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Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded

by Samuel Richardson · English · Gutenberg #6124 · 1,164,233 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded

Author: Samuel Richardson


        
Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6124]
                Most recently updated: November 17, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6124

Credits: Tapio Riikonen and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAMELA, OR VIRTUE REWARDED ***




PAMELA
or
VIRTUE REWARDED

By Samuel Richardson




CONTENTS

 PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
 PAMELA, or VIRTUE REWARDED
 LETTER I
 LETTER II
 LETTER III
 LETTER IV
 LETTER V
 LETTER VI
 LETTER VII
 LETTER VIII
 LETTER IX
 LETTER X
 LETTER XI
 LETTER XII
 LETTER XIII
 LETTER XIV
 LETTER XV
 LETTER XVI
 LETTER XVII
 LETTER XVIII
 LETTER XIX
 LETTER XX
 LETTER XXI
 LETTER XXII
 LETTER XXIII
 LETTER XXIV
 LETTER XXV
 LETTER XXVI
 LETTER XXVII
 LETTER XXVIII
 LETTER XXIX
 LETTER XXX
 LETTER XXXI
 LETTER XXXII




PUBLISHERS’ NOTE


Samuel Richardson, the first, in order of time, of the great English
novelists, was born in 1689 and died at London in 1761. He was a
printer by trade, and rose to be master of the Stationers’ Company.
That he also became a novelist was due to his skill as a letter-writer,
which brought him, in his fiftieth year, a commission to write a volume
of model “familiar letters” as an aid to persons too illiterate to
compose their own. The notion of connecting these letters by a story
which had interested him suggested the plot of “Pamela”; and determined
its epistolary form—a form which was retained in his later works.

This novel (published 1740) created an epoch in the history of English
fiction, and, with its successors, exerted a wide influence upon
Continental literature. It is appropriately included in a series which
is designed to form a group of studies of English life by the masters
of English fiction. For it marked the transition from the novel of
adventure to the novel of character—from the narration of entertaining
events to the study of men and of manners, of motives and of
sentiments. In it the romantic interest of the story (which is of the
slightest) is subordinated to the moral interest in the conduct of its
characters in the various situations in which they are placed. Upon
this aspect of the “drama of human life” Richardson cast a most
observant, if not always a penetrating glance. His works are an almost
microscopically detailed picture of English domestic life in the early
part of the eighteenth century.




PAMELA, or VIRTUE REWARDED


LETTER I




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 accounts, 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 at a
pinch, 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
these were some of her last words! O how my eyes run—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 clog upon 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
mourning and a year’s wages to all my lady’s servants; and I having no
wages as yet, my lady having said she should do for me as I deserved,
ordered the housekeeper to give me mourning with the rest; and gave me
with his own hand four golden guineas, and some silver, which were in
my old 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; for
Providence will not let me want: 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, which my lady had, wrapt close in paper, that they
mayn’t chink; and be sure don’t open it before him.

I know, 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 most 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 was I 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. He said, Well then, let me see how
you are come on in your writing! O how ashamed I was!—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 always dutiful to his parents; and why should he be
angry that I was so to mine? And indeed he was not angry; for he took
me by the hand, and said, You are a good girl, Pamela, 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 very pretty hand, and spell tolerably too. I see my good
mother’s care in your learning has not been thrown away upon you. She
used to say you loved reading; you may look into any of her books, to
improve yourself, so you take care of them. To be sure I did nothing
but courtesy and cry, and was all in confusion, at his goodness. Indeed
he is 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




[In answer to the preceding.]

DEAR PAMELA,

Your letter was indeed a great trouble, and some comfort, to me and
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 anything dishonest or wicked, by being set so above
yourself. Every body talks how you have come on, and what a genteel
girl you are; and some say you are very pretty; and, indeed, six months
since, when I saw you last, 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, ’tis 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 child’s
ruin.

I hope the good ’squire has no design: but when he has given you so
much money, and speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on;
and, oh, that fatal word! that he would be kind to you, if you would do
as you should do, almost kills us with fears.

I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, who, you know, has
formerly lived in good families; and she puts us in 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 stoop to read your letter to us; and
commend your writing and spelling? And why should he give you leave to
read his mother’s books?—Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts
ache 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 bring our grey hairs to the grave at once.

If, then, you love us, if you wish for God’s blessing, and your own
future happiness, we both charge you to stand upon your guard: and, if
you find the least attempt made 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 churchyard, than have
it said, a child of ours preferred any worldly conveniences to her
virtue.

We accept kindly your dutiful present; but, till we are out of 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 ELIZABETH ANDREWS.


LETTER III




DEAR FATHER,

I must needs say, 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 till death.

My master continues to be very affable to me. As yet I see no cause to
fear any thing. Mrs. Jervis, the housekeeper, 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 brings my hand in,) or by word of mouth.


LETTER IV




DEAR MOTHER,

For the last was to my father, in answer to his letter; and so 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 pretty wench, and
that every body gave me a very good character, and 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 Mrs. Jervis says, 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 bachelor’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 that it would be pity, that what was my merit should be my
misfortune.—No, says my good lady, Pamela shall come and live with me,
I think. He said, with all his heart; 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! says she, if the wench (for so she calls all us maiden servants)
takes care of herself, she’ll improve yet more and more, as well in her
person as mind.

Now, my dear father and 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. He says 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 this is more pride to me, that I
am come of such honest parents, than if I had been born a lady.

I hear nothing yet of going to Lady Davers; and I am very easy at
present here: for Mrs. Jervis uses me as if I were her own daughter,
and is a very good woman, and makes my master’s interest her own. She
is always giving me good counsel, and I love her next to you two, I
think, best of any body. She keeps so good rule and order, she is
mightily respected by us all; and takes delight to hear me read to her;
and all she loves to hear read, is good books, which we read whenever
we are alone; so that I think I am at home with you. She heard one of
our men, Harry, who is no better than he should be, speak freely to me;
I think he called me his pretty Pamela, and took hold of me, as if he
would have kissed me; for which, you may be sure, I was very angry: and
she took him to task, and was as angry at him as could be; and told me
she was very well pleased to see my prudence and modesty, and that I
kept all the fellows at a distance. And indeed I am sure I am not
proud, and carry it civilly to every body; but yet, methinks, I cannot
bear to be looked upon by these men-servants, for they seem as if they
would look one through; and, as I generally breakfast, dine, and sup,
with Mrs. Jervis, (so good she is to me,) I am very easy that I have so
little to say to them. Not but they are civil to me in the main, for
Mrs. Jervis’s sake, who they see loves me; and they stand in awe of
her, knowing her to be a gentlewoman born, though she has had
misfortunes. I am going on again with a long letter; for I love
writing, and shall tire you. But, when I began, I only intended to say,
that I am quite fearless of any danger now: and, indeed, cannot but
wonder at myself, (though your caution to me was your watchful love,)
that I should be so foolish as to be so uneasy as I have been: for I am
sure my master would not demean himself, so as to think upon such a
poor girl as I, for my harm. For such a thing would ruin his credit, as
well as mine, you know: who, to be sure, may expect one of the best
ladies in the land. So no more at present, but that I am

Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER VI




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

My master has been very kind since my last; for he has given me a suit
of my late lady’s clothes, and half a dozen of her shifts, and six fine
handkerchiefs, and three of her cambric aprons, and four holland ones.
The clothes are fine silk, and too rich and too good for me, to be
sure. I wish it was no affront to him to make money of them, and send
it to you: it would do me more good.

You will be full of fears, I warrant now, of some design upon me, till
I tell you, that he was with Mrs. Jervis when he gave them me; and he
gave her a mort of good things, at the same time, and bid her wear them
in remembrance of her good friend, my lady, his mother. And when he
gave me these fine things, he said, These, Pamela, are for you; have
them made fit for you, when your mourning is laid by, and wear them for
your good mistress’s sake. Mrs. Jervis gives you a very good word; and
I would have you continue to behave as prudently as you have done
hitherto, and every body will be your friend.

I was so surprised at his goodness, that I could not tell what to say.
I courtesied to him, and to Mrs. Jervis for her good word; and said, I
wished I might be deserving of his favour, and her kindness: and
nothing should be wanting in me, to the best of my knowledge.

O how amiable a thing is doing good!—It is all I envy great folks for.

I always thought my young master a fine gentleman, as every body says
he is: but he gave these good things to us both with such a
graciousness, as I thought he looked like an angel.

Mrs. Jervis says, he asked her, If I kept the men at a distance? for,
he said, I was very pretty; and to be drawn in to have any of them,
might be my ruin, and make me poor and miserable betimes. She never is
wanting to give me a good word, and took occasion to launch out in my
praise, she says. But I hope she has said no more than I shall try to
deserve, though I mayn’t at present. I am sure I will always love her,
next to you and my dear mother. So I rest

Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER VII




DEAR FATHER,

Since my last, my master gave me more fine things. He called me up to
my late lady’s closet, and, pulling out her drawers, he gave me two
suits of fine Flanders laced head-clothes, three pair of fine silk
shoes, two hardly the worse, and just fit for me, (for my lady had a
very little foot,) and the other with wrought silver buckles in them;
and several ribands and top-knots of all colours; four pair of white
fine cotton stockings, and three pair of fine silk ones; and two pair
of rich stays. I was quite astonished, and unable to speak for a while;
but yet I was inwardly ashamed to take the stockings; for Mrs. Jervis
was not there: If she had, it would have been nothing. I believe I
received them very awkwardly; for he smiled at my awkwardness, and
said, Don’t blush, Pamela: Dost think I don’t know pretty maids should
wear shoes and stockings?

I was so confounded at these words, you might have beat me down with a
feather. For you must think, there was no answer to be made to this:
So, like a fool, I was ready to cry; and went away courtesying and
blushing, I am sure, up to the ears; for, though there was no harm in
what he said, yet I did not know how to take it. But I went and told
all to Mrs. Jervis, who said, God put it into his heart to be good to
me; and I must double my diligence. It looked to her, she said, as if
he would fit me in dress for a waiting-maid’s place on Lady Davers’s
own person.

But still your kind fatherly cautions came into my head, and made all
these gifts nothing near to me what they would have been. But yet, I
hope, there is no reason; for what good could it do to him to harm such
a simple maiden as me? Besides, to be sure no lady would look upon him,
if he should so disgrace himself. So I will make myself easy; and,
indeed, I should never have been otherwise, if you had not put it into
my head; for my good, I know very well. But, may be, without these
uneasinesses to mingle with these benefits, I might be too much puffed
up: So I will conclude, all that happens is for our good; and God bless
you, my dear father and mother; and I know you constantly pray for a
blessing upon me; who am, and shall always be,

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER VIII




DEAR PAMELA,

I cannot but renew my cautions on your master’s kindness, and his free
expression to you about the stockings. Yet there may not be, and I hope
there is not, any thing in it. But when I reflect, that there possibly
may, and that if there should, no less depends upon it than my child’s
everlasting happiness in this world and the next; it is enough to make
one fearful for you. Arm yourself, my dear child, for the worst; and
resolve to lose your life sooner than your virtue. What though the
doubts I filled you with, lessen the pleasure you would have had in
your master’s kindness; yet what signify the delights that arise from a
few paltry fine clothes, in comparison with a good conscience?

These are, indeed, very great favours that he heaps upon you, but so
much the more to be suspected; and when you say he looked so amiably,
and like an angel, how afraid I am, that they should make too great an
impression upon you! For, though you are blessed with sense and
prudence above your years, yet I tremble to think, what a sad hazard a
poor maiden of little more than fifteen years of age stands against the
temptations of this world, and a designing young gentleman, if he
should prove so, who has so much power to oblige, and has a kind of
authority to command, as your master.

I charge you, my dear child, on both our blessings, poor as we are, to
be on your guard; there can be no harm in that. And since Mrs. Jervis
is so good a gentlewoman, and so kind to you, I am the easier a great
deal, and so is your mother; and we hope you will hide nothing from
her, and take her counsel in every thing. So, with our blessings, and
assured prayers for you, more than for ourselves, we remain,

Your loving FATHER AND MOTHER.

Be sure don’t let people’s telling you, you are pretty, puff you up;
for you did not make yourself, and so can have no praise due to you for
it. It is virtue and goodness only, that make the true beauty. Remember
that, Pamela.


LETTER IX




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I am sorry to write you word, that the hopes I had of going to wait on
Lady Davers, are quite over. My lady would have had me; but my master,
as I heard by the by, would not consent to it. He said her nephew might
be taken with me, and I might draw him in, or be drawn in by him; and
he thought, as his mother loved me, and committed me to his care, he
ought to continue me with him; and Mrs. Jervis would be a mother to me.
Mrs. Jervis tells me the lady shook her head, and said, Ah! brother!
and that was all. And as you have made me fearful by your cautions, my
heart at times misgives me. But I say nothing yet of your caution, or
my own uneasiness, to Mrs. Jervis; not that I mistrust her, but for
fear she should think me presumptuous, and vain and conceited, to have
any fears about the matter, from the great distance between such a
gentleman, and so poor a girl. But yet Mrs. Jervis seemed to build
something upon Lady Davers’s shaking her head, and saying, Ah! brother!
and no more. God, I hope, will give me his grace: and so I will not, if
I can help it, make myself too uneasy; for I hope there is no occasion.
But every little matter that happens, I will acquaint you with, that
you may continue to me your good advice, and pray for

Your sad-hearted PAMELA.


LETTER X




DEAR MOTHER,

You and my good father may wonder you have not had a letter from me in
so many weeks; but a sad, sad scene, has been the occasion of it. For
to be sure, now it is too plain, that all your cautions were well
grounded. O my dear mother! I am miserable, truly miserable!—But yet,
don’t be frightened, I am honest!—God, of his goodness, keep me so!

O this angel of a master! this fine gentleman! this gracious benefactor
to your poor Pamela! who was to take care of me at the prayer of his
good dying mother; who was so apprehensive for me, lest I should be
drawn in by Lord Davers’s nephew, that he would not let me go to Lady
Davers’s: This very gentleman (yes, I must call him gentleman, though
he has fallen from the merit of that title) has degraded himself to
offer freedoms to his poor servant! He has now shewed himself in his
true colours; and, to me, nothing appear so black, and so frightful.

I have not been idle; but had writ from time to time, how he, by sly
mean degrees, exposed his wicked views; but somebody stole my letter,
and I know not what has become of it. It was a very long one. I fear,
he that was mean enough to do bad things, in one respect, did not stick
at this. But be it as it will, all the use he can make of it will be,
that he may be ashamed of his part; I not of mine: for he will see I
was resolved to be virtuous, and gloried in the honesty of my poor
parents.

I will tell you all, the next opportunity; for I am watched very
narrowly; and he says to Mrs. Jervis, This girl is always scribbling; I
think she may be better employed. And yet I work all hours with my
needle, upon his linen, and the fine linen of the family; and am,
besides, about flowering him a waistcoat.—But, oh! my heart’s broke
almost; for what am I likely to have for my reward, but shame and
disgrace, or else ill words, and hard treatment! I’ll tell you all
soon, and hope I shall find my long letter.

Your most afflicted DAUGHTER.

May-be, I _he_ and _him_ him too much: but it is his own fault if I do.
For why did he lose all his dignity with me?


LETTER XI




DEAR MOTHER,

Well, I can’t find my letter, and so I’ll try to recollect it all, and
be as brief as I can. All went well enough in the main for some time
after my letter but one. At last, I saw some reason to suspect; for he
would look upon me, whenever he saw me, in such a manner, as shewed not
well; and one day he came to me, as I was in the summer-house in the
little garden, at work with my needle, and Mrs. Jervis was just gone
from me; and I would have gone out, but he said, No don’t go, Pamela; I
have something to say to you; and you always fly me when I come near
you, as if you were afraid of me.

I was much out of countenance, you may well think; but said, at last,
It does not become your good servant to stay in your presence, sir,
without your business required it; and I hope I shall always know my
place.

Well, says he, my business does require it sometimes; and I have a mind
you should stay to hear what I have to say to you.

I stood still confounded, and began to tremble, and the more when he
took me by the hand; for now no soul was near us.

My sister Davers, said he, (and seemed, I thought, to be as much at a
loss for words as I,) would have had you live with her; but she would
not do for you what I am resolved to do, if you continue faithful and
obliging. What say’st thou, my girl? said he, with some eagerness;
had’st thou not rather stay with me, than go to my sister Davers? He
looked so, as filled me with affrightment; I don’t know how; wildly, I
thought.

I said, when I could speak, Your honour will forgive me; but as you
have no lady for me to wait upon, and my good lady has been now dead
this twelvemonth, I had rather, if it would not displease you, wait
upon Lady Davers, because—

I was proceeding, and he said, a little hastily—Because you are a
little fool, and know not what’s good for yourself. I tell you I will
make a gentlewoman of you, if you be obliging, and don’t stand in your
own light; and so saying, he put his arm about me, and kissed me!

Now, you will say, all his wickedness appeared plainly. I struggled and
trembled, and was so benumbed with terror, that I sunk down, not in a
fit, and yet not myself; and I found myself in his arms, quite void of
strength; and he kissed me two or three times, with frightful
eagerness.—At last I burst from him, and was getting out of the
summer-house; but he held me back, and shut the door.

I would have given my life for a farthing. And he said, I’ll do you no
harm, Pamela; don’t be afraid of me. I said, I won’t stay. You won’t,
hussy! said he: Do you know whom you speak to? I lost all fear, and all
respect, and said, Yes, I do, sir, too well!—Well may I forget that I
am your servant, when you forget what belongs to a master.

I sobbed and cried most sadly. What a foolish hussy you are! said he:
Have I done you any harm? Yes, sir, said I, the greatest harm in the
world: You have taught me to forget myself and what belongs to me, and
have lessened the distance that fortune has made between us, by
demeaning yourself, to be so free to a poor servant. Yet, sir, I will
be bold to say, I am honest, though poor: and if you was a prince, I
would not be otherwise.

He was angry, and said, Who would have you otherwise, you foolish slut!
Cease your blubbering. I own I have demeaned myself; but it was only to
try you. If you can keep this matter secret, you’ll give me the better
opinion of your prudence; and here’s something, said he, putting some
gold in my hand, to make you amends for the fright I put you in. Go,
take a walk in the garden, and don’t go in till your blubbering is
over: and I charge you say nothing of what is past, and all shall be
well, and I’ll forgive you.

I won’t take the money, indeed, sir, said I, poor as I am I won’t take
it. For, to say truth, I thought it looked like taking earnest, and so
I put it upon the bench; and as he seemed vexed and confused at what he
had done, I took the opportunity to open the door, and went out of the
summer-house.

He called to me, and said, Be secret; I charge you, Pamela; and don’t
go in yet, as I told you.

O how poor and mean must those actions be, and how little must they
make the best of gentlemen look, when they offer such things as are
unworthy of themselves, and put it into the power of their inferiors to
be greater than they!

I took a turn or two in the garden, but in sight of the house, for fear
of the worst; and breathed upon my hand to dry my eyes, because I would
not be too disobedient. My next shall tell you more.

Pray for me, my dear father and mother: and don’t be angry I have not
yet run away from this house, so late my comfort and delight, but now
my terror and anguish. I am forced to break off hastily.

Your dutiful and honest DAUGHTER.


