by Daniel Defoe
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.
