endeavours as much as possible to
conceal even this concern, on her husband's account. Her grief,
however, sometimes gets the better of all her endeavours; for she
was always extravagantly fond of this boy, and a most sensible,
sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was never more affected
in my life, than when I heard the little wretch, who is hardly yet
seven years old, while his mother was wetting him with her tears,
beg her to be comforted. 'Indeed, mamma,' cried the child, 'I shan't
die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away; let heaven be ever
so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve with you and my
papa, than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't help it" (says
she, wiping her eyes), "such sensibility and affection in a child.-
And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a day or two
will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all human evils.
The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor man, his
countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like one
rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at my
first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the
bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had
nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
to supply the want of blankets.- When he rose up at my entrance, I
scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr. Jones, within this fortnight, as
you ever beheld; Mr. Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his
face pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn
with hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to
eat.- He told me himself in a whisper- he told me- I can't repeat it-
he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted. And
yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife has as
good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest affluence; I
tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.- The means of procuring
her this, he said, he believed was sent by an angel from heaven. I
know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask a single
question.
"This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to
torment each other?" "Indeed, mamma," cries Nancy, "I have always
looked on my cousin Anderson" (for that was her name) "as one of the
happiest of women." "I am sure," says Mrs. Miller, "the case at
present is much otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the
tender consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most
intolerable part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife.
Compared to which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons
only, are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is
not two years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a
most loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be
the happiest people in the world." "I never saw the least sign of
misery at her house," replied Nancy; "I am sure my heart bleeds for
what you now tell me."- "O child," answered the mother, "she hath
always endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always
been in great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been
brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his
brother; and about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their
goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a
letter to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never
delivered.- What must he think of my suffering a week to pass before
he heard of me?"
It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it
was ended he took Mrs. Miller apart with him into another room, and,
delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her
to send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people.
The look which Mrs. Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy
to be described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and
cryed out- "Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?"- But
recollecting herself, she said, "Indeed I know one such; but can there
be another?" "I hope, madam," cries Jones, "there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distress in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more." Mrs. Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, "She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;"
adding, "that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
them."
They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed
much concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom
indeed he knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs.
Miller's. He inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable
for the debts of others; vented many bitter execrations against the
brother; and concluded with wishing something could be done for the
unfortunate family. "Suppose, madam," said he, "you should recommend
them to Mr. Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will
give them a guinea with all my heart."
Mrs. Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had
whispered the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion;
though, if either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely
without reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was
not an example which he had any obligation to follow, and there are
thousands who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed
he did not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and
therefore, as the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his
money in his pocket.
I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better
opportunity than at present to communicate my observation, that the
world are in general divided into two opinions concerning charity,
which are the very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold,
that all acts of this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and,
however little you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you
acquire a great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the
contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded that beneficence is a
positive duty, and that whenever the rich fall greatly short of
their ability in relieving the distresses of the poor, their pitiful
largesses are so far from being meritorious, that they have only
performed their duty by halves, and are in some sense more
contemptible than those who have entirely neglected it.
To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall
only add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and
the receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.