LETTER XII




DEAR MOTHER,

Well, I will now proceed with my sad story. And so, after I had dried
my eyes, I went in, and began to ruminate with myself what I had best
to do. Sometimes I thought I would leave the house and go to the next
town, and wait an opportunity to get to you; but then I was at a loss
to resolve whether to take away the things he had given me or no, and
how to take them away: Sometimes I thought to leave them behind me, and
only go with the clothes on my back, but then I had two miles and a
half, and a byway, to the town; and being pretty well dressed, I might
come to some harm, almost as bad as what I would run away from; and
then may-be, thought I, it will be reported, I have stolen something,
and so was forced to run away; and to carry a bad name back with me to
my dear parents, would be a sad thing indeed!—O how I wished for my
grey russet again, and my poor honest dress, with which you fitted me
out, (and hard enough too it was for you to do it!) for going to this
place, when I was not twelve years old, in my good lady’s days!
Sometimes I thought of telling Mrs. Jervis, and taking her advice, and
only feared his command to be secret; for, thought I, he may be ashamed
of his actions, and never attempt the like again: And as poor Mrs.
Jervis depended upon him, through misfortunes, that had attended her, I
thought it would be a sad thing to bring his displeasure upon her for
my sake.

In this quandary, now considering, now crying, and not knowing what to
do, I passed the time in my chamber till evening; when desiring to be
excused going to supper, Mrs. Jervis came up to me, and said, Why must
I sup without you, Pamela? Come, I see you are troubled at something;
tell me what is the matter.

I begged I might be permitted to be with her on nights; for I was
afraid of spirits, and they would not hurt such a good person as she.
That was a silly excuse, she said; for why was not you afraid of
spirits before?—(Indeed I did not think of that.) But you shall be my
bed-fellow with all my heart, added she, let your reason be what it
will; only come down to supper. I begged to be excused; for, said I, I
have been crying so, that it will be taken notice of by my
fellow-servants; and I will hide nothing from you, Mrs. Jervis, when we
are alone.

She was so good to indulge me; but made haste to come up to bed; and
told the servants, that I should be with her, because she could not
rest well, and would get me to read her to sleep; for she knew I loved
reading, she said.

When we were alone, I told her all that had passed; for I thought,
though he had bid me not, yet if he should come to know I had told, it
would be no worse; for to keep a secret of such a nature, would be, as
I apprehended, to deprive myself of the good advice which I never
wanted more; and might encourage him to think I did not resent it as I
ought, and would keep worse secrets, and so make him do worse by me.
Was I right, my dear mother?

Mrs. Jervis could not help mingling tears with my tears; for I cried
all the time I was telling her the story, and begged her to advise me
what to do; and I shewed her my dear father’s two letters, and she
praised the honesty and editing of them, and said pleasing things to me
of you both. But she begged I would not think of leaving my service;
for, said she, in all likelihood, you behaved so virtuously, that he
will be ashamed of what he has done, and never offer the like to you
again: though, my dear Pamela, said she, I fear more for your
prettiness than for anything else; because the best man in the land
might love you: so she was pleased to say. She wished it was in her
power to live independent; then she would take a little private house,
and I should live with her like her daughter.

And so, as you ordered me to take her advice, I resolved to tarry to
see how things went, except he was to turn me away; although, in your
first letter, you ordered me to come away the moment I had any reason
to be apprehensive. So, dear father and mother, it is not disobedience,
I hope, that I stay; for I could not expect a blessing, or the good
fruits of your prayers for me, if I was disobedient.

All the next day I was very sad, and began my long letter. He saw me
writing, and said (as I mentioned) to Mrs. Jervis, That girl is always
scribbling; methinks she might find something else to do, or to that
purpose. And when I had finished my letter, I put it under the toilet
in my late lady’s dressing-room, whither nobody comes but myself and
Mrs. Jervis, besides my master; but when I came up again to seal it, to
my great concern, it was gone; and Mrs. Jervis knew nothing of it; and
nobody knew of my master’s having been near the place in the time; so I
have been sadly troubled about it: But Mrs. Jervis, as well as I,
thinks he has it, some how or other; and he appears cross and angry,
and seems to shun me, as much as he said I did him. It had better be so
than worse!

But he has ordered Mrs. Jervis to bid me not pass so much time in
writing; which is a poor matter for such a gentleman as he to take
notice of, as I am not idle other ways, if he did not resent what he
thought I wrote upon. And this has no very good look.

But I am a good deal easier since I lie with Mrs. Jervis; though, after
all, the fears I live in on one side, and his frowning and displeasure
at what I do on the other, make me more miserable than enough.

O that I had never left my little bed in the loft, to be thus exposed
to temptations on one hand, or disgusts on the other! How happy was I
awhile ago! How contrary now!—Pity and pray for

Your afflicted

PAMELA.


LETTER XIII




My DEAREST CHILD,

Our hearts bleed for your distress, and the temptations you are exposed
to. You have our hourly prayers; and we would have you flee this evil
great house and man, if you find he renews his attempts. You ought to
have done it at first, had you not had Mrs. Jervis to advise with. We
can find no fault in your conduct hitherto: But it makes our hearts
ache for fear of the worst. O my child! temptations are sore
things,—but yet, without them, we know not ourselves, nor what we are
able to do.

Your danger is very great; for you have riches, youth, and a fine
gentleman, as the world reckons him, to withstand; but how great will
be your honour to withstand them! And when we consider your past
conduct, and your virtuous education, and that you have been bred to be
more ashamed of dishonesty than poverty, we trust in God, that He will
enable you to overcome. Yet, as we can’t see but your life must be a
burthen to you, through the great apprehensions always upon you; and
that it may be presumptuous to trust too much to our own strength; and
that you are but very young; and the devil may put it into his heart to
use some stratagem, of which great men are full, to decoy you: I think
you had better come home to share our poverty with safety, than live
with so much discontent in a plenty, that itself may be dangerous. God
direct you for the best! While you have Mrs. Jervis for an adviser and
bed-fellow, (and, O my dear child! that was prudently done of you,) we
are easier than we should be; and so committing you to the divine
protection, remain

Your truly loving, but careful,

FATHER and MOTHER.


LETTER XIV




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

Mrs. Jervis and I have lived very comfortably together for this
fortnight past; for my master was all that time at his Lincolnshire
estate, and at his sister’s, the Lady Davers. But he came home
yesterday. He had some talk with Mrs. Jervis soon after, and mostly
about me. He said to her, it seems, Well, Mrs. Jervis, I know Pamela
has your good word; but do you think her of any use in the family? She
told me she was surprised at the question, but said, That I was one of
the most virtuous and industrious young creatures that ever she knew.
Why that word virtuous, said he, I pray you? Was there any reason to
suppose her otherwise? Or has any body taken it into his head to try
her?—I wonder, sir, says she, you ask such a question! Who dare offer
any thing to her in such an orderly and well-governed house as yours,
and under a master of so good a character for virtue and honour? Your
servant, Mrs. Jervis, says he, for your good opinion: but pray, if any
body did, do you think Pamela would let you know it? Why, sir, said
she, she is a poor innocent young creature, and I believe has so much
confidence in me, that she would take my advice as soon as she would
her mother’s. Innocent! again, and virtuous, I warrant! Well, Mrs.
Jervis, you abound with your epithets; but I take her to be an artful
young baggage; and had I a young handsome butler or steward, she’d soon
make her market of one of them, if she thought it worth while to snap
at him for a husband. Alack-a-day, sir, said she, it is early days with
Pamela; and she does not yet think of a husband, I dare say: and your
steward and butler are both men in years, and think nothing of the
matter. No, said he, if they were younger, they’d have more wit than to
think of such a girl; I’ll tell you my mind of her, Mrs. Jervis: I
don’t think this same favourite of yours so very artless a girl as you
imagine. I am not to dispute with your honour, said Mrs. Jervis; but I
dare say, if the men will let her alone, she’ll never trouble herself
about them. Why, Mrs. Jervis, said he, are there any men that will not
let her alone, that you know of? No, indeed, sir, said she; she keeps
herself so much to herself, and yet behaves so prudently, that they all
esteem her, and shew her as great a respect as if she was a gentlewoman
born.

Ay, says he, that’s her art, that I was speaking of: but, let me tell
you, the girl has vanity and conceit, and pride too, or I am mistaken;
and, perhaps, I could give you an instance of it. Sir, said she, you
can see farther than such a poor silly woman as I am; but I never saw
any thing but innocence in her—And virtue too, I’ll warrant ye! said
he. But suppose I could give you an instance, where she has talked a
little too freely of the kindnesses that have been shewn her from a
certain quarter; and has had the vanity to impute a few kind words,
uttered in mere compassion to her youth and circumstances, into a
design upon her, and even dared to make free with names that she ought
never to mention but with reverence and gratitude; what would you say
to that?—Say, sir! said she, I cannot tell what to say. But I hope
Pamela incapable of such ingratitude.

Well, no more of this silly girl, says he; you may only advise her, as
you are her friend, not to give herself too much licence upon the
favours she meets with; and if she stays here, that she will not write
the affairs of my family purely for an exercise to her pen, and her
invention. I tell you she is a subtle, artful gipsy, and time will shew
it you.

Was ever the like heard, my dear father and mother? It is plain he did
not expect to meet with such a repulse, and mistrusts that I have told
Mrs. Jervis, and has my long letter too, that I intended for you; and
so is vexed to the heart. But I can’t help it. I had better be thought
artful and subtle, than be so, in his sense; and, as light as he makes
of the words virtue and innocence in me, he would have made a less
angry construction, had I less deserved that he should do so; for then,
may be, my crime should have been my virtue with him naughty gentleman
as he is!

I will soon write again; but must now end with saying, that I am, and
shall always be, Your honest DAUGHTER.


LETTER XV




DEAR MOTHER,

I broke off abruptly my last letter; for I feared he was coming; and so
it happened. I put the letter in my bosom, and took up my work, which
lay by me; but I had so little of the artful, as he called it, that I
looked as confused as if I had been doing some great harm.

Sit still, Pamela, said he, mind your work, for all me.—You don’t tell
me I am welcome home, after my journey to Lincolnshire. It would be
hard, sir, said I, if you was not always welcome to your honour’s own
house.

I would have gone; but he said, Don’t run away, I tell you. I have a
word or two to say to you. Good sirs, how my heart went pit-a-pat! When
I was a little kind to you, said he, in the summer-house, and you
carried yourself so foolishly upon it, as if I had intended to do you
great harm, did I not tell you you should take no notice of what passed
to any creature? and yet you have made a common talk of the matter, not
considering either my reputation, or your own.—I made a common talk of
it, sir! said I: I have nobody to talk to, hardly.

He interrupted me, and said, Hardly! you little equivocator! what do
you mean by hardly? Let me ask you, have not you told Mrs. Jervis for
one? Pray your honour, said I, all in agitation, let me go down; for it
is not for me to hold an argument with your honour. Equivocator, again!
said he, and took my hand, what do you talk of an argument? Is it
holding an argument with me to answer a plain question? Answer me what
I asked. O, good sir, said I, let me beg you will not urge me farther,
for fear I forget myself again, and be saucy.

Answer me then, I bid you, says he, Have you not told Mrs. Jervis? It
will be saucy in you if you don’t answer me directly to what I ask.
Sir, said I, and fain would have pulled my hand away, perhaps I should
be for answering you by another question, and that would not become me.
What is it you would say? replies he; speak out.

Then, sir, said I, why should your honour be so angry I should tell
Mrs. Jervis, or any body else, what passed, if you intended no harm?

Well said, pretty innocent and artless! as Mrs. Jervis calls you, said
he; and is it thus you taunt and retort upon me, insolent as you are!
But still I will be answered directly to my question. Why then, sir,
said I, I will not tell a lie for the world: I did tell Mrs. Jervis;
for my heart was almost broken; but I opened not my mouth to any other.
Very well, bold-face, said he, and equivocator again! You did not open
your mouth to any other; but did not you write to some other? Why, now,
and please your honour, said I, (for I was quite courageous just then,)
you could not have asked me this question, if you had not taken from me
my letter to my father and mother, in which I own I had broken my mind
freely to them, and asked their advice, and poured forth my griefs!

And so I am to be exposed, am I, said he, in my own house, and out of
my house, to the whole world, by such a sauce-box as you? No, good sir,
said I, and I hope your honour won’t be angry with me; it is not I that
expose you, if I say nothing but the truth. So, taunting again!
Assurance as you are! said he: I will not be thus talked to!

Pray, sir, said I, of whom can a poor girl take advice, if it must not
be of her father and mother, and such a good woman as Mrs. Jervis, who,
for her sex-sake, should give it me when asked? Insolence! said he, and
stamped with his foot, am I to be questioned thus by such a one as you?
I fell down on my knees, and said, For Heaven’s sake, your honour, pity
a poor creature, that knows nothing of her duty, but how to cherish her
virtue and good name: I have nothing else to trust to: and, though poor
and friendless here, yet I have always been taught to value honesty
above my life. Here’s ado with your honesty, said he, foolish girl! Is
it not one part of honesty to be dutiful and grateful to your master,
do you think? Indeed, sir, said I, it is impossible I should be
ungrateful to your honour, or disobedient, or deserve the names of
bold-face or insolent, which you call me, but when your commands are
contrary to that first duty which shall ever be the principle of my
life!

He seemed to be moved, and rose up, and walked into the great chamber
two or three turns, leaving me on my knees; and I threw my apron over
my face, and laid my head on a chair, and cried as if my heart would
break, having no power to stir.

At last he came in again, but, alas! with mischief in his heart! and
raising me up, he said, Rise, Pamela, rise; you are your own enemy.
Your perverse folly will be your ruin: I tell you this, that I am very
much displeased with the freedoms you have taken with my name to my
housekeeper, as also to your father and mother; and you may as well
have real cause to take these freedoms with me, as to make my name
suffer for imaginary ones. And saying so, he offered to take me on his
knee, with some force. O how I was terrified! I said, like as I had
read in a book a night or two before, Angels and saints, and all the
host of heaven, defend me! And may I never survive one moment that
fatal one in which I shall forfeit my innocence! Pretty fool! said he,
how will you forfeit your innocence, if you are obliged to yield to a
force you cannot withstand? Be easy, said he; for let the worst happen
that can, you will have the merit, and I the blame; and it will be a
good subject for letters to your father and mother, and a tale into the
bargain for Mrs. Jervis.

He by force kissed my neck and lips; and said, Whoever blamed Lucretia?
All the shame lay on the ravisher only and I am content to take all the
blame upon me, as I have already borne too great a share for what I
have not deserved.

May I, said I, Lucretia like, justify myself with my death, if I am
used barbarously! O my good girl! said he, tauntingly, you are well
read, I see; and we shall make out between us, before we have done, a
pretty story in romance, I warrant ye.

He then put his hand in my bosom, and indignation gave me double
strength, and I got loose from him by a sudden spring, and ran out of
the room! and the next chamber being open, I made shift to get into it,
and threw to the door, and it locked after me; but he followed me so
close, he got hold of my gown, and tore a piece off, which hung without
the door; for the key was on the inside.

I just remember I got into the room; for I knew nothing further of the
matter till afterwards; for I fell into a fit with my terror, and there
I lay, till he, as I suppose, looking through the key-hole, spyed me
upon the floor, stretched out at length, on my face; and then he called
Mrs. Jervis to me, who, by his assistance, bursting open the door, he
went away, seeing me coming to myself; and bid her say nothing of the
matter, if she was wise.

Poor Mrs. Jervis thought it was worse, and cried over me like as if she
was my mother; and I was two hours before I came to myself; and just as
I got a little up on my feet, he coming in, I fainted away again with
the terror; and so he withdrew: but he staid in the next room to let
nobody come near us, that his foul proceedings might not be known.

Mrs. Jervis gave me her smelling-bottle, and had cut my laces, and set
me in a great chair, and he called her to him: How is the girl? said
he: I never saw such a fool in my life. I did nothing at all to her.
Mrs. Jervis could not speak for crying. So he said, She has told you,
it seems, that I was kind to her in the summer-house, though I’ll
assure you, I was quite innocent then as well as now; and I desire you
to keep this matter to yourself, and let me not be named in it.

O, sir, said she, for your honour’s sake, and for Christ’s sake!—But he
would not hear her, and said—For your own sake, I tell you, Mrs.
Jervis, say not a word more. I have done her no harm. And I won’t have
her stay in my house; prating, perverse fool, as she is! But since she
is so apt to fall into fits, or at least pretend to do so, prepare her
to see me to-morrow after dinner, in my mother’s closet, and do you be
with her, and you shall hear what passes between us.

And so he went out in a pet, and ordered his chariot and four to be got
ready, and went a visiting somewhere.

Mrs. Jervis then came to me, and I told her all that had happened, and
said, I was resolved not to stay in the house: And she replying, He
seemed to threaten as much; I said, I am glad of that; then I shall be
easy. So she told me all he had said to her, as above.

Mrs. Jervis is very loath I should go; and yet, poor woman! she begins
to be afraid for herself; but would not have me ruined for the world.
She says to be sure he means no good; but may be, now he sees me so
resolute, he will give over all attempts; and that I shall better know
what to do after to-morrow, when I am to appear before a very bad
judge, I doubt.

O how I dread this to-morrow’s appearance! But be as assured, my dear
parents, of the honesty of your poor child, as I am of your prayers for

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

O this frightful to-morrow; how I dread it!


LETTER XVI




MY DEAR PARENTS,

I know you longed to hear from me soon; and I send you as soon as I
could.

Well, you may believe how uneasily I passed the time, till his
appointed hour came. Every minute, as it grew nearer, my terrors
increased; and sometimes I had great courage, and sometimes none at
all; and I thought I should faint when it came to the time my master
had dined. I could neither eat nor drink, for my part; and do what I
could, my eyes were swelled with crying.

At last he went up to the closet, which was my good lady’s
dressing-room; a room I once loved, but then as much hated.

Don’t your heart ache for me?—I am sure mine fluttered about like a
new-caught bird in a cage. O Pamela, said I to myself, why art thou so
foolish and fearful? Thou hast done no harm! What, if thou fearest an
unjust judge, when thou art innocent, would’st thou do before a just
one, if thou wert guilty? Have courage, Pamela, thou knowest the worst!
And how easy a choice poverty and honesty is, rather than plenty and
wickedness.

So I cheered myself; but yet my poor heart sunk, and my spirits were
quite broken. Everything that stirred, I thought was to call me to my
account. I dreaded it, and yet I wished it to come.

Well, at last he rung the bell: O, thought I, that it was my
passing-bell! Mrs. Jervis went up, with a full heart enough, poor good
woman! He said, Where’s Pamela? Let her come up, and do you come with
her. She came to me: I was ready to go with my feet; but my heart was
with my dear father and mother, wishing to share your poverty and
happiness. I went up, however.

O how can wicked men seem so steady and untouched with such black
hearts, while poor innocents stand like malefactors before them!

He looked so stern, that my heart failed me, and I wished myself any
where but there, though I had before been summoning up all my courage.
Good Heaven, said I to myself, give me courage to stand before this
naughty master! O soften him, or harden me!

Come in, fool, said he, angrily, as soon as he saw me; (and snatched my
hand with a pull;) you may well be ashamed to see me, after your noise
and nonsense, and exposing me as you have done. I ashamed to see you!
thought I: Very pretty indeed!—But I said nothing.

Mrs. Jervis, said he, here you are both together. Do you sit down; but
let her stand, if she will. Ay, thought I, if I can; for my knees beat
one against the other. Did you not think, when you saw the girl in the
way you found her in, that I had given her the greatest occasion for
complaint, that could possibly be given to a woman? And that I had
actually ruined her, as she calls it? Tell me, could you think any
thing less? Indeed, said she, I feared so at first. Has she told you
what I did to her, and all I did to her, to occasion all this folly, by
which my reputation might have suffered in your opinion, and in that of
all the family.—Inform me, what she has told you?

She was a little too much frightened, as she owned afterwards, at his
sternness, and said, Indeed she told me you only pulled her on your
knee, and kissed her.

Then I plucked up my spirits a little. Only! Mrs. Jervis? said I; and
was not that enough to shew me what I had to fear? When a master of his
honour’s degree demeans himself to be so free as that to such a poor
servant as me, what is the next to be expected?—But your honour went
farther, so you did; and threatened me what you would do, and talked of
Lucretia, and her hard fate.—Your honour knows you went too far for a
master to a servant, or even to his equal; and I cannot bear it. So I
fell a crying most sadly.

Mrs. Jervis began to excuse me, and to beg he would pity a poor maiden,
that had such a value for her reputation. He said, I speak it to her
face, I think her very pretty, and I thought her humble, and one that
would not grow upon my favours, or the notice I took of her; but I
abhor the thoughts of forcing her to any thing. I know myself better,
said he, and what belongs to me: And to be sure I have enough demeaned
myself to take notice of such a one as she; but I was bewitched by her,
I think, to be freer than became me; though I had no intention to carry
the jest farther.

What poor stuff was all this, my dear mother, from a man of his sense!
But see how a bad cause and bad actions confound the greatest wits!—It
gave me a little more courage then; for innocence, I find, in a low
fortune, and weak mind, has many advantages over guilt, with all its
riches and wisdom.

So I said, Your honour may call this jest or sport, or what you please;
but indeed, sir, it is not a jest that becomes the distance between a
master and a servant. Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis? said he: do you hear
the pertness of the creature? I had a good deal of this sort before in
the summer-house, and yesterday too, which made me rougher with her
than perhaps I had otherwise been.

Says Mrs. Jervis, Pamela, don’t be so pert to his honour: you should
know your distance; you see his honour was only in jest.—O dear Mrs.
Jervis, said I, don’t you blame me too. It is very difficult to keep
one’s distance to the greatest of men, when they won’t keep it
themselves to their meanest servants.

See again! said he; could you believe this of the young baggage, if you
had not heard it? Good your honour, said the well-meaning gentlewoman,
pity and forgive the poor girl; she is but a girl, and her virtue is
very dear to her; and I will pawn my life for her, she will never be
pert to your honour, if you’ll be so good as to molest her no more, nor
frighten her again. You saw, sir, by her fit, she was in terror; she
could not help it; and though your honour intended her no harm, yet the
apprehension was almost death to her: and I had much ado to bring her
to herself again. O the little hypocrite! said he; she has all the arts
of her sex; they were born with her; and I told you awhile ago you did
not know her. But this was not the reason principally of my calling you
before me together. I find I am likely to suffer in my reputation by
the perverseness and folly of this girl. She has told you all, and
perhaps more than all; nay, I make no doubt of it; and she has written
letters (for I find she is a mighty letter-writer!) to her father and
mother, and others, as far as I know, in which representing herself as
an angel of light, she makes her kind master and benefactor, a devil
incarnate—(O how people will sometimes, thought I, call themselves by
their right names!)—And all this, added he, I won’t hear; and so I am
resolved she shall return to the distresses and poverty she was taken
from; and let her be careful how she uses my name with freedom, when
she is gone from me.

I was brightened up at once with these welcome words, and I threw
myself upon my knees at his feet, with a most sincere glad heart; and I
said, May your honour be for ever blessed for your resolution! Now I
shall be happy. And permit me, on my bended knees, to thank you for all
the benefits and favours you have heaped upon me; for the opportunities
I have had of improvement and learning, through my good lady’s means,
and yours. I will now forget all your honour has offered me: and I
promise you, that I will never let your name pass my lips, but with
reverence and gratitude: and so God Almighty bless your honour, for
ever and ever! Amen.

Then rising from my knees, I went away with another-guise sort of heart
than I came into his presence with: and so I fell to writing this
letter. And thus all is happily over.

And now, my dearest father and mother, expect to see soon your poor
daughter, with an humble and dutiful mind, returned to you: and don’t
fear but I know how to be as happy with you as ever: for I will be in
the loft, as I used to do; and pray let my little bed be got ready; and
I have a small matter of money, which will buy me a suit of clothes,
fitter for my condition than what I have; and I will get Mrs. Mumford
to help me to some needle-work: and fear not that I shall be a burden
to you, if my health continues. I know I shall be blessed, if not for
my own sake, for both your sakes, who have, in all your trials and
misfortunes, preserved so much integrity as makes every body speak well
of you both. But I hope he will let good Mrs. Jervis give me a
character, for fear it should be thought that I was turned away for
dishonesty.

And so, my dear parents, may you be blest for me, and I for you! And I
will always pray for my master and Mrs. Jervis. So good night; for it
is late, and I shall be soon called to bed.

I hope Mrs. Jervis is not angry with me. She has not called me to
supper: though I could eat nothing if she had. But I make no doubt I
shall sleep purely to-night, and dream that I am with you, in my dear,
dear, happy loft once more.

So good night again, my dear father and mother, says

Your poor honest DAUGHTER.

Perhaps I mayn’t come this week, because I must get up the linen, and
leave in order every thing belonging to my place. So send me a line, if
you can, to let me know if I shall be welcome, by John, who will call
for it as he returns. But say nothing of my coming away to him, as yet:
for it will be said I blab every thing.


v LETTER XVII




MY DEAREST DAUGHTER,

Welcome, welcome, ten times welcome shall you be to us; for you come to
us innocent, and happy, and honest; and you are the staff of our old
age, and our comfort. And though we cannot do for you as we would, yet,
fear not, we shall live happily together; and what with my diligent
labour, and your poor mother’s spinning, and your needle-work, I make
no doubt we shall do better and better. Only your poor mother’s eyes
begin to fail her; though, I bless God, I am as strong and able, and
willing to labour as ever; and, O my dear child! your virtue has made
me, I think, stronger and better than I was before. What blessed things
are trials and temptations, when we have the strength to resist and
subdue them!

But I am uneasy about those same four guineas; I think you should give
them back again to your master; and yet I have broken them. Alas! I
have only three left; but I will borrow the fourth, if I can, part upon
my wages, and part of Mrs. Mumford, and send the whole sum back to you,
that you may return it, against John comes next, if he comes again
before you.

I want to know how you come. I fancy honest John will be glad to bear
you company part of the way, if your master is not so cross as to
forbid him. And if I know time enough, your mother will go one five
miles, and I will go ten on the way, or till I meet you, as far as one
holiday will go; for that I can get leave to make on such an occasion.

And we shall receive you with more pleasure than we had at your birth,
when all the worst was over; or than we ever had in our lives.

And so God bless you till the happy time comes! say both your mother
and I, which is all at present, from

Your truly loving PARENTS.


LETTER XVIII




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I thank you a thousand tines for your goodness to me, expressed in your
last letter. I now long to get my business done, and come to my new old
lot again, as I may call it. I have been quite another thing since my
master has turned me off: and as I shall come to you an honest
daughter, what pleasure it is to what I should have had, if I could not
have seen you but as a guilty one. Well, my writing-time will soon be
over, and so I will make use of it now, and tell you all that has
happened since my last letter.

I wondered Mrs. Jervis did not call me to sup with her, and feared she
was angry; and when I had finished my letter, I longed for her coming
to bed. At last she came up, but seemed shy and reserved; and I said,
My dear Mrs. Jervis, I am glad to see you: you are not angry with me, I
hope. She said she was sorry things had gone so far; and that she had a
great deal of talk with my master, after I was gone; that he seemed
moved at what I said, and at my falling on my knees to him, and my
prayer for him, at my going away. He said I was a strange girl; he knew
not what to make of me. And is she gone? said he: I intended to say
something else to her; but she behaved so oddly, that I had not power
to stop her. She asked, if she should call me again? He said, Yes; and
then, No, let her go; it is best for her and me too; and she shall go,
now I have given her warning. Where she had it, I can’t tell; but I
never met with the fellow of her in any life, at any age. She said, he
had ordered her not to tell me all: but she believed he would never
offer any thing to me again; and I might stay, she fancied, if I would
beg it as a favour; though she was not sure neither.

I stay! dear Mrs. Jervis; said I; why it is the best news that could
have come to me, that he will let me go. I do nothing but long to go
back again to my poverty and distress, as he threatened I should; for
though I am sure of the poverty, I shall not have half the distress I
have had for some months past, I’ll assure you.

Mrs. Jervis, dear good soul! wept over me, and said, Well, well,
Pamela, I did not think I had shewn so little love to you, as that you
should express so much joy upon leaving me. I am sure I never had a
child half so dear to me as you are.

I went to hear her so good to me, as indeed she has always been, and
said, What would you have me to do, dear Mrs. Jervis? I love you next
to my own father and mother, and to leave you is the chief concern I
have at quitting this place; but I am sure it is certain ruin if I
stay. After such offers, and such threatenings, and his comparing
himself to a wicked ravisher in the very time of his last offer; and
turning it into a jest, that we should make a pretty story in a
romance; can I stay and be safe? Has he not demeaned himself twice? And
it behoves me to beware of the third time, for fear he should lay his
snares surer; for perhaps he did not expect a poor servant would resist
her master so much. And must it not be looked upon as a sort of warrant
for such actions, if I stay after this? For, I think, when one of our
sex finds she is attempted, it is an encouragement to the attempter to
proceed, if one puts one’s self in the way of it, when one can help it:
’Tis neither more nor less than inviting him to think that one
forgives, what, in short, ought not to be forgiven: Which is no small
countenance to foul actions, I’ll assure you.

She hugged me to her, and said I’ll assure you! Pretty-face, where
gottest thou all thy knowledge, and thy good notions, at these years?
Thou art a miracle for thy age, and I shall always love thee.—But, do
you resolve to leave us, Pamela?

Yes, my dear Mrs. Jervis, said I; for, as matters stand, how can I do
otherwise?—But I’ll finish the duties of my place first, if I may; and
hope you’ll give me a character, as to my honesty, that it may not be
thought I was turned away for any harm. Ay, that I will, said she; I
will give thee such a character as never girl at thy years deserved.
And I am sure, said I, I will always love and honour you, as my
third-best friend, wherever I go, or whatever becomes of me.

And so we went to bed; and I never waked till ’twas time to rise; which
I did as blithe as a bird, and went about my business with great
pleasure.

But I believe my master is fearfully angry with me; for he passed by me
two or three times, and would not speak to me; and towards evening, he
met me in the passage, going into the garden, and said such a word to
me as I never heard in my life from him to man, woman, or child; for he
first said, This creature’s always in the way, I think. I said,
standing up as close as I could, (and the entry was wide enough for a
coach too,) I hope I shan’t be long in your honour’s way. D—mn you!
said he, (that was the hard word,) for a little witch; I have no
patience with you.

I profess I trembled to hear him say so; but I saw he was vexed; and,
as I am going away, I minded it the less. Well! I see, my dear parents,
that when a person will do wicked things, it is no wonder he will speak
wicked words. May God keep me out of the way of them both!

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XIX




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

Our John having an opportunity to go your way, I write again, and send
both letters at once. I can’t say, yet, when I shall get away, nor how
I shall come, because Mrs. Jervis shewed my master the waistcoat I am
flowering for him, and he said, It looks well enough: I think the
creature had best stay till she has finished it.

There is some private talk carried on betwixt him and Mrs. Jervis, that
she don’t tell me of; but yet she is very kind to me, and I don’t
mistrust her at all. I should be very base if I did. But to be sure she
must oblige him, and keep all his lawful commands; and other, I dare
say, she won’t keep: She is too good; and loves me too well; but she
must stay when I am gone, and so must get no ill will.

She has been at me again to ask to stay, and humble myself. But what
have I done, Mrs. Jervis? said I: If I have been a sauce-box, and a
bold-face, and a pert, and a creature, as he calls me, have I not had
reason? Do you think I should ever have forgot myself, if he had not
forgot to act as my master? Tell me from your own heart, dear Mrs.
Jervis, said I, if you think I could stay and be safe: What would you
think, or how would you act in my case?

My dear Pamela, said she, and kissed me, I don’t know how I should act,
or what I should think. I hope I should act as you do. But I know
nobody else that would. My master is a fine gentleman; he has a great
deal of wit and sense, and is admired, as I know, by half a dozen
ladies, who would think themselves happy in his addresses. He has a
noble estate; and yet I believe he loves my good maiden, though his
servant, better than all the ladies in the land; and he has tried to
overcome it, because you are so much his inferior; and ’tis my opinion
he finds he can’t; and that vexes his proud heart, and makes him
resolve you shan’t stay; and so he speaks so cross to you, when he sees
you by accident.

Well, but, Mrs. Jervis, said I, let me ask you, if he can stoop to like
such a poor girl as me, as perhaps he may, (for I have read of things
almost as strange, from great men to poor damsels,) What can it be
for?—He may condescend, perhaps, to think I may be good enough for his
harlot; and those things don’t disgrace men that ruin poor women, as
the world goes. And so if I was wicked enough, he would keep me till I
was undone, and till his mind changed; for even wicked men, I have
read, soon grow weary of wickedness with the same person, and love
variety. Well, then, poor Pamela must be turned off, and looked upon as
a vile abandoned creature, and every body would despise her; ay, and
justly too, Mrs. Jervis; for she that can’t keep her virtue, ought to
live in disgrace.

But, Mrs. Jervis, I continued, let me tell you, that I hope, if I was
sure he would always be kind to me, and never turn me off at all, that
I shall have so much grace, as to hate and withstand his temptations,
were he not only my master, but my king: and that for the sin’s sake.
This my poor dear parents have always taught me; and I should be a sad
wicked creature indeed, if, for the sake of riches or favour, I should
forfeit my good name; yea, and worse than any other young body of my
sex; because I can so contentedly return to my poverty again, and think
it a less disgrace to be obliged to wear rags, and live upon rye-bread
and water, as I used to do, than to be a harlot to the greatest man in
the world.

Mrs. Jervis lifted up her hands, and had her eyes full of tears. God
bless you, my dear love! said she; you are my admiration and
delight.—How shall I do to part with you!

Well, good Mrs. Jervis, said I, let me ask you now:—You and he have had
some talk, and you mayn’t be suffered to tell me all. But, do you
think, if I was to ask to stay, that he is sorry for what he has done?
Ay, and ashamed of it too? For I am sure he ought, considering his high
degree, and my low degree, and how I have nothing in the world to trust
to but my honesty: Do you think in your own conscience now, (pray
answer me truly,) that he would never offer any thing to me again, and
that I could be safe?

Alas! my dear child, said she, don’t put thy home questions to me, with
that pretty becoming earnestness in thy look. I know this, that he is
vexed at what he has done; he was vexed the first time, more vexed the
second time.

Yes, said I, and so he will be vexed, I suppose, the third, and the
fourth time too, till he has quite ruined your poor maiden; and who
will have cause to be vexed then?

Nay, Pamela, said she, don’t imagine that I would be accessory to your
ruin for the world. I only can say, that he has, yet, done you no hurt;
and it is no wonder he should love you, you are so pretty; though so
much beneath him but, I dare swear for him, he never will offer you any
force.

You say, said I, that he was sorry for his first offer in the
summer-house. Well, and how long did his sorrow last?—Only till he
found me by myself; and then he was worse than before: and so became
sorry again. And if he has deigned to love me, and you say can’t help
it, why, he can’t help it neither, if he should have an opportunity, a
third time to distress me. And I have read that many a man has been
ashamed of his wicked attempts, when he has been repulsed, that would
never have been ashamed of them, had he succeeded. Besides, Mrs.
Jervis, if he really intends to offer no force, What does that
mean?—While you say he can’t help liking me, for love it cannot be—Does
it not imply that he hopes to ruin me by my own consent? I think, said
I, (and hope I should have grace to do so,) that I should not give way
to his temptations on any account; but it would be very presumptuous in
me to rely upon my own strength against a gentleman of his
qualifications and estate, and who is my master; and thinks himself
entitled to call me bold-face, and what not? only for standing on my
necessary defence: and that, too, where the good of my soul and body,
and my duty to God, and my parents, are all concerned. How then, Mrs.
Jervis, said I, can I ask or wish to stay?

Well, well, says she; as he seems very desirous you should not stay, I
hope it is from a good motive; for fear he should be tempted to
disgrace himself as well as you. No, no, Mrs. Jervis, said I; I have
thought of that too; for I would be glad to consider him with that duty
that becomes me: but then he would have let me go to Lady Davers, and
not have hindered my preferment: and he would not have said, I should
return to my poverty and distress, when, by his mother’s goodness, I
had been lifted out of it; but that he intended to fright me, and
punish me, as he thought, for not complying with his wickedness: And
this shews me well enough what I have to expect from his future
goodness, except I will deserve it at his own dear price.

She was silent; and I added, Well, there’s no more to be said; I must
go, that’s certain: All my concern will be how to part with you: and,
indeed, after you, with every body; for all my fellow-servants have
loved me, and you and they will cost me a sigh, and a tear too, now and
then, I am sure. And so I fell a crying: I could not help it. For it is
a pleasant thing to one to be in a house among a great many
fellow-servants, and be beloved by them all.

Nay, I should have told you before now, how kind and civil Mr. Longman
our steward is; vastly courteous, indeed, on all occasions! And he said
once to Mrs. Jervis, he wished he was a young man for my sake; I should
be his wife, and he would settle all he had upon me on marriage; and,
you must know, he is reckoned worth a power of money.

I take no pride in this; but bless God, and your good examples, my dear
parents, that I have been enabled so to carry myself, as to have every
body’s good word; Not but our cook one day, who is a little snappish
and cross sometimes, said once to me, Why this Pamela of ours goes as
fine as a lady. See what it is to have a fine face!—I wonder what the
girl will come to at last!

She was hot with her work; and I sneaked away; for I seldom go down
into the kitchen; and I heard the butler say, Why, Jane, nobody has
your good word: What has Mrs. Pamela done to you? I am sure she offends
nobody. And what, said the peevish wench, have I said to her, foolatum;
but that she was pretty? They quarrelled afterwards, I heard: I was
sorry for it, but troubled myself no more about it. Forgive this silly
prattle, from

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

Oh! I forgot to say, that I would stay to finish the waistcoat, if I
might with safety. Mrs. Jervis tells me I certainly may. I never did a
prettier piece of work; and I am up early and late to get it over; for
I long to be with you.


LETTER XX




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I did not send my last letters so soon as I hoped, because John
(whether my master mistrusts or no, I can’t say) had been sent to Lady
Davers’s instead of Isaac, who used to go; and I could not be so free
with, nor so well trust Isaac; though he is very civil to me too. So I
was forced to stay till John returned.

As I may not have opportunity to send again soon, and yet, as I know
you keep my letters, and read them over and over, (so John told me,)
when you have done work, (so much does your kindness make you love all
that comes from your poor daughter,) and as it may be some little
pleasure to me, perhaps, to read them myself, when I am come to you, to
remind me of what I have gone through, and how great God’s goodness has
been to me, (which, I hope, will further strengthen my good
resolutions, that I may not hereafter, from my bad conduct, have reason
to condemn myself from my own hand as it were): For all these reasons,
I say, I will write as I have time, and as matters happen, and send the
scribble to you as I have opportunity; and if I don’t every time, in
form, subscribe as I ought, I am sure you will always believe, that it
is not for want of duty. So I will begin where I left off, about the
talk between Mrs. Jervis and me, for me to ask to stay.

Unknown to Mrs. Jervis, I put a project, as I may call it, in practice.
I thought with myself some days ago, Here I shall go home to my poor
father and mother, and have nothing on my back, that will be fit for my
condition; for how should your poor daughter look with a silk
night-gown, silken petticoats, cambric head-clothes, fine holland
linen, laced shoes that were my lady’s; and fine stockings! And how in
a little while must these have looked, like old cast-offs, indeed, and
I looked so for wearing them! And people would have said, (for poor
folks are envious as well as rich,) See there Goody Andrews’s daughter,
turned home from her fine place! What a tawdry figure she makes! And
how well that garb becomes her poor parents’ circumstances!—And how
would they look upon me, thought I to myself, when they should come to
be threadbare and worn out? And how should I look, even if I could
purchase homespun clothes, to dwindle into them one by one, as I got
them?—May be, an old silk gown, and a linsey-woolsey petticoat, and the
like. So, thought I, I had better get myself at once equipped in the
dress that will become my condition; and though it may look but poor to
what I have been used to wear of late days, yet it will serve me, when
I am with you, for a good holiday and Sunday suit; and what, by a
blessing on my industry, I may, perhaps, make shift to keep up to.

So, as I was saying, unknown to any body, I bought of farmer Nichols’s
wife and daughters a good sad-coloured stuff, of their own spinning,
enough to make me a gown and two petticoats; and I made robings and
facings of a pretty bit of printed calico I had by me.

I had a pretty good camblet quilted coat, that I thought might do
tolerably well; and I bought two flannel undercoats; not so good as my
swanskin and fine linen ones, but what will keep me warm, if any
neighbour should get me to go out to help ’em to milk, now and then, as
sometimes I used to do formerly; for I am resolved to do all your good
neighbours what kindness I can; and hope to make myself as much beloved
about you, as I am here.

I got some pretty good Scotch cloth, and made me, of mornings and
nights, when nobody saw me, two shifts; and I have enough left for two
shirts, and two shifts, for you my dear father and mother. When I come
home, I’ll make them for you, and desire your acceptance.

Then I bought of a pedlar, two pretty enough round-eared caps, a little
straw-hat, and a pair of knit mittens, turned up with white calico; and
two pair of ordinary blue worsted hose, that make a smartish
appearance, with white clocks, I’ll assure you; and two yards of black
riband for my shift sleeves, and to serve as a necklace; and when I had
’em all come home, I went and looked upon them once in two hours, for
two days together: For, you must know, though I be with Mrs. Jervis, I
keep my own little apartment still for my clothes, and nobody goes
thither but myself. You’ll say I was no bad housewife to have saved so
much money; but my dear good lady was always giving me something.

I believed myself the more obliged to do this, because, as I was turned
away for what my good master thought want of duty; and as he expected
other returns for his presents, than I intended to make him, so I
thought it was but just to leave his presents behind me when I went
away; for, you know, if I would not earn his wages, why should I have
them?

Don’t trouble yourself about the four guineas, nor borrow to make them
up; for they were given me, with some silver, as I told you, as a
perquisite, being what my lady had about her when she died; and, as I
hope for no wages, I am so vain as to think I have deserved all that
money in the fourteen months, since my lady’s death, for she, good
soul, overpaid me before, in learning and other kindnesses. Had she
lived, none of these things might have happened!—But I ought to be
thankful ’tis no worse. Every thing will turn about for the best:
that’s my confidence.

So, as I was saying, I have provided a new and more suitable dress, and
I long to appear in it, more than ever I did in any new clothes in my
life: for then I shall be soon after with you, and at ease in my
mind—But, mum! Here he comes, I believe.—I am, etc.


LETTER XXI




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I was forced to break off: for I feared my master was coming: but it
proved to be only Mrs. Jervis. She said, I can’t endure you should be
so much by yourself, Pamela. And I, said I, dread nothing so much as
company; for my heart was up at my mouth now, for fear my master was
coming. But I always rejoice to see dear Mrs. Jervis.

Said she, I have had a world of talk with my master about you. I am
sorry for it, said I, that I am made of so much consequence as to be
talked of by him. O, said she, I must not tell you all; but you are of
more consequence to him than you think for——

Or wish for, said I; for the fruits of being of consequence to him,
would make me of none to myself, or any body else.

Said she, Thou art as witty as any lady in the land; I wonder where
thou gottest it. But they must be poor ladies, with such great
opportunities, I am sure, if they have no more wit than I.—But let that
pass.

I suppose, said I, that I am of so much consequence, however, as to vex
him, if it be but to think he can’t make a fool of such a one as I; and
that is nothing at all, but a rebuke to the pride of his high
condition, which he did not expect, and knows not how to put up with.

There is something in that, may be, said she: but, indeed, Pamela, he
is very angry with you too; and calls you twenty perverse things;
wonders at his own folly, to have shewn you so much favour, as he calls
it; which he was first inclined to, he says, for his mother’s sake, and
would have persisted to shew you for your own, if you was not your own
enemy.

Nay, now I shan’t love you, Mrs. Jervis, said I; you are going to
persuade me to ask to stay, though you know the hazards I run.—No, said
she, he says you shall go; for he thinks it won’t be for his reputation
to keep you: but he wished (don’t speak of it for the world, Pamela,)
that he knew a lady of birth, just such another as yourself, in person
and mind, and he would marry her to-morrow.

I coloured up to the ears at this word: but said, Yet, if I was the
lady of birth, and he would offer to be rude first, as he has twice
done to poor me, I don’t know whether I would have him: For she that
can bear an insult of that kind, I should think not worthy to be a
gentleman’s wife: any more than he would be a gentleman that would
offer it.

Nay, now, Pamela, said she, thou carriest thy notions a great way.
Well, dear Mrs. Jervis, said I, very seriously, for I could not help
it, I am more full of fears than ever. I have only to beg of you, as
one of the best friends I have in the world, to say nothing of my
asking to stay. To say my master likes me, when I know what end he aims
at, is abomination to my ears; and I shan’t think myself safe till I am
at my poor father’s and mother’s.

She was a little angry with me, till I assured her that I had not the
least uneasiness on her account, but thought myself safe under her
protection and friendship. And so we dropt the discourse for that time.

I hope to have finished this ugly waistcoat in two days; after which I
have only some linen to get up, and shall then let you know how I
contrive as to my passage; for the heavy rains will make it sad
travelling on foot: but may be I may get a place to which is ten miles
of the way, in farmer Nichols’s close cart; for I can’t sit a horse
well at all, and may be nobody will be suffered to see me on upon the
way. But I hope to let you know more. From, etc.


LETTER XXII




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

All my fellow-servants have now some notion that I am to go away; but
can’t imagine for what. Mrs. Jervis tells them, that my father and
mother, growing in years, cannot live without me; and so I go home to
them, to help to comfort their old age; but they seem not to believe
it.

What they found it out by was; the butler heard him say to me, as I
passed by him, in the entry leading to the hall, Who’s that? Pamela,
sir, said I. Pamela! said he, How long are you to stay here?—Only,
please your honour, said I, till I have done the waistcoat; and it is
almost finished.—You might, says he, (very roughly indeed,) have
finished that long enough ago, I should have thought. Indeed, and
please your honour, said I, I have worked early and late upon it; there
is a great deal of work in it.—Work in it! said he; You mind your pen
more than your needle; I don’t want such idle sluts to stay in my
house.

He seemed startled, when he saw the butler, as he entered the hall,
where Mr. Jonathan stood. What do you here? said he.—The butler was as
much confounded as I; for, never having been taxed so roughly, I could
not help crying sadly; and got out of both their ways to Mrs. Jervis,
and told my complaint. This love, said she, is the d——! In how many
strange shapes does it make people shew themselves! And in some the
farthest from their hearts.

So one, and then another, has been since whispering, Pray, Mrs. Jervis,
are we to lose Mrs. Pamela? as they always call me—What has she done?
And she tells them, as above, about going home to you.

She said afterwards to me, Well, Pamela, you have made our master, from
the sweetest tempered gentleman in the world, one of the most peevish.
But you have it in your power to make him as sweet-tempered as ever;
though I hope you’ll never do it on his terms.

This was very good in Mrs. Jervis; but it intimated, that she thought
as ill of his designs as I; and as she knew his mind more than I, it
convinced me that I ought to get away as fast as I could.

My master came in, just now, to speak to Mrs. Jervis about household
matters, having some company to dine with him to-morrow; and I stood
up, and having been crying at his roughness in the entry, I turned away
my face.

You may well, said he, turn away your cursed face; I wish I had never
seen it!—Mrs. Jervis, how long is she to be about this waistcoat?

Sir, said I, if your honour had pleased, I would have taken it with me;
and though it would be now finished in a few hours, I will do so still;
and remove this hated poor Pamela out of your house and sight for ever.

Mrs. Jervis, said he, not speaking to me, I believe this little slut
has the power of witchcraft, if ever there was a witch; for she
enchants all that come near her. She makes even you, who should know
better what the world is, think her an angel of light.

I offered to go away; for I believe he wanted me to ask to stay in my
place, for all this his great wrath: and he said, Stay here! Stay here,
when I bid you! and snatched my hand. I trembled, and said, I will! I
will! for he hurt my fingers, he grasped me so hard.

He seemed to have a mind to say something to me; but broke off
abruptly, and said, Begone! And away I tripped as fast as I could: and
he and Mrs. Jervis had a deal of talk, as she told me; and among the
rest, he expressed himself vexed to have spoken in Mr. Jonathan’s
hearing.

Now you must know, that Mr. Jonathan, our butler, is a very grave good
sort of old man, with his hair as white as silver! and an honest worthy
man he is. I was hurrying out with a flea in my ear, as the saying is,
and going down stairs into the parlour, met him. He took hold of my
hand (in a gentler manner, though, than my master) with both his; and
he said, Ah! sweet, sweet Mrs. Pamela! what is it I heard but just
now!—I am sorry at my heart; but I am sure I will sooner believe any
body in fault than you. Thank you, Mr. Jonathan, said I; but as you
value your place, don’t be seen speaking to such a one as me. I cried
too; and slipt away as fast as I could from him, for his own sake, lest
he should be seen to pity me.

And now I will give you an instance how much I am in Mr. Longman’s
esteem also.

I had lost my pen some how; and my paper being written out, I stepped
to Mr. Longman’s, our steward’s, office, to beg him to give me a pen or
two, and a sheet or two of paper. He said, Ay, that I will, my sweet
maiden! and gave me three pens, some wafers, a stick of wax, and twelve
sheets of paper; and coming from his desk, where he was writing, he
said, Let me have a word or two with you, my sweet little mistress:
(for so these two good old gentlemen often call me; for I believe they
love me dearly:) I hear bad news; that we are going to lose you: I hope
it is not true. Yes it is, sir, said I; but I was in hopes it would not
be known till I went away.

What a d—l, said he, ails our master of late! I never saw such an
alteration in any man in my life! He is pleased with nobody as I see;
and by what Mr. Jonathan tells me just now, he was quite out of the way
with you. What could you have done to him, tro’? Only Mrs. Jervis is a
very good woman, or I should have feared she had been your enemy.

No, said I, nothing like it. Mrs. Jervis is a just good woman; and,
next to my father and mother, the best friend I have in the world—Well,
then, said he, it must be worse. Shall I guess? You are too pretty, my
sweet mistress, and, may be, too virtuous. Ah! have I not hit it? No,
good Mr. Longman, said I, don’t think any thing amiss of my master; he
is cross and angry with me indeed, that’s true; but I may have given
occasion for it, possibly; and because I am desirous to go to my father
and mother, rather than stay here, perhaps he may think me ungrateful.
But, you know, sir, said I, that a father and mother’s comfort is the
dearest thing to a good child that can be. Sweet excellence! said he,
this becomes you; but I know the world and mankind too well; though I
must hear, and see, and say nothing. And so a blessing attend my little
sweeting, said he, wherever you go! And away went I with a courtesy and
thanks.

Now this pleases one, my dear father and mother, to be so beloved.—How
much better, by good fame and integrity, is it to get every one’s good
word but one, than, by pleasing that one, to make every one else one’s
enemy, and be an execrable creature besides! I am, etc.


LETTER XXIII




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

We had a great many neighbouring gentlemen, and their ladies, this day,
at dinner; and my master made a fine entertainment for them: and Isaac,
and Mr. Jonathan, and Benjamin, waited at table: And Isaac tells Mrs.
Jervis, that the ladies will by and by come to see the house, and have
the curiosity to see me; for, it seems, they said to my master, when
the jokes flew about, Well, Mr. B——, we understand you have a
servant-maid, who is the greatest beauty in the county; and we promise
ourselves to see her before we go.

The wench is well enough, said he; but no such beauty as you talk of,
I’ll assure ye. She was my mother’s waiting-maid, who, on her
death-bed, engaged me to be kind to her. She is young, and every thing
is pretty that is young.

Ay, ay, said one of the ladies, that’s true; but if your mother had not
recommended her so strongly, there is so much merit in beauty, that I
make no doubt such a fine gentleman would have wanted no inducement to
be kind to it.

They all laughed at my master: And he, it seems, laughed for company;
but said, I don’t know how it is, but I see with different eyes from
other people; for I have heard much more talk of her prettiness, than I
think it deserves: She is well enough, as I said: but her greatest
excellence is, that she is humble, and courteous, and faithful, and
makes all her fellow-servants love her: My housekeeper, in particular,
doats upon her; and you know, ladies, she is a woman of discernment:
And, as for Mr. Longman, and Jonathan, here, if they thought themselves
young enough, I am told, they would fight for her. Is it not true,
Jonathan? Troth, sir, said he, an’t please your honour, I never knew
her peer, and all your honour’s family are of the same mind. Do you
hear now? said my master.—Well, said the ladies, we will make a visit
to Mrs. Jervis by and by, and hope to see this paragon.

I believe they are coming; and will tell you the rest by and by. I wish
they had come, and were gone. Why can’t they make their game without
me?

Well, these fine ladies have been here, and are gone back again. I
would have been absent, if I could, and did step into the closet: so
they saw me when they came in.

There were four of them, Lady Arthur at the great white house on the
hill, Lady Brooks, Lady Towers, and the other, it seems, a countess, of
some hard name, I forget what.

So Mrs. Jervis, says one of the ladies, how do you do? We are all come
to inquire after your health. I am much obliged to your ladyships, said
Mrs. Jervis: Will your ladyships please to sit down? But, said the
countess, we are not only come to ask after Mrs. Jervis’s health
neither; but we are come to see a rarity besides. Ah, says Lady Arthur,
I have not seen your Pamela these two years, and they tell me she is
grown wondrous pretty in that time.

Then I wished I had not been in the closet; for when I came out, they
must needs know I heard them; but I have often found, that bashful
bodies owe themselves a spite, and frequently confound themselves more,
by endeavouring to avoid confusion.

Why, yes, says Mrs. Jervis, Pamela is very pretty indeed; she’s but in
the closet there:—Pamela, pray step hither. I came out all covered with
blushes, and they smiled at one another.

The countess took me by the hand: Why, indeed, she was pleased to say,
report has not been too lavish, I’ll assure you. Don’t be ashamed,
child; (and stared full in my face;) I wish I had just such a face to
be ashamed of. O how like a fool I looked!

Lady Arthur said, Ay, my good Pamela, I say as her ladyship says: Don’t
be so confused; though, indeed, it becomes you too. I think your good
lady departed made a sweet choice of such a pretty attendant. She would
have been mighty proud of you, as she always was praising you, had she
lived till now.

Ah! madam, said Lady Brooks, do you think that so dutiful a son as our
neighbour, who always admired what his mother loved, does not pride
himself, for all what he said at table, in such a pretty maiden?

She looked with such a malicious sneering countenance, I can’t abide
her.

Lady Towers said with a free air, (for it seems she is called a wit,)
Well, Mrs. Pamela, I can’t say I like you so well as these ladies do;
for I should never care, if you were my servant, to have you and your
master in the same house together. Then they all set up a great laugh.

I know what I could have said, if I durst. But they are ladies—and
ladies may say any thing.

Says Lady Towers, Can the pretty image speak, Mrs. Jervis? I vow she
has speaking eyes! O you little rogue, said she, and tapped me on the
cheek, you seem born to undo, or to be undone!

God forbid, and please your ladyship, said I, it should be either!—I
beg, said I, to withdraw; for the sense I have of my unworthiness
renders me unfit for such a presence.

I then went away, with one of my best courtesies; and Lady Towers said,
as I went out, Prettily said, I vow!—And Lady Brooks said, See that
shape! I never saw such a face and shape in my life; why, she must be
better descended than you have told me!

And so they run on for half an hour more in my praises, as I was told;
and glad was I, when I got out of the hearing of them.

But, it seems, they went down with such a story to my master, and so
full of me, that he had much ado to stand it; but as it was very little
to my reputation, I am sure I could take no pride in it; and I feared
it would make no better for me. This gives me another cause for wishing
myself out of this house.

This is Thursday morning, and next Thursday I hope to set out; for I
have finished my task, and my master is horrid cross! And I am vexed
his crossness affects me so. If ever he had any kindness towards me, I
believe he now hates me heartily.

Is it not strange, that love borders so much upon hate? But this wicked
love is not like the true virtuous love, to be sure: that and hatred
must be as far off, as light and darkness. And how must this hate have
been increased, if he had met with such a base compliance, after his
wicked will had been gratified.

Well, one may see by a little, what a great deal means. For if
innocence cannot attract common civility, what must guilt expect, when
novelty has ceased to have its charms, and changeableness had taken
place of it? Thus we read in Holy Writ, that wicked Amnon, when he had
ruined poor Tamar, hated her more than he ever loved her, and would
have turned her out of door.

How happy am I, to be turned out of door, with that sweet companion my
innocence!—O may that be always my companion! And while I presume not
upon my own strength, and am willing to avoid the tempter, I hope the
divine grace will assist me.

Forgive me, that I repeat in my letter part of my hourly prayer. I owe
every thing, next to God’s goodness, to your piety and good examples,
my dear parents, my dear poor parents! I say that word with pleasure;
for your poverty is my pride, as your integrity shall be my imitation.

As soon as I have dined, I will put on my new clothes. I long to have
them on. I know I shall surprise Mrs. Jervis with them; for she shan’t
see me till I am full dressed.—John is come back, and I’ll soon send
you some of what I have written.—I find he is going early in the
morning; and so I’ll close here, that I am

Your most dutiful DAUGHTER.

Don’t lose your time in meeting me; because I am so uncertain. It is
hard if, some how or other, I can’t get a passage to you. But may be my
master won’t refuse to let John bring me. I can ride behind him, I
believe, well enough; for he is very careful, and very honest; and you
know John as well as I; for he loves you both. Besides, may be, Mrs.
Jervis can put me in some way.


LETTER XXIV




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I shall write on, as long as I stay, though I should have nothing but
silliness to write; for I know you divert yourselves on nights with
what I write, because it is mine. John tells me how much you long for
my coming; but he says, he told you he hoped something would happen to
hinder it.

I am glad you did not tell him the occasion of my coming away; for if
my fellow-servants should guess, it were better so, than to have it
from you or me. Besides, I really am concerned, that my master should
cast away a thought upon such a poor creature as me; for, besides the
disgrace, it has quite turned his temper; and I begin to believe what
Mrs. Jervis told me, that he likes me, and can’t help it; and yet
strives to conquer it; and so finds no way but to be cross to me.

Don’t think me presumptuous and conceited; for it is more my concern
than my pride, to see such a gentleman so demean himself, and lessen
the regard he used to have in the eyes of all his servants, on my
account.—But I am to tell you of my new dress to-day.

And so, when I had dined, up stairs I went, and locked myself into my
little room. There I tricked myself up as well as I could in my new
garb, and put on my round-eared ordinary cap; but with a green knot,
however, and my homespun gown and petticoat, and plain leather shoes;
but yet they are what they call Spanish leather; and my ordinary hose,
ordinary I mean to what I have been lately used to; though I shall
think good yarn may do very well for every day, when I come home. A
plain muslin tucker I put on, and my black silk necklace, instead of
the French necklace my lady gave me; and put the ear-rings out of my
ears; and when I was quite equipped, I took my straw hat in my hand,
with its two blue strings, and looked about me in the glass, as proud
as any thing—To say truth, I never liked myself so well in my life.

O the pleasure of descending with ease, innocence, and
resignation!—Indeed, there is nothing like it! An humble mind, I
plainly see, cannot meet with any very shocking disappointment, let
fortune’s wheel turn round as it will.

So I went down to look for Mrs. Jervis, to see how she liked me.

I met, as I was upon the stairs, our Rachel, who is the house-maid; and
she made me a low courtesy, and I found did not know me. So I smiled,
and went to the housekeeper’s parlour; and there sat good Mrs. Jervis
at work, making a shift: and, would you believe it? she did not know me
at first; but rose up, and pulled off her spectacles; and said, Do you
want me, forsooth? I could not help laughing, and said, Hey-day! Mrs.
Jervis, what! don’t you know me?—She stood all in amaze, and looked at
me from top to toe: Why, you surprise me, said she: What! Pamela thus
metamorphosed! How came this about?

As it happened, in stept my master; and my back being to him, he
thought it was a stranger speaking to Mrs. Jervis, and withdrew again:
and did not hear her ask, If his honour had any commands for her?—She
turned me about and about, and I shewed her all my dress, to my
under-petticoat: and she said, sitting down, Why, I am all in amaze, I
must sit down. What can all this mean? I told her, I had no clothes
suitable to my condition when I returned to my father’s; and so it was
better to begin here, as I was soon to go away, that all my
fellow-servants might see I knew how to suit myself to the state I was
returning to.

Well, said she, I never knew the like of thee. But this sad preparation
for going away (for now I see you are quite in earnest) is what I know
not how to get over. O my dear Pamela, how can I part with you!

My master rung in the back-parlour, and so I withdrew, and Mrs. Jervis
went to attend him. It seems, he said to her, I was coming in to let
you know, that I shall go to Lincolnshire, and possibly to my sister
Davers’s, and be absent some weeks. But, pray, what pretty neat damsel
was with you? She says, she smiled, and asked, If his honour did not
know who it was? No, said he, I never saw her before. Farmer Nichols,
or Farmer Brady, have neither of them such a tight prim lass for a
daughter! have they?—Though I did not see her face neither, said he. If
your honour won’t be angry, said she, I will introduce her into your
presence; for I think, says she, she outdoes our Pamela.

Now I did not thank her for this, as I told her afterwards, (for it
brought a great deal of trouble upon me, as well as crossness, as you
shall hear). That can’t be, he was pleased to say. But if you can find
an excuse for it, let her come in.

At that she stept to me, and told me, I must go in with her to her
master; but, said she, for goodness’ sake, let him find you out; for he
don’t know you. O fie, Mrs. Jervis, said I, how could you serve me so?
Besides, it looks too free both in me, and to him. I tell you, said
she, you shall come in; and pray don’t reveal yourself till he finds
you out.

So I went in, foolish as I was; though I must have been seen by him
another time, if I had not then. And she would make me take my straw
hat in my hand.

I dropt a low courtesy, but said never a word. I dare say he knew me as
soon as he saw my face: but was as cunning as Lucifer. He came up to
me, and took me by the hand, and said, Whose pretty maiden are you?—I
dare say you are Pamela’s sister, you are so like her. So neat, so
clean, so pretty! Why, child, you far surpass your sister Pamela!

I was all confusion, and would have spoken: but he took me about the
neck: Why, said he, you are very pretty, child: I would not be so free
with your sister, you may believe; but I must kiss you.

O sir, said I, I am Pamela, indeed I am: indeed I am Pamela, her own
self!

He kissed me for all I could do; and said, Impossible! you are a
lovelier girl by half than Pamela; and sure I may be innocently free
with you, though I would not do her so much favour.

This was a sad trick upon me, indeed, and what I could not expect; and
Mrs. Jervis looked like a fool as much as I, for her officiousness.—At
last I got away, and ran out of the parlour, most sadly vexed, as you
may well think.

He talked a good deal to Mrs. Jervis, and at last ordered me to come in
to him. Come in, said he, you little villain!—for so he called me.
(Good sirs! what a name was there!)—who is it you put your tricks upon?
I was resolved never to honour your unworthiness, said he, with so much
notice again; and so you must disguise yourself to attract me, and yet
pretend, like an hypocrite as you are——

I was out of patience then: Hold, good sir, said I; don’t impute
disguise and hypocrisy to me, above all things; for I hate them both,
mean as I am. I have put on no disguise.—What a plague, said he, for
that was his word, do you mean then by this dress?—Why, and please your
honour, said I, I mean one of the honestest things in the world.

I have been in disguise, indeed, ever since my good lady your mother
took me from my poor parents. I came to her ladyship so poor and mean,
that these clothes I have on, are a princely suit to those I had then:
and her goodness heaped upon me rich clothes, and other bounties: and
as I am now returning to my poor parents again so soon, I cannot wear
those good things without being hooted at; and so have bought what will
be more suitable to my degree, and be a good holiday-suit too, when I
get home.

He then took me in his arms, and presently pushed me from him. Mrs.
Jervis, said he, take the little witch from me; I can neither bear, nor
forbear her—(Strange words these!)—But stay; you shan’t go!—Yet
begone!—No, come back again.

I thought he was mad, for my share; for he knew not what he would have.
I was going, however; but he stept after me, and took hold of my arm,
and brought me in again: I am sure he made my arm black and blue; for
the marks are upon it still. Sir, sir, said I, pray have mercy; I will,
I will come in!

He sat down, and looked at me, and, as I thought afterwards, as sillily
as such a poor girl as I. At last he said, Well, Mrs. Jervis, as I was
telling you, you may permit her to stay a little longer, till I see if
my sister Davers will have her; if, mean time, she humble herself, and
ask this as a favour, and is sorry for her pertness, and the liberty
she has taken with my character out of the house, and in the house.
Your honour indeed told me so, said Mrs. Jervis: but I never found her
inclinable to think herself in a fault. Pride and perverseness, said
he, with a vengeance! Yet this is your doating-piece!—Well, for once,
I’ll submit myself to tell you, hussy, said he to me, you may stay a
fortnight longer, till I see my sister Davers: Do you hear what I say
to you, statue? Can you neither speak nor be thankful?—Your honour
frights me so, said I, that I can hardly speak: But I will venture to
say, that I have only to beg, as a favour, that I may go to my father
and mother.—Why fool, said he, won’t you like to go to wait on my
sister Davers? Sir, said I, I was once fond of that honour; but you
were pleased to say, I might be in danger from her ladyship’s nephew,
or he from me.—D——d impertinence! said he; Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, do
you hear, how she retorts upon me? Was ever such matchless assurance!——

I then fell a weeping; for Mrs. Jervis said, Fie, Pamela, fie!—And I
said, My lot is very hard indeed; I am sure I would hurt nobody; and I
have been, it seems, guilty of indiscretions, which have cost me my
place, and my master’s favour, and so have been turned away: and when
the time is come, that I should return to my poor parents, I am not
suffered to go quietly. Good your honour, what have I done, that I must
be used worse than if I had robbed you?

Robbed me! said he, why so you have, hussy; you have robbed me. Who? I,
sir? said I; have I robbed you? Why then you are a justice of peace,
and may send me to gaol, if you please, and bring me to a trial for my
life! If you can prove that I have robbed you, I am sure I ought to
die.

Now I was quite ignorant of his meaning; though I did not like it, when
it was afterwards explained, neither: And well, thought I, what will
this come to at last, if poor Pamela is esteemed a thief! Then I
thought in an instant, how I should shew my face to my honest poor
parents, if I was but suspected. But, sir, said I, let me ask you but
one question, and pray don’t let me be called names for it; for I don’t
mean disrespectfully: Why, if I have done amiss, am I not left to be
discharged by your housekeeper, as the other maids have been? And if
Jane, or Rachel, or Hannah, were to offend, would your honour stoop to
take notice of them? And why should you so demean yourself to take
notice of me? Pray, sir, if I have not been worse than others, why
should I suffer more than others? and why should I not be turned away,
and there’s an end of it? For indeed I am not of consequence enough for
my master to concern himself, and be angry about such a creature as me.

Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, cried he again, how pertly I am interrogated
by this saucy slut? Why, sauce-box, says he, did not my good mother
desire me to take care of you? And have you not been always
distinguished by me, above a common servant? And does your ingratitude
upbraid me for this?

I said something mutteringly, and he vowed he would hear it. I begged
excuse; but he insisted upon it. Why, then, said I, if your honour must
know, I said, That my good lady did not desire your care to extend to
the summer-house, and her dressing-room.

Well, this was a little saucy, you’ll say—And he flew into such a
passion, that I was forced to run for it; and Mrs. Jervis said, It was
happy I got out of the way.

Why what makes him provoke one so, then?—I’m almost sorry for it; but I
would be glad to get away at any rate. For I begin to be more fearful
now.

Just now Mr. Jonathan sent me these lines—(Bless me! what shall I do?)

‘Dear Mrs. Pamela, Take care of yourself; for Rachel heard my master
say to Mrs. Jervis, who, she believes, was pleading for you, Say no
more, Mrs. Jervis; for by G—d I will have her! Burn this instantly.’

O pray for your poor daughter. I am called to go to bed by Mrs. Jervis,
for it is past eleven; and I am sure she shall hear of it; for all this
is owing to her, though she did not mean any harm. But I have been, and
am, in a strange fluster; and I suppose too, she’ll say, I have been
full pert.

O my dear father and mother, power and riches never want advocates!
But, poor gentlewoman, she cannot live without him: and he has been
very good to her.

So good night. May be I shall send this in the morning; but may be not;
so won’t conclude: though I can’t say too often, that I am (though with
great apprehension)

Your most dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXV




MY DEAR PARENTS,

O let me take up my complaint, and say, Never was poor creature so
unhappy, and so barbarously used, as poor Pamela! Indeed, my dear
father and mother, my heart’s just broke! I can neither write as I
should do, nor let it alone, for to whom but you can I vent my griefs,
and keep my poor heart from bursting! Wicked, wicked man!—I have no
patience when I think of him!—But yet, don’t be frightened—for—I hope—I
hope, I am honest!—But if my head and my hand will let me, you shall
hear all.—Is there no constable, nor headborough, though, to take me
out of his house? for I am sure I can safely swear the peace against
him: But, alas! he is greater than any constable: he is a justice
himself: Such a justice deliver me from!—But God Almighty, I hope, in
time, will right me—For he knows the innocence of my heart!

John went your way in the morning; but I have been too much distracted
to send by him; and have seen nobody but Mrs. Jervis or Rachel, and one
I hate to see or be seen by and indeed I hate now to see any body.
Strange things I have to tell you, that happened since last night, that
good Mr. Jonathan’s letter, and my master’s harshness, put me into such
a fluster; but I will not keep you in suspense.

I went to Mrs. Jervis’s chamber; and, O dreadful! my wicked master had
hid himself, base gentleman as he is! in her closet, where she has a
few books, and chest of drawers, and such like. I little suspected it;
though I used, till this sad night, always to look into that closet and
another in the room, and under the bed, ever since the summer-house
trick; but never found any thing; and so I did not do it then, being
fully resolved to be angry with Mrs. Jervis for what had happened in
the day, and so thought of nothing else.

I sat myself down on one side of the bed, and she on the other, and we
began to undress ourselves; but she on that side next the wicked
closet, that held the worst heart in the world. So, said Mrs. Jervis,
you won’t speak to me, Pamela! I find you are angry with me. Why, Mrs.
Jervis, said I, so I am, a little; ’tis a folly to deny it. You see
what I have suffered by your forcing me in to my master: and a
gentlewoman of your years and experience must needs know, that it was
not fit for me to pretend to be any body else for my own sake, nor with
regard to my master.

But, said she, who would have thought it would have turned out so? Ay,
said I, little thinking who heard me, Lucifer always is ready to
promote his own work and workmen. You see presently what use he made of
it, pretending not to know me, on purpose to be free with me. And when
he took upon himself to know me, to quarrel with me, and use me hardly:
And you too, said I, to cry, Fie, fie, Pamela! cut me to the heart: for
that encouraged him.

Do you think, my dear, said she, that I would encourage him?—I never
said so to you before; but, since you have forced it from me, I must
tell you, that, ever since you consulted me, I have used my utmost
endeavours to divert him from his wicked purposes: and he has promised
fair; but, to say all in a word, he doats upon you; and I begin to see
it is not in his power to help it.

I luckily said nothing of the note from Mr. Jonathan; for I began to
suspect all the world almost: but I said, to try Mrs. Jervis, Well
then, what would you have me do? You see he is for having me wait on
Lady Davers now.

Why, I’ll tell you freely, my dear Pamela, said she, and I trust to
your discretion to conceal what I say: my master has been often
desiring me to put you upon asking him to let you stay——

Yes, said I, Mrs. Jervis, let me interrupt you: I will tell you why I
could not think of that: It was not the pride of my heart, but the
pride of my honesty: For what must have been the case? Here my master
has been very rude to me, once and twice; and you say he cannot help
it, though he pretends to be sorry for it: Well, he has given me
warning to leave my place, and uses me very harshly; perhaps to
frighten me to his purposes, as he supposes I would be fond of staying
(as indeed I should, if I could be safe; for I love you and all the
house, and value him, if he would act as my master). Well then, as I
know his designs, and that he owns he cannot help it; must I have asked
to stay, knowing he would attempt me again? for all you could assure me
of, was, he would do nothing by force; so I, a poor weak girl, was to
be left to my own strength! And was not this to allow him to tempt me,
as one may say? and to encourage him to go on in his wicked
devices?—How then, Mrs. Jervis, could I ask or wish to stay?

You say well, my dear child, says she; and you have a justness of
thought above your years; and for all these considerations, and for
what I have heard this day, after you ran away, (and I am glad you went
as you did,) I cannot persuade you to stay; and I shall be glad, (which
is what I never thought I could have said,) that you were well at your
father’s; for if Lady Davers will entertain you, she may as well have
you from thence as here. There’s my good Mrs. Jervis! said I; God will
bless you for your good counsel to a poor maiden, that is hard beset.
But pray what did he say, when I was gone? Why, says she, he was very
angry with you. But he would hear it! said I: I think it was a little
bold; but then he provoked me to it. And had not my honesty been in the
case, I would not by any means have been so saucy. Besides, Mrs.
Jervis, consider it was the truth; if he does not love to hear of the
summer-house, and the dressing-room, why should he not be ashamed to
continue in the same mind? But, said she, when you had muttered this to
yourself, you might have told him any thing else. Well, said I, I
cannot tell a wilful lie, and so there’s an end of it. But I find you
now give him up, and think there’s danger in staying.—Lord bless me! I
wish I was well out of the house; so it was at the bottom of a wet
ditch, on the wildest common in England.

Why, said she, it signifies nothing to tell you all he said but it was
enough to make me fear you would not be so safe as I could wish; and,
upon my word, Pamela, I don’t wonder he loves you; for, without
flattery, you are a charming girl! and I never saw you look more lovely
in your life than in that same new dress of yours. And then it was such
a surprise upon us all!—I believe truly, you owe some of your danger to
the lovely appearance you made. Then, said I, I wish the clothes in the
fire: I expected no effect from them; but, if any, a quite contrary
one.

Hush! said I, Mrs. Jervis, did you not hear something stir in the
closet? No, silly girl, said she, your fears are always awake.—But
indeed, said I, I think I heard something rustle.—May be, says she, the
cat may be got there: but I hear nothing.

I was hush; but she said, Pr’ythee, my good girl, make haste to bed.
See if the door be fast. So I did, and was thinking to look into the
closet; but, hearing no more noise, thought it needless, and so went
again and sat myself down on the bed-side, and went on undressing
myself. And Mrs. Jervis being by this time undressed, stepped into bed,
and bid me hasten, for she was sleepy.

I don’t know what was the matter, but my heart sadly misgave me:
Indeed, Mr. Jonathan’s note was enough to make it do so, with what Mrs.
Jervis had said. I pulled off my stays, and my stockings, and all my
clothes to an under-petticoat; and then hearing a rustling again in the
closet, I said, Heaven protect us! but before I say my prayers, I must
look into this closet. And so was going to it slip-shod, when, O
dreadful! out rushed my master in a rich silk and silver morning gown.

I screamed, and ran to the bed, and Mrs. Jervis screamed too; and he
said, I’ll do you no harm, if you forbear this noise; but otherwise
take what follows.

Instantly he came to the bed (for I had crept into it, to Mrs. Jervis,
with my coat on, and my shoes); and taking me in his arms, said, Mrs.
Jervis, rise, and just step up stairs to keep the maids from coming
down at this noise: I’ll do no harm to this rebel.

O, for Heaven’s sake! for pity’s sake! Mrs. Jervis, said I, if I am not
betrayed, don’t leave me; and, I beseech you, raise all the house. No,
said Mrs. Jervis, I will not stir, my dear lamb; I will not leave you.
I wonder at you, sir, said she; and kindly threw herself upon my coat,
clasping me round the waist: You shall not hurt this innocent, said
she: for I will lose my life in her defence. Are there not, said she,
enough wicked ones in the world, for your base purpose, but you must
attempt such a lamb as this?

He was desperate angry, and threatened to throw her out of the window;
and to turn her out of the house the next morning. You need not, sir,
said she; for I will not stay in it. God defend my poor Pamela till
to-morrow, and we will both go together.—Says he, let me but
expostulate a word or two with you, Pamela. Pray, Pamela, said Mrs.
Jervis, don’t hear a word, except he leaves the bed, and goes to the
other end of the room. Ay, out of the room, said I; expostulate
to-morrow, if you must expostulate!

I found his hand in my bosom; and when my fright let me know it, I was
ready to die; and I sighed and screamed, and fainted away. And still he
had his arms about my neck; and Mrs. Jervis was about my feet, and upon
my coat. And all in a cold dewy sweat was I. Pamela! Pamela! said Mrs.
Jervis, as she tells me since, O—h, and gave another shriek, my poor
Pamela is dead for certain! And so, to be sure, I was for a time; for I
knew nothing more of the matter, one fit following another, till about
three hours after, as it proved to be, I found myself in bed, and Mrs.
Jervis sitting upon one side, with her wrapper about her, and Rachel on
the other; and no master, for the wicked wretch was gone. But I was so
overjoyed, that I hardly could believe myself; and I said, which were
my first words, Mrs. Jervis, Mrs. Rachel, can I be sure it is you? Tell
me! can I?—Where have I been? Hush, my dear, said Mrs. Jervis; you have
been in fit after fit. I never saw any body so frightful in my life!

By this I judged Rachel knew nothing of the matter; and it seems my
wicked master had, upon Mrs. Jervis’s second noise on my fainting away,
slipt out, and, as if he had come from his own chamber, disturbed by
the screaming, went up to the maids’ room, (who, hearing the noise, lay
trembling, and afraid to stir,) and bid them go down, and see what was
the matter with Mrs. Jervis and me. And he charged Mrs. Jervis, and
promised to forgive her for what she had said and done, if she would
conceal the matter. So the maids came down, and all went up again, when
I came to myself a little, except Rachel, who staid to sit up with me,
and bear Mrs. Jervis company. I believe they all guess the matter to be
bad enough; though they dare not say any thing.

When I think of my danger, and the freedoms he actually took, though I
believe Mrs. Jervis saved me from worse, and she said she did, (though
what can I think, who was in a fit, and knew nothing of the matter?) I
am almost distracted.

At first I was afraid of Mrs. Jervis; but I am fully satisfied she is
very good, and I should have been lost but for her; and she takes on
grievously about it. What would have become of me, had she gone out of
the room, to still the maids, as he bid her! He’d certainly have shut
her out, and then, mercy on me! what would have become of your poor
Pamela?

I must leave off a little; for my eyes and my head are sadly bad.—This
was a dreadful trial! This was the worst of all! Oh, that I was out of
the power of this dreadfully wicked man! Pray for

Your distressed DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXVI




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I did not rise till ten o’clock, and I had all the concerns and wishes
of the family, and multitudes of inquiries about me. My wicked master
went out early to hunt; but left word he would be in to breakfast. And
so he was.

He came up to our chamber about eleven, and had nothing to do to be
sorry; for he was our master, and so put on sharp anger at first.

I had great emotions at his entering the room, and threw my apron over
my head, and fell a crying, as if my heart would break.

Mrs. Jervis, said he, since I know you, and you me so well, I don’t
know how we shall live together for the future. Sir, said she, I will
take the liberty to say, what I think is best for both. I have so much
grief, that you should attempt to do any injury to this poor girl, and
especially in my chamber, that I should think myself accessary to the
mischief, if I was not to take notice of it. Though my ruin, therefore,
may depend upon it, I desire not to stay; but pray let poor Pamela and
me go together. With all my heart, said he; and the sooner the better.
She fell a crying. I find, says he, this girl has made a party of the
whole house in her favour against me. Her innocence deserves it of us
all, said she very kindly: and I never could have thought that the son
of my dear good lady departed, could have so forfeited his honour, as
to endeavour to destroy a virtue he ought to protect. No more of this,
Mrs. Jervis! said he; I will not hear it. As for Pamela, she has a
lucky knack of falling into fits, when she pleases. But the cursed
yellings of you both made me not myself. I intended no harm to her, as
I told you both, if you’d have left your squallings: And I did no harm
neither, but to myself; for I raised a hornet’s nest about my ears,
that, as far as I know, may have stung to death my reputation. Sir,
said Mrs. Jervis, then I beg Mr. Longman may take my accounts, and I
will go away as soon as I can. As for Pamela, she is at her liberty, I
hope, to go away next Thursday, as she intends?

I sat still; for I could not speak nor look up, and his presence
discomposed me extremely; but I was sorry to hear myself the unhappy
occasion of Mrs. Jervis’s losing her place, and hope that may be still
made up.

Well, said he, let Mr. Longman make up your accounts, as soon as you
will; and Mrs. Jewkes (who is his housekeeper in Lincolnshire) shall
come hither in your place, and won’t be less obliging, I dare say, than
you have been. Said she, I have never disobliged you till now; and let
me tell you, sir, if you knew what belonged to your own reputation or
honour—No more, no more, said he, of these antiquated topics. I have
been no bad friend to you; and I shall always esteem you, though you
have not been so faithful to my secrets as I could have wished, and
have laid me open to this girl, which has made her more afraid of me
than she had occasion. Well, sir, said she, after what passed
yesterday, and last night, I think I went rather too far in favour of
your injunctions than otherwise; and I should have deserved every
body’s censure, as the basest of creatures, had I been capable of
contributing to your lawless attempts. Still, Mrs. Jervis, still
reflecting upon me, and all for imaginary faults! for what harm have I
done the girl?—I won’t bear it, I’ll assure you. But yet, in respect to
my mother, I am willing to part friendly with you though you ought both
of you to reflect on the freedom of your conversation, in relation to
me; which I should have resented more than I do, but that I am
conscious I had no business to demean myself so as to be in your
closet, where I might have expected to hear a multitude of impertinence
between you.

Well, sir, said she, you have no objection, I hope, to Pamela’s going
away on Thursday next? You are mighty solicitous, said he, about
Pamela: But no, not I; let her go as soon as she will: She is a naughty
girl, and has brought all this upon herself; and upon me more trouble
than she can have had from me: But I have overcome it all, and will
never concern myself about her.

I have a proposal made me, added he, since I have been out this
morning, that I shall go near to embrace; and so wish only, that a
discreet use may be made of what is past; and there’s an end of every
thing with me, as to Pamela, I’ll assure you. I clasped my hands
together through my apron, overjoyed at this, though I was soon to go
away: For, naughty as he has been to me, I wish his prosperity with all
my heart, for my good old lady’s sake. Well, Pamela, said he, you need
not now be afraid to speak to me; tell me what you lifted up your hands
at? I said not a word. Says he, If you like what I have said, give me
your hand upon it. I held my hand up through my apron; for I could not
speak to him; and he took hold of it, and pressed it, though less hard
than he did my arm the day before. What does the little fool cover her
face for? said he: Pull your apron away; and let me see how you look,
after your freedom of speech of me last night. No wonder you are
ashamed to see me. You know you were very free with my character.

I could not stand this barbarous insult, as I took it to be,
considering his behaviour to me; and I then spoke and said, O the
difference between the minds of thy creatures, good God! How shall some
be cast down in their innocence, while others can triumph in their
guilt!

And so saying, I went up stairs to my chamber, and wrote all this; for
though he vexed me at his taunting, yet I was pleased to hear he was
likely to be married, and that his wicked intentions were so happily
overcome as to me; and this made me a little easier. And I hope I have
passed the worst; or else it is very hard. And yet I shan’t think
myself at ease quite, till I am with you: For, methinks, after all, his
repentance and amendment are mighty suddenly resolved upon. But the
divine grace is not confined to space; and remorse may, and I hope has,
smitten him to the heart at once, for his injuries to poor me! Yet I
won’t be too secure neither.

Having opportunity, I send now what I know will grieve you to the
heart. But I hope I shall bring my next scribble myself; and so
conclude, though half broken-hearted, Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXVII




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I am glad I desired you not to meet me, and John says you won’t; for he
told you he is sure I shall get a passage well enough, either behind
some one of my fellow-servants on horseback, or by farmer Nichols’s
means: but as to the chariot he talked to you of, I can’t expect that
favour, to be sure; and I should not care for it, because it would look
so much above me. But farmer Brady, they say, has a chaise with one
horse, and we hope to borrow that, or hire it, rather than fail; though
money runs a little lowish, after what I have laid out; but I don’t
care to say so here; though I warrant I might have what I would of Mrs.
Jervis, or Mr. Jonathan, or Mr. Longman; but then how shall I pay it?
you’ll say: And, besides, I don’t love to be beholden.

But the chief reason I’m glad you don’t set out to meet me, is the
uncertainty; for it seems I must stay another week still, and hope
certainly to go Thursday after. For poor Mrs. Jervis will go at the
same time, she says, and can’t be ready before.

Oh! that I was once well with you!—Though he is very civil too at
present, and not so cross as he was: and yet he is as vexatious another
way, as you shall hear. For yesterday he had a rich suit of clothes
brought home, which they call a birth-day suit; for he intends to go to
London against next birth-day, to see the court; and our folks will
have it he is to be made a lord.—I wish they may make him an honest
man, as he was always thought; but I have not found it so, alas for me!

And so, as I was saying, he had these clothes come home, and he tried
them on. And before he pulled them off, he sent for me, when nobody
else was in the parlour with him: Pamela, said he, you are so neat and
so nice in your own dress, (Alack-a-day, I didn’t know I was!) that you
must be a judge of ours. How are these clothes made? Do they fit me?—I
am no judge, said I, and please your honour; but I think they look very
fine.

His waistcoat stood on end with silver lace, and he looked very grand.
But what he did last, has made me very serious, and I could make him no
compliments. Said he, Why don’t you wear your usual clothes? Though I
think every thing looks well upon you (for I still continue in my new
dress). I said, I have no clothes, sir, I ought to call my own, but
these: and it is no matter what such an one as I wears. Said he, Why
you look very serious, Pamela. I see you can bear malice.—Yes, so I
can, sir, said I, according to the occasion! Why, said he, your eyes
always look red, I think. Are you not a fool to take my last freedom so
much to heart? I am sure you, and that fool Mrs. Jervis, frightened me,
by your hideous squalling, as much as I could frighten you. That is all
we had for it, said I; and if you could be so afraid of your own
servants knowing of your attempts upon a poor unworthy creature, that
is under your protection while I stay, surely your honour ought to be
more afraid of God Almighty, in whose presence we all stand, in every
action of our lives, and to whom the greatest, as well as the least,
must be accountable, let them think what they list.

He took my hand, in a kind of good-humoured mockery, and said, Well
urged, my pretty preacher! When my Lincolnshire chaplain dies, I’ll put
thee on a gown and cassock, and thou’lt make a good figure in his
place.—I wish, said I, a little vexed at his jeer, your honour’s
conscience would be your preacher, and then you would need no other
chaplain. Well, well, Pamela, said he, no more of this unfashionable
jargon. I did not send for you so much for your opinion of my new suit,
as to tell you, you are welcome to stay, since Mrs. Jervis desires it,
till she goes. I welcome! said I; I am sure I shall rejoice when I am
out of the house!

Well, said he, you are an ungrateful baggage; but I am thinking it
would be pity, with these fair soft hands, and that lovely skin, (as he
called it, and took hold of my hand,) that you should return again to
hard work, as you must if you go to your father’s; and so I would
advise her to take a house in London, and let lodgings to us members of
parliament, when we come to town; and such a pretty daughter as you may
pass for, will always fill her house, and she’ll get a great deal of
money.

I was sadly vexed at this barbarous joke; but being ready to cry
before, the tears gushed out, and (endeavouring to get my hand from
him, but in vain) I said, I can expect no better: Your behaviour, sir,
to me, has been just of a piece with these words: Nay, I will say it,
though you were to be ever so angry.—I angry, Pamela? No, no, said he,
I have overcome all that; and as you are to go away, I look upon you
now as Mrs. Jervis’s guest while you both stay, and not as my servant;
and so you may say what you will. But I’ll tell you, Pamela, why you
need not take this matter in such high disdain!—You have a very pretty
romantic turn for virtue, and all that.—And I don’t suppose but you’ll
hold it still: and nobody will be able to prevail upon you. But, my
child, (sneeringly he spoke it,) do but consider what a fine
opportunity you will then have for a tale every day to good mother
Jervis, and what subjects for letter-writing to your father and mother,
and what pretty preachments you may hold forth to the young gentlemen.
Ad’s my heart! I think it would be the best thing you and she could do.

You do well, sir, said I, to even your wit to such a poor maiden as me:
but, permit me to say, that if you was not rich and great, and I poor
and little, you would not insult me thus.—Let me ask you, sir, if you
think this becomes your fine clothes, and a master’s station: Why so
serious, my pretty Pamela? said he: Why so grave? And would kiss me;
but my heart was full, and I said, Let me alone; I will tell you, if
you was a king, and insulted me as you have done, that you have
forgotten to act like a gentleman; and I won’t stay to be used thus: I
will go to the next farmer’s, and there wait for Mrs. Jervis, if she
must go: and I’d have you know, sir, that I can stoop to the
ordinariest work of your scullions, for all these nasty soft hands,
sooner than bear such ungentlemanly imputations.

I sent for you, said he, in high good humour; but it is impossible to
hold it with such an impertinent: however, I’ll keep my temper. But
while I see you here, pray don’t put on those dismal grave looks: Why,
girl, you should forbear them, if it were but for your pride-sake; for
the family will think you are grieving to leave the house. Then, sir,
said I, I will try to convince them of the contrary, as well as your
honour; for I will endeavour to be more cheerful while I stay, for that
very reason.

Well, replied he, I will set this down by itself, as the first time
that ever what I had advised had any weight with you. And I will add,
said I, as the first advice you have given me of late, that was fit to
be followed.—I wish said he, (I am almost ashamed to write it, impudent
gentleman as he is!) I wish I had thee as quick another way, as thou
art in thy repartees—And he laughed, and I snatched my hand from him,
and I tripped away as fast as I could. Ah! thought I, married? I am
sure it is time you were married, or, at this rate, no honest maiden
ought to live with you.

Why, dear father and mother, to be sure he grows quite a rake! How easy
it is to go from bad to worse, when once people give way to vice!

How would my poor lady, had she lived, have grieved to see it! but may
be he would have been better then! Though it seems he told Mrs. Jervis,
he had an eye upon me in his mother’s life-time; and he intended to let
me know as much, by the bye, he told her! Here is shamelessness for
you! Sure the world must be near at an end! for all the gentlemen about
are as bad as he almost, as far as I can hear!—And see the fruits of
such bad examples! There is ’Squire Martin in the grove, has had three
lyings-in, it seems, in his house, in three months past; one by
himself; and one by his coachman; and one by his woodman; and yet he
has turned none of them away. Indeed, how can he, when they but follow
his own vile example? There is he, and two or three more such as he,
within ten miles of us, who keep company, and hunt with our fine
master, truly; and I suppose he is never the better for their examples.
But, Heaven bless me, say I, and send me out of this wicked house!

But, dear father and mother, what sort of creatures must the womenkind
be, do you think, to give way to such wickedness? Why, this it is that
makes every one be thought of alike: And, alack-a-day! what a world we
live in! for it is grown more a wonder that the men are resisted, than
that the women comply. This, I suppose, makes me such a sauce-box, and
bold-face, and a creature, and all because I won’t be a sauce-box and
bold-face indeed.

But I am sorry for these things; one don’t know what arts and
stratagems men may devise to gain their vile ends; and so I will think
as well as I can of these poor undone creatures, and pity them. For you
see, by my sad story, and narrow escapes, what hardships poor maidens
go through, whose lot it is to go out to service, especially to houses
where there is not the fear of God, and good rule kept by the heads of
the family.

You see I am quite grown grave and serious; indeed it becomes the
present condition of Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXVIII




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

John says you wept when you read my last letter, that he carried. I am
sorry you let him see that; for they all mistrust already how matters
are, and as it is no credit that I have been attempted, though it is
that I have resisted; yet I am sorry they have cause to think so evil
of my master from any of us.

Mrs. Jervis has made up her accounts with Mr. Longman, and will stay in
her place. I am glad of it, for her own sake, and for my master’s; for
she has a good master of him; so indeed all have, but poor me—and he
has a good housekeeper in her.

Mr. Longman, it seems, took upon him to talk to my master, how faithful
and careful of his interests she was, and how exact in her accounts;
and he told him, there was no comparison between her accounts and Mrs.
Jewkes’s, at the Lincolnshire estate.

He said so many fine things, it seems, of Mrs. Jervis, that my master
sent for her in Mr. Longman’s presence, and said Pamela might come
along with her; I suppose to mortify me, that I must go while she was
to stay: But as, when I go away, I am not to go with her, nor was she
to go with me; so I did not matter it much; only it would have been
creditable to such a poor girl, that the housekeeper would bear me
company, if I went.

Said he to her, Well, Mrs. Jervis, Longman says you have made up your
accounts with him with your usual fidelity and exactness. I had a good
mind to make you an offer of continuing with me, if you can be a little
sorry for your hasty words, which, indeed, were not so respectful as I
have deserved at your hands. She seemed at a sad loss what to say,
because Mr. Longman was there, and she could not speak of the occasion
of those words, which was me.

Indeed, said Mr. Longman, I must needs say before your face, that since
I have known my master’s family, I have never found such good
management in it, nor so much love and harmony neither. I wish the
Lincolnshire estate was as well served!—No more of that, said my
master; but Mrs. Jervis may stay, if she will: and here, Mrs. Jervis,
pray accept of this, which at the close of every year’s accounts I will
present you with, besides your salary, as long as I find your care so
useful and agreeable. And he gave her five guineas.—She made him a low
courtesy, and thanking him, looked to me, as if she would have spoken
to me.

He took her meaning, I believe; for he said,—Indeed I love to encourage
merit and obligingness, Longman; but I can never be equally kind to
those who don’t deserve it at my hands, as to those who do; and then he
looked full on me. Longman, continued he, I said that girl might come
in with Mrs. Jervis, because they love to be always together. For Mrs.
Jervis is very good to her, and loves her as well as if she was her
daughter. But else—Mr. Longman, interrupting him, said, Good to Mrs.
Pamela! Ay, sir, and so she is, to be sure! But every body must be good
to her; for——

He was going on: but my master said, No more, no more, Mr. Longman. I
see old men are taken with pretty young girls, as well as other folks;
and fair looks hide many a fault, where a person has the art to behave
obligingly. Why, and please your honour, said Mr. Longman, every
body—and was going on, I believe, to say something more in my praise,
but he interrupted him, and said, Not a word more of this Pamela. I
can’t let her stay, I’ll assure you; not only for her own freedom of
speech, but her letter-writing of all the secrets of my family. Ay,
said the good old man, I am sorry for that too! But, sir,—No more, I
say, said my master; for my reputation is so well known, (mighty fine,
thought I!) that I care not what any body writes or says of me: But to
tell you the truth, (not that it need go further,) I think of changing
my condition soon; and, you know, young ladies of birth and fortune
will choose their own servants, and that’s my chief reason why Pamela
can’t stay. As for the rest, said he, the girl is a good sort of body,
take her altogether; though I must needs say, a little pert, since my
mother’s death, in her answers, and gives me two words for one; which I
can’t bear; nor is there reason I should, you know, Longman. No, to be
sure, sir, said he: but ’tis strange, methinks, she should be so mild
and meek to every one of us in the house, and forget herself so, where
she should shew most respect! Very true, Mr. Longman, said he, but so
it is, I’ll assure you; and it was from her pertness, that Mrs. Jervis
and I had the words: And I should mind it the less, but that the girl
(there she stands, I say it to her face) has wit and sense above her
years, and knows better.

I was in great pain to say something, but yet I knew not what, before
Mr. Longman; and Mrs. Jervis looked at me, and walked to the window to
hide her concern for me. At last, I said, It is for you, sir, to say
what you please; and for me only to say, God bless your honour!

Poor Mr. Longman faltered in his speech, and was ready to cry. Said my
insulting master to me, Why, pr’ythee, Pamela, now, shew thyself as
thou art, before Longman. Can’st not give him a specimen of that
pertness which thou hast exercised upon me sometimes?

Did he not, my dear father and mother, deserve all the truth to be
told? Yet I overcame myself so far, as to say, Well, your honour may
play upon a poor girl, that you know can answer you, but dare not.

Why, pr’ythee now, insinuator, said he, say the worst you can before
Longman and Mrs. Jervis. I challenge the utmost of thy impertinence:
and as you are going away, and have the love of every body, I would be
a little justified to my family, that you have no reason to complain of
hardships from me, as I have pert saucy answers from you, besides
exposing me by your letters.

Surely, sir, said I, I am of no consequence equal to this, in your
honour’s family, that such a great gentleman as you, should need to
justify yourself about me. I am glad Mrs. Jervis stays with your
honour; and I know I have not deserved to stay: and, more than that, I
don’t desire to stay.

Ads-bobbers! said Mr. Longman, and ran to me; don’t say so, don’t say
so, dear Mrs. Pamela! We all love you dearly: and pray down of your
knees, and ask his honour pardon, and we will all become pleaders in a
body, and I, and Mrs. Jervis too, at the head of it, to beg his
honour’s pardon, and to continue you, at least, till his honour
marries.—No, Mr. Longman, said I, I cannot ask; nor will I stay, if I
might. All I desire is, to return to my poor father and mother: and
though I love you all, I won’t stay.—O well-a-day, well-a-day! said the
good old man, I did not expect this!—When I had got matters thus far,
and had made all up for Mrs. Jervis, I was in hopes to have got a
double holiday of joy for all the family, in your pardon too. Well,
said my master, this is a little specimen of what I told you, Longman.
You see there’s a spirit you did not expect.

Mrs. Jervis told me after, that she could stay no longer, to hear me so
hardly used; and must have spoken, had she staid, what would never have
been forgiven her; so she went out. I looked after her to go too; but
my master said, Come, Pamela, give another specimen, I desire you, to
Longman I am sure you must, if you will but speak. Well, sir, said I,
since it seems your greatness wants to be justified by my lowness, and
I have no desire you should suffer in the sight of your family, I will
say, on my bended knees, (and so I kneeled down,) that I have been a
very faulty, and a very ungrateful creature to the best of masters: I
have been very perverse and saucy; and have deserved nothing at your
hands but to be turned out of your family with shame and disgrace. I,
therefore, have nothing to say for myself, but that I am not worthy to
stay, and so cannot wish to stay, and will not stay: And so God
Almighty bless you, and you Mr. Longman, and good Mrs. Jervis, and
every living soul of the family! and I will pray for you as long as I
live!—And so I rose up, and was forced to lean upon my master’s
elbow-chair, or I should have sunk down.

The poor old man wept more than I, and said, Ads-bobbers, was ever the
like heard! ’Tis too much, too much; I can’t bear it. As I hope to
live, I am quite melted. Dear sir, forgive her! The poor thing prays
for you; she prays for us all! She owns her fault; yet won’t be
forgiven! I profess I know not what to make of it.

My master himself, hardened wretch as he was, seemed a little moved,
and took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and walked to the window:
What sort of a day is it? said he.—And then, getting a little more
hard-heartedness, he said, Well, you may be gone from my presence, thou
strange medley of inconsistence! but you shan’t stay after your time in
the house.

Nay, pray, sir, pray, sir, said the good old man, relent a little.
Ads-heartikins! you young gentlemen are made of iron and steel, I
think; I’m sure, said he, my heart’s turned into butter, and is running
away at my eyes. I never felt the like before.—Said my master, with an
imperious tone, Get out of my presence, hussy! I can’t bear you in my
sight. Sir, said I, I’m going as fast as I can.

But, indeed, my dear father and mother, my head was so giddy, and my
limbs trembled so, that I was forced to go holding by the wainscot all
the way with both my hands, and thought I should not have got to the
door: But when I did, as I hoped this would be my last interview with
this terrible hard-hearted master, I turned about, and made a low
courtesy, and said, God bless you, sir! God bless you, Mr. Longman! and
I went into the lobby leading to the great hall, and dropt into the
first chair; for I could get no farther a good while.

I leave all these things to your reflection, my dear parents but I can
write no more. My poor heart’s almost broken! Indeed it is—O when shall
I get away!—Send me, good God, in safety, once more to my poor father’s
peaceful cot!—and there the worst that can happen will be joy in
perfection to what I now bear!—O pity

Your distressed DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXIX




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I must write on, though I shall come so soon; for now I have hardly any
thing else to do. I have finished all that lay upon me, and only wait
the good time of setting out. Mrs. Jervis said, I must be low in
pocket, for what I had laid out; and so would have presented me with
two guineas of her five; but I could not take them of her, because,
poor gentlewoman, she pays old debts for her children, that were
extravagant, and wants them herself. This, though, was very good in
her.

I am sorry I shall have but little to bring with me; but I know you
won’t, you are so good!—and I will work the harder, when I come home,
if I can get a little plain-work, or any thing, to do. But all your
neighbourhood is so poor, that I fear I shall want work, except, may
be, dame Mumford can help me to something, from any good family she is
acquainted with.

Here, what a sad thing it is! I have been brought up wrong, as matters
stand. For, you know, my good lady, now in heaven, loved singing and
dancing; and, as she would have it, I had a voice, she made me learn
both; and often and often has she made me sing her an innocent song,
and a good psalm too, and dance before her. And I must learn to flower
and draw too, and to work fine work with my needle; why, all this too I
have got pretty tolerably at my finger’s end, as they say; and she used
to praise me, and was a good judge of such matters.

Well now, what is all this to the purpose, as things have turned about?

Why, no more nor less, than that I am like the grasshopper in the
fable, which I have read of in my lady’s book, as follows:—[See the
Aesop’s Fables which have lately been selected and reformed from those
of Sir R. L’Estrange, and the most eminent mythologists.]

‘As the ants were airing their provisions one winter, a hungry
grasshopper (as suppose it was poor I) begged a charity of them. They
told him, That he should have wrought in summer, if he would not have
wanted in winter. Well, says the grasshopper, but I was not idle
neither; for I sung out the whole season. Nay, then, said they, you’ll
e’en do well to make a merry year of it, and dance in winter to the
time you sung in summer.’

So I shall make a fine figure with my singing and my dancing, when I
come home to you! Nay, I shall be unfit even for a May-day
holiday-time; for these minuets, rigadoons, and French dances, that I
have been practising, will make me but ill company for my milk-maid
companions that are to be. To be sure I had better, as things stand,
have learned to wash and scour, and brew and bake, and such like. Put I
hope, if I can’t get work, and can meet with a place, to learn these
soon, if any body will have the goodness to bear with me till I am
able: For, notwithstanding what my master says, I hope I have an humble
and teachable mind; and, next to God’s grace, that’s all my comfort:
for I shall think nothing too mean that is honest. It may be a little
hard at first; but woe to my proud heart, if I find it so on trial; for
I will make it bend to its condition, or break it.

I have read of a good bishop that was to be burnt for his religion; and
he tried how he could bear it, by putting his fingers into the lighted
candle: So I, t’other day, tried, when Rachel’s back was turned, if I
could not scour a pewter plate she had begun. I see I could do’t by
degrees: It only blistered my hand in two places.

All the matter is, if I could get plain-work enough, I need not spoil
my fingers. But if I can’t, I hope to make my hands as red as a
blood-pudding, and as hard as a beechen trencher, to accommodate them
to my condition.—But I must break off; here’s somebody coming.

’Tis only our Hannah with a message from Mrs. Jervis.—But, hold, here’s
somebody else. Well, it is only Rachel.

I am as much frighted, as were the city mouse and the country mouse, in
the same book of fables, at every thing that stirs. O! I have a power
of these things to entertain you with in winter evenings, when I come
home. If I can but get work, with a little time for reading, I hope we
shall be very happy over our peat fires.

What made me hint to you, that I should bring but little with me, is
this:

You must know, I did intend to do, as I have this afternoon: and that
is, I took all my clothes, and all my linen, and I divided them into
three parcels, as I had before told Mrs. Jervis I intended to do; and I
said, It is now Monday, Mrs. Jervis, and I am to go away on Thursday
morning betimes; so, though I know you don’t doubt my honesty, I beg
you will look over my poor matters, and let every one have what belongs
to them; for, said I, you know I am resolved to take with me only what
I can properly call my own.

Said she, (I did not know her drift then; to be sure she meant well;
but I did not thank her for it, when I did know it,) Let your things be
brought down in the green-room, and I will do any thing you will have
me do.

With all my heart, said I, green-room or any where; but I think you
might step up, and see ’em as they lie.

However, I fetched ’em down, and laid them in three parcels, as before;
and, when I had done, I went down to call her up to look at them.

Now, it seems, she had prepared my master for this scene, unknown to
me; and in this green-room was a closet, with a sash-door, and a
curtain before it; for there she puts her sweet-meats and such things;
and she did it, it seems, to turn his heart, as knowing what I
intended, I suppose that he should make me take the things; for, if he
had, I should have made money of them, to help us when we got together;
for, to be sure, I could never have appeared in them.

Well, as I was saying, he had got, unknown to me, into this closet; I
suppose while I went to call Mrs. Jervis: and she since owned to me, it
was at his desire, when she told him something of what I intended, or
else she would not have done it: though I have reason, I am sure, to
remember the last closet-work.

So I said, when she came up, Here, Mrs. Jervis, is the first parcel; I
will spread it all abroad. These are the things my good lady gave
me.—In the first place, said I—and so I went on describing the clothes
and linen my lady had given me, mingling blessings, as I proceeded, for
her goodness to me; and when I had turned over that parcel, I said,
Well, so much for the first parcel, Mrs. Jervis; that was my lady’s
gifts.

Now I come to the presents of my dear virtuous master: Hey, you know
closet for that! Mrs. Jervis. She laughed, and said, I never saw such a
comical girl in my life! But go on. I will, Mrs. Jervis, said I, as
soon as I have opened the bundle; for I was as brisk and as pert as
could be, little thinking who heard me.

Now here, Mrs. Jervis, said I, are my ever worthy master’s presents;
and then I particularised all those in the second bundle.

After which, I turned to my own, and said,

Now, Mrs. Jervis, comes poor Pamela’s bundle; and a little one it is to
the others. First, here is a calico nightgown, that I used to wear o’
mornings. ’Twill be rather too good for me when I get home; but I must
have something. Then there is a quilted calamanco coat, and a pair of
stockings I bought of the pedlar, and my straw-hat with blue strings;
and a remnant of Scots cloth, which will make two shirts and two
shifts, the same I have on, for my poor father and mother. And here are
four other shifts, one the fellow to that I have on; another pretty
good one, and the other two old fine ones, that will serve me to turn
and wind with at home, for they are not worth leaving behind me; and
here are two pair of shoes, I have taken the lace off, which I will
burn, and may be will fetch me some little matter at a pinch, with an
old silver buckle or two.

What do you laugh for, Mrs. Jervis? said I.—Why you are like an April
day; you cry and laugh in a breath.

Well, let me see; ay, here is a cotton handkerchief I bought of the
pedlar—there should be another somewhere. O, here it is! and here too
are my new-bought knit mittens; and this is my new flannel coat, the
fellow to that I have on and in this parcel, pinned together, are
several pieces of printed calico, remnants of silks, and such like,
that, if good luck should happen, and I should get work, would serve
for robins and facings, and such like uses. And here too are a pair of
pockets: they are too fine for me; but I have no worse. Bless me, said
I, I did not think I had so many good things!

Well, Mrs. Jervis, said I, you have seen all my store, and I will now
sit down, and tell you a piece of my mind.

Be brief then, said she, my good girl: for she was afraid, she said
afterwards, that I should say too much.

Why then the case is this: I am to enter upon a point of equity and
conscience, Mrs. Jervis; and I must beg, if you love me, you’d let me
have my own way. Those things there of my lady’s, I can have no claim
to, so as to take them away; for she gave them me, supposing I was to
wear them in her service, and to do credit to her bountiful heart. But,
since I am to be turned away, you know, I cannot wear them at my poor
father’s; for I should bring all the little village upon my back; and
so I resolve not to have them.

Then, Mrs. Jervis, said I, I have far less right to these of my worthy
master’s; for you see what was his intention in giving them to me. So
they were to be the price of my shame, and if I could make use of them,
I should think I should never prosper with them; and, besides, you
know, Mrs. Jervis, if I would not do the good gentleman’s work, why
should I take his wages? So, in conscience, in honour, in every thing,
I have nothing to say to thee, thou second wicked bundle!

But, said I, cone to my arms, my dear third parcel, the companion of my
poverty, and the witness of my honesty; and may I never deserve the
least rag that is contained in thee, when I forfeit a title to that
innocence, that I hope will ever be the pride of my life! and then I am
sure it will be my highest comfort at my death, when all the riches and
pomps of the world will be worse than the vilest rags that can be worn
by beggars! And so I hugged my third bundle.

But, said I, Mrs. Jervis, (and she wept to hear me,) one thing more I
have to trouble you with, and that’s all.

There are four guineas, you know, that came out of my good lady’s
pocket, when she died; that, with some silver, my master gave me: Now
these same four guineas I sent to my poor father and mother, and they
have broken them; but would make them up, if I would: and if you think
it should be so, it shall. But pray tell me honestly your mind: As to
the three years before my lady’s death, do you think, as I had no
wages, I may be supposed to be quits?—By quits, I cannot mean that my
poor services should be equal to my lady’s goodness; for that’s
impossible. But as all her learning and education of me, as matters
have turned, will be of little service to me now; for it had been
better for me to have been brought up to hard labour, to be sure; for
that I must turn to at last, if I can’t get a place: (and you know, in
places too, one is subject to such temptations as are dreadful to think
of:) so, I say, by quits I only mean, as I return all the good things
she gave me, whether I may not set my little services against my
keeping; because, as I said, my learning is not now in the question;
and I am sure my dear good lady would have thought so, had she lived;
but that too is now out of the question. Well then, if so, I would ask,
Whether, in above this year that I have lived with my master, as I am
resolved to leave all his gifts behind me, I may not have earned,
besides my keeping, these four guineas, and these poor clothes here
upon my back, and in my third bundle? Now tell me your mind freely,
without favour or affection.

Alas! my dear girl, says she, you make me unable to speak to you at
all: To be sure it will be the highest affront that can be offered, for
you to leave any of these things behind you; and you must take all your
bundles with you, or my master will never forgive you.

Well, well, Mrs. Jervis, said I, I don’t care; I have been too much
used to be snubbed and hardly treated by my master, of late. I have
done him no harm; and I shall always pray for him and wish him happy.
But I don’t deserve these things; I know I don’t. Then, I can’t wear
them, if I should take them; so they can be of no use to me: And I
trust I shall not want the poor pittance, that is all I desire to keep
life and soul together. Bread and water I can live upon, Mrs. Jervis,
with content. Water I shall get any where; and if I can’t get me bread,
I will live like a bird in winter upon hips and haws, and at other
times upon pig-nuts and potatoes, or turnips, or any thing. So what
occasion have I for these things?—But all I ask is about these four
guineas, and if you think I need not return them, that is all I want to
know.—To be sure, my dear, you need not, said she; you have well earned
them by that waistcoat only. No, I think not so, in that only; but in
the linen, and other things, do you think I have? Yes, yes, said she,
and more. And my keeping allowed for, I mean, said I, and these poor
clothes on my back, besides? Remember that, Mrs. Jervis. Yes, my dear
odd-one, no doubt you have. Well then, said I, I am as happy as a
princess. I am quite as rich as I wish to be: and once more, my dear
third bundle, I will hug thee to my bosom. And I beg you’ll say nothing
of all this till I am gone, that my master mayn’t be so angry, but that
I may go in peace; for my heart, without other matters, will be ready
to break to part with you all.

Now, Mrs. Jervis, said I, as to one matter more: and that is my
master’s last usage of me, before Mr. Longman.—Said she, Pr’ythee, dear
Pamela, step to my chamber, and fetch me a paper I left on my table. I
have something to shew you in it. I will, said I, and stepped down; but
that was only a fetch, to take the orders of my master, I found. It
seems he said, he thought two or three times to have burst out upon me;
but he could not stand it, and wished I might not know he was there.
But I tripped up again so nimbly, (for there was no paper,) that I just
saw his back, as if coming out of that green-room, and going into the
next to it, the first door that was open—I whipped in, and shut the
door, and bolted it. O Mrs. Jervis! said I, what have you done by me?—I
see I can’t confide in any body. I am beset on all hands. Wretched,
wretched Pamela, where shalt thou expect a friend, if Mrs. Jervis joins
to betray thee thus? She made so many protestations, (telling me all,
and that he owned I had made him wipe his eyes two or three times, and
said she hoped it would have a good effect, and remembered me, that I
had said nothing but what would rather move compassion than
resentment,) that I forgave her. But O! that I was safe from this
house! for never poor creature sure was so flustered as I have been so
many months together;—I am called down from this most tedious scribble.
I wonder what will next befall Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

Mrs. Jervis says, she is sure I shall have the chariot to carry me home
to you. Though this will look too great for me, yet it will shew as if
I was not turned away quite in disgrace. The travelling chariot is come
from Lincolnshire, and I fancy I shall go in that; for the other is
quite grand.


LETTER XXX




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I write again, though, may be, I shall bring it to you in my pocket:
for I shall have no writing, nor writing-time, I hope, when I come to
you. This is Wednesday morning, and I shall, I hope, set out to you
to-morrow morning; but I have had more trials and more vexations; but
of another complexion too a little, though all from the same quarter.

Yesterday my master, after he came from hunting, sent for me. I went
with great terror: for I expected he would storm, and be in a fine
passion with me for my freedom of speech before: so I was resolved to
begin first, with submission, to disarm his anger; and I fell upon my
knees as soon as I saw him; and said, Good sir, let me beseech you, as
you hope to be forgiven yourself, and for the sake of my dear good lady
your mother, who recommended me to you with her last words, to forgive
me all my faults; and only grant me this favour, the last I shall ask
you, that you will let me depart your house with peace and quietness of
mind, that I may take such a leave of my dear fellow-servants as befits
me; and that my heart be not quite broken.

He took me up, in a kinder manner than ever I had known; and he said,
Shut the door, Pamela, and come to me in my closet: I want to have a
little serious talk with you. How can I, sir, said I, how can I! and
wrung my hands. O pray, sir, let me go out of your presence, I beseech
you! By the God that made me, said he, I’ll do you no harm. Shut the
parlour door, and come to me in my library.

He then went into his closet, which is his library, and full of rich
pictures besides; a noble apartment, though called a closet, and next
the private garden, into which it has a door that opens. I shut the
parlour door, as he bid me; but stood at it irresolute. Place some
confidence in me, said he: Surely you may, when I have spoken thus
solemnly. So I crept towards him with trembling feet, and my heart
throbbing through my handkerchief. Come in, said he, when I bid you. I
did so. Pray, sir, said I, pity and spare me. I will, said he, as I
hope to be saved. He sat down upon a rich settee; and took hold of my
hand, and said, Don’t doubt me, Pamela. From this moment I will no more
consider you as my servant: and I desire you’ll not use me with
ingratitude for the kindness I am going to express towards you. This a
little emboldened me; and he said, holding both my hands between his,
You have too much wit and good sense not to discover, that I, in spite
of my heart, and all the pride of it, cannot but love you. Yes, look up
to me, my sweet-faced girl! I must say I love you; and have put on a
behaviour to you, that was much against my heart, in hopes to frighten
you from your reservedness. You see I own it ingenuously; and don’t
play your sex upon me for it.

I was unable to speak; and he, seeing me too much oppressed with
confusion to go on in that strain, said, Well, Pamela, let me know in
what situation of life is your father: I know he is a poor man; but is
he as low and as honest as he was when my mother took you?

Then I could speak a little; and with a down look, (and I felt my face
glow like fire,) I said, Yes, sir, as poor and as honest too; and that
is my pride. Says he, I will do something for him, if it be not your
fault, and make all your family happy. All, sir, said I, he is happier
already than ever he can be, if his daughter’s innocence is to be the
price of your favour: and I beg you will not speak to me on the only
side that can wound me. I have no design of that sort, said he. O sir,
said I, tell me not so, tell me not so!—’Tis easy, said he, for me to
be the making of your father, without injuring you. Well, sir, said I,
if this can be done, let me know how; and all I can do with innocence
shall be the study and practice of my life.—But, O! what can such a
poor creature as I do, and do my duty?—Said he, I would have you stay a
week or fortnight only, and behave yourself with kindness to me; I
stoop to beg it of you, and you shall see all shall turn out beyond
your expectation. I see, said he, you are going to answer otherwise
than I would have you; and I begin to be vexed I should thus meanly
sue; and so I will say, that your behaviour before honest Longman, when
I used you as I did, and you could so well have vindicated yourself,
has quite charmed me. And though I am not pleased with all you said
yesterday, while I was in the closet, yet you have moved me more to
admire you than before; and I am awakened to see more worthiness in
you, than ever I saw in any lady in the world. All the servants, from
the highest to the lowest, doat upon you, instead of envying you; and
look upon you in so superior a light, as speaks what you ought to be. I
have seen more of your letters than you imagine, (This surprised me!)
and am quite overcome with your charming manner of writing, so free, so
easy, and many of your sentiments so much above your years, and your
sex; and all put together, makes me, as I tell you, love you to
extravagance. Now, Pamela, when I have stooped to acknowledge all this,
oblige me only to stay another week or fortnight, to give me time to
bring about some certain affairs, and you shall see how much you may
find your account in it.

I trembled to find my poor heart giving way.—O good sir, said I, spare
a poor girl that cannot look up to you, and speak. My heart is full;
and why should you wish to undo me?—Only oblige me, said he, to stay a
fortnight longer, and John shall carry word to your father, that I will
see him in the time, either here, or at the Swan in his village. O sir,
said I, my heart will burst; but, on my bended knees, I beg you to let
me go to-morrow, as I designed: and don’t offer to tempt a poor
creature, whose whole will would be to do yours, if my virtue would
permit!—I shall permit it, said he; for I intend no injury to you, God
is my witness! Impossible! said I; I cannot, sir, believe you, after
what has passed: How many ways are there to undo poor creatures! Good
God, protect me this one time, and send me but to my dear father’s cot
in safety!—Strange, d——d fate! said he, that when I speak so solemnly,
I can’t be believed!—What should I believe, sir? said I, what can I
believe? What have you said, but that I am to stay a fortnight longer?
and what then is to become of me?—My pride of birth and fortune (d—n
them both! said he, since they cannot obtain credit with you, but must
add to your suspicions) will not let me descend all at once; and I ask
you but a fortnight’s stay, that, after this declaration, I may pacify
those proud demands upon me.

O how my heart throbbed! and I began (for I did not know what I did) to
say the Lord’s prayer. None of your beads to me Pamela! said he; thou
art a perfect nun, I think.

But I said aloud, with my eyes lifted up to heaven, Lead me not into
temptation: but deliver me from evil, O my good God! He hugged me in
his arms, and said, Well, my dear girl, then you stay this fortnight,
and you shall see what I will do for you—I’ll leave you a moment, and
walk into the next room, to give you time to think of it, and to shew
you I have no design upon you. Well, this, I thought, did not look
amiss.

He went out, and I was tortured with twenty different doubts in a
minute; sometimes I thought that to stay a week or fortnight longer in
this house to obey him, while Mrs. Jervis was with me, could do no
great harm: But then, thought I, how do I know what I may be able to
do? I have withstood his anger; but may I not relent at his
kindness?—How shall I stand that.—Well, I hope, thought I, by the same
protecting grace in which I will always confide!—But, then, what has he
promised? Why, he will make my poor father and mother’s life
comfortable. O! said I to myself, that is a rich thought; but let me
not dwell upon it, for fear I should indulge it to my ruin.—What can he
do for me, poor girl as I am!—What can his greatness stoop to! He
talks, thought I, of his pride of heart, and pride of condition; O
these are in his head, and in his heart too, or he would not confess
them to me at such an instant. Well then, thought I, this can be only
to seduce me.—He has promised nothing.—But I am to see what he will do,
if I stay a fortnight; and this fortnight, thought I again, is no such
great matter; and I shall see in a few days how he carries it.—But
then, when I again reflected upon this distance between him and me, and
his now open declaration of love, as he called it; and that after this
he would talk with me on that subject more plainly than ever, and I
shall be less armed, may be, to withstand him; and then I bethought
myself, why, if he meant no dishonour, he should not speak before Mrs.
Jervis; and the odious frightful closet came again into my head, and my
narrow escape upon it; and how easy it might be for him to send Mrs.
Jervis and the maids out of the way; and so that all the mischief he
designed me might be brought about in less than that time; I resolved
to go away and trust all to Providence, and nothing to myself. And how
ought I to be thankful for this resolution!—as you shall hear.

But just as I have writ to this place, John sends me word, that he is
going this minute your way; and so I will send you so far as I have
written, and hope by to-morrow night, to ask your blessings, at your
own poor, but happy abode, and tell you the rest by word of mouth; and
so I rest, till then, and for ever, Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXXI




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I will continue my writing still, because, may be, I shall like to read
it, when I am with you, to see what dangers I have been enabled to
escape; and though I bring it along with me.

I told you my resolution, my happy resolution as I have reason to think
it: and just then he came in again, with great kindness in his looks,
and said, I make no doubt, Pamela, you will stay this fortnight to
oblige me. I knew not how to frame my words so as to deny, and yet not
make him storm. But, said I, Forgive, sir, your poor distressed
servant. I know I cannot possibly deserve any favour at your hands,
consistent with virtue; and I beg you will let me go to my poor father.
Why, said he, thou art the veriest fool that I ever knew. I tell you I
will see your father; I’ll send for him hither to-morrow, in my
travelling chariot, if you will; and I’ll let him know what I intend to
do for him and you. What, sir, may I ask you, can that be? Your
honour’s noble estate may easily make him happy, and not unuseful,
perhaps to you, in some respect or other. But what price am I to pay
for all this?—You shall be happy as you can wish, said he, I do assure
you: And here I will now give you this purse, in which are fifty
guineas, which I will allow your father yearly, and find an employ
suitable to his liking, to deserve that and more: Pamela, he shall
never want, depend upon it. I would have given you still more for him,
but that, perhaps, you’d suspect I intended it as a design upon you.—O
sir, said I, take back your guineas! I will not touch one, nor will my
father, I am sure, till he knows what is to be done for them; and
particularly what is to become of me. Why then, Pamela, said he,
suppose I find a man of probity, and genteel calling, for a husband for
you, that shall make you a gentlewoman as long as you live?—I want no
husband, sir, said I: for now I began to see him in all his black
colours!—Yet being so much in his power, I thought I would a little
dissemble. But, said he, you are so pretty, that go where you will, you
can never be free from the designs of some or other of our sex; and I
shall think I don’t answer the care of my dying mother for you, who
committed you to me, if I don’t provide you a husband to protect your
virtue, and your innocence; and a worthy one I have thought of for you.

O black, perfidious creature! thought I, what an implement art thou in
the hands of Lucifer, to ruin the innocent heart!—Yet still I
dissembled: for I feared much both him and the place I was in. But,
whom, pray sir, have you thought of?—Why, said he, young Mr. Williams,
my chaplain, in Lincolnshire, who will make you happy. Does he know,
sir, said I, any thing of your honour’s intentions?—No, my girl, said
he, and kissed me, (much against my will; for his very breath was now
poison to me,) but his dependance upon my favour, and your beauty and
merit, will make him rejoice at my kindness to him. Well, sir, said I,
then it is time enough to consider of this matter; and it cannot hinder
me from going to my father’s: for what will staying a fortnight longer
signify to this? Your honour’s care and goodness may extend to me
there, as well as here; and Mr. Williams, and all the world, shall know
that I am not ashamed of my father’s poverty.

He would kiss me again, and I said, If I am to think of Mr. Williams,
or any body, I beg you’ll not be so free with me: that is not pretty,
I’m sure. Well, said he, but you stay this next fortnight, and in that
time I’ll have both Williams and your father here; for I will have the
match concluded in my house; and when I have brought it on, you shall
settle it as you please together. Meantime take and send only these
fifty pieces to your father, as an earnest of my favour, and I’ll make
you all happy.—Sir, said I, I beg at least two hours to consider of
this. I shall, said he, be gone out in one hour; and I would have you
write to your father what I propose; and John shall carry it on
purpose: and he shall take the purse with him for the good old man, if
you approve it. Sir, said I, I will then let you know in one hour my
resolution. Do so, said he; and gave me another kiss, and let me go.

O how I rejoiced I had got out of his clutches!—So I write you this,
that you may see how matters stand; for I am resolved to come away, if
possible. Base, wicked, treacherous gentleman as he is!

So here was a trap laid for your poor Pamela! I tremble to think of it!
O what a scene of wickedness was here laid down for all my wretched
life! Black-hearted wretch! how I hate him!—For, at first, as you’ll
see by what I have written, he would have made me believe other things;
and this of Mr. Williams, I suppose, came into his head after he walked
out from his closet, to give himself time to think how to delude me
better: but the covering was now too thin, and easy to be seen through.

I went to my chamber, and the first thing I did was to write to him;
for I thought it was best not to see him again, if I could help it; and
I put it under his parlour door, after I had copied it, as follows:

‘HONOURED SIR,

‘Your last proposal to me convinces me, that I ought not to stay, but
to go to my father, if it were but to ask his advice about Mr.
Williams. And I am so set upon it, that I am not to be persuaded. So,
honoured sir, with a thousand thanks for all favours, I will set out
to-morrow early; and the honour you designed me, as Mrs. Jervis tells
me, of your chariot, there will be no occasion for: because I can hire,
I believe, farmer Brady’s chaise. So, begging you will not take it
amiss, I shall ever be ‘Your dutiful Servant.’

‘As to the purse, sir, my poor father, to be sure, won’t forgive me, if
I take it, till he can know how to deserve it which is impossible.’

So he has just now sent Mrs. Jervis to tell me, that since I am
resolved to go, go I may, and the travelling chariot shall be ready;
but it shall be worse for me; for that he will never trouble himself
about me as long as he lives. Well, so I get out of the house, I care
not; only I should have been glad I could, with innocence, have made
you, my dear parents, happy.

I cannot imagine the reason of it, but John, who I thought was gone
with my last, is but now going; and he sends to know if I have any
thing else to carry. So I break off to send you this with the former.

I am now preparing for my journey, and about taking leave of my good
fellow-servants: and if I have not time to write, I must tell you the
rest, when I am so happy as to be with you.

One word more: I slip in a paper of verses, on my going: sad poor
stuff! but as they come from me, you’ll not dislike them, may be. I
shewed them to Mrs. Jervis, and she liked them, and took a copy; and
made one sing them to her, and in the green-room too; but I looked into
the closet first. I will only add, that I am Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

Let me just say, That he has this moment sent me five guineas by Mrs.
Jervis, as a present for my pocket: So I shall be very rich; for as she
brought them, I thought I might take them. He says he won’t see me: and
I may go when I will in the morning; and Lincolnshire Robin shall drive
me: but he is so angry, he orders that nobody shall go out at the door
with me, not so much as into the coach-yard. Well! I can’t help it, not
I! But does not this expose himself more than me?

But John waits, and I would have brought this and the other myself; but
he says, he has put it up among other things, and so can take both as
well as one.

John is very good, and very honest; I am under great obligations to
him. I’d give him a guinea, now I’m so rich, if I thought he’d take it.
I hear nothing of my lady’s clothes, and those my master gave me: for I
told Mrs. Jervis, I would not take them; but I fancy, by a word or two
that was dropped, they will be sent after me. Dear sirs! what a rich
Pamela you’ll have if they should! But as I can’t wear them if they do,
I don’t desire them; and if I have them, will turn them into money, as
I can have opportunity. Well, no more—I’m in a fearful hurry!

VERSES ON MY GOING AWAY.


I.


  My fellow-servants dear, attend
  To these few lines, which I have penn’d:
  I’m sure they’re from your honest friend,
  And wisher-well, poor PAMELA.




II.


  I, from a state of low degree,
  Was plac’d in this good family:
  Too high a fate for humble me,
  The helpless, hopeless PAMELA.




III.


  Yet though my happy lot was so,
  Joyful, I homeward from it go,
  No less content, when poor and low,
  Than here you find your PAMELA.




IV.


  For what indeed is happiness,
  But conscience innocence and peace?
  And that’s a treasure I possess;
  Thank Heaven that gave it PAMELA.




V.


  My future lot I cannot know
  But this I’m sure, where’er I go,
  Whate’er I am, whate’er I do,
  I’ll be the grateful PAMELA.




VI.


  No sad regrets my heart annoy,
  I’ll pray for all your peace and joy,
  From master high, to scullion boy,
  For all your loves to PAMELA.




VII.


  One thing or two I’ve more to say;
  God’s holy will, be sure, obey;
  And for our master always pray,
  As ever shall poor PAMELA.




VIII.


  For, oh! we pity should the great,
  Instead of envying their estate;
  Temptations always on ’em wait,
  Exempt from which are such as we.




IX.


  Their riches, gay deceitful snares,
  Enlarge their fears, increase their cares
  Their servants’ joy surpasses theirs;
  At least so judges PAMELA.




X.


  Your parents and relations love
  Let them your duty ever prove;
  And you’ll be bless’d by Heav’n above,
  As will, I hope, poor PAMELA.




XI.


  For if asham’d I e’er could be
  Of my dear parents’ low degree,
  What lot had been too mean for me,
  Unbless’d, unvirtuous PAMELA.




XII.


  Thrice happy may you ever be,
  Each one in his and her degree;
  And, sirs, whene’er you think of me,
  Pray for content to PAMELA.




XIII.


  Pray for her wish’d content and peace;
  And rest assur’d she’ll never cease,
  To pray for all your joys increase,
  While life is lent to PAMELA.




XIV.


  On God all future good depends:
  Serve him.  And so my sonnet ends,
  With, thank ye, thank ye, honest friends,
  For all your loves to PAMELA.




Here it is necessary the reader should know, that the fair Pamela’s
trials were not yet over; but the worst were to come, at a time when
she thought them at an end, and that she was returning to her father:
for when her master found her virtue was not to be subdued, and he had
in vain tried to conquer his passion for her, being a gentleman of
pleasure and intrigue, he had ordered his Lincolnshire coachman to
bring his travelling chariot from thence, not caring to trust his
Bedfordshire coachman, who, with the rest of the servants, so greatly
loved and honoured the fair damsel; and having given him instructions
accordingly, and prohibited the other servants, on pretence of
resenting Pamela’s behaviour, from accompanying her any part of the
road, he drove her five miles on the way to her father’s; and then
turning off, crossed the country, and carried her onwards toward his
Lincolnshire estate.

It is also to be observed, that the messenger of her letters to her
father, who so often pretended business that way, was an implement in
his master’s hands, and employed by him for that purpose; and always
gave her letters first to him, and his master used to open and read
them, and then send them on; by which means, as he hints to her, (as
she observes in her letter XXX) he was no stranger to what she wrote.
Thus every way was the poor virgin beset: And the whole will shew the
base arts of designing men to gain their wicked ends; and how much it
behoves the fair sex to stand upon their guard against artful
contrivances, especially when riches and power conspire against
innocence and a low estate.

A few words more will be necessary to make the sequel better
understood. The intriguing gentleman thought fit, however, to keep back
from her father her three last letters; in which she mentions his
concealing himself to hear her partitioning out her clothes, his last
effort to induce her to stay a fortnight, his pretended proposal of the
chaplain, and her hopes of speedily seeing them, as also her verses;
and to send himself a letter to her father, which is as follows:

‘GOODMAN ANDREWS,

‘You will wonder to receive a letter from me. But I think I am obliged
to let you know, that I have discovered the strange correspondence
carried on between you and your daughter, so injurious to my honour and
reputation, and which, I think, you should not have encouraged, till
you knew there were sufficient grounds for those aspersions, which she
so plentifully casts upon me. Something possibly there might be in what
she has written from time to time; but, believe me, with all her
pretended simplicity and innocence, I never knew so much romantic
invention as she is mistress of. In short, the girl’s head’s turned by
romances, and such idle stuff, to which she has given herself up, ever
since her kind lady’s death. And she assumes airs, as if she was a
mirror of perfection, and every body had a design upon her.

‘Don’t mistake me, however; I believe her very honest, and very
virtuous; but I have found out also, that she is carrying on a sort of
correspondence, or love affair, with a young clergyman, that I hope in
time to provide for; but who, at present, is destitute of any
subsistence but my favour: And what would be the consequence, can you
think, of two young folks, who have nothing in the world to trust to of
their own to come together with a family multiplying upon them before
they have bread to eat.

‘For my part, I have too much kindness to them both, not to endeavour
to prevent it, if I can; and for this reason I have sent her out of his
way for a little while, till I can bring them both to better
consideration; and I would not, therefore, have you be surprised you
don’t see your daughter so soon as you might possibly expect.

‘Yet I do assure you, upon my honour, that she shall be safe and
inviolate; and I hope you don’t doubt me, notwithstanding any airs she
may have given herself, upon my jocular pleasantry to her, and perhaps
a little innocent romping with her, so usual with young folks of the
two sexes, when they have been long acquainted, and grown up together;
for pride is not my talent.

‘As she is a mighty letter-writer, I hope she has had the duty to
apprise you of her intrigue with the young clergyman; and I know not
whether it meets with your countenance: But now she is absent for a
little while, (for I know he would have followed her to your village,
if she had gone home; and there, perhaps, they would have ruined one
another, by marrying,) I doubt not I shall bring him to see his
interest, and that he engages not before he knows how to provide for a
wife: And when that can be done, let them come together in God’s name,
for me.

‘I expect not to be answered on this head, but by your good opinion,
and the confidence you may repose in my honour: being

‘Your hearty friend to serve you.’

‘P. S. I find my man John has been the manager of the correspondence,
in which such liberties have been taken with me. I shall soon, in a
manner that becomes me, let the saucy fellow know how much I resent his
part of the affair. It is hard thing, that a man of my character in the
world should be used thus freely by his own servants.’

It is easy to guess at the poor old man’s concern, upon reading this
letter from a gentleman of so much consideration. He knew not what
course to take, and had no manner of doubt of his poor daughter’s
innocence, and that foul play was designed her. Yet he sometimes hoped
the best, and was ready to believe the surmised correspondence between
the clergyman and her, having not received the letters she wrote, which
would have cleared up that affair.

But, after all, he resolved, as well to quiet his own as her mother’s
uneasiness, to undertake a journey to the ’squire’s; and leaving his
poor wife to excuse him to the farmer who employed him, he set out that
very evening, late as it was; and travelling all night, found himself,
soon after day-light, at the gate of the gentleman, before the family
was up: and there he sat down to rest himself till he should see
somebody stirring.

The grooms were the first he saw, coming out to water their horses; and
he asked, in so distressful a manner, what was become of Pamela, that
they thought him crazy: and said, Why, what have you to do with Pamela,
old fellow? Get out of the horses’ way.—Where is your master? said the
poor man: Pray, gentlemen, don’t be angry: my heart’s almost broken.—He
never gives any thing at the door, I assure you, says one of the
grooms; so you lose your labour. I am not a beggar yet, said the poor
old man; I want nothing of him, but my Pamela:—O my child! my child!

I’ll be hanged, says one of them, if this is not Mrs. Pamela’s
father.—Indeed, indeed, said he, wringing his hands, I am; and weeping,
Where is my child? Where is my Pamela?—Why, father, said one of them,
we beg your pardon; but she is gone home to you: How long have you been
come from home?—O! but last night, said he; I have travelled all night:
Is the ’squire at home, or is he not?—Yes, but he is not stirring
though, said the groom, as yet. Thank God for that! said he; thank God
for that! Then I hope I may be permitted to speak to him anon. They
asked him to go in, and he stepped into the stable, and sat down on the
stairs there, wiping his eyes, and sighing so sadly, that it grieved
the servants to hear him.

The family was soon raised with a report of Pamela’s father coming to
inquire after his daughter; and the maids would fain have had him go
into the kitchen. But Mrs. Jervis, having been told of his coming,
arose, and hastened down to her parlour, and took him in with her, and
there heard all his sad story, and read the letter. She wept bitterly,
but yet endeavoured, before him, to hide her concern; and said, Well,
Goodman Andrews, I cannot help weeping at your grief; but I hope there
is no occasion. Let nobody see this letter, whatever you do. I dare say
your daughter is safe.

Well, but, said he, I see you, madam, know nothing about her:—If all
was right, so good a gentlewoman as you are, would not have been a
stranger to this. To be sure you thought she was with me!

Said she, My master does not always inform his servants of his
proceedings; but you need not doubt his honour. You have his hand for
it: And you may see he can have no design upon her, because he is not
from hence, and does not talk of going hence. O that is all I have to
hope for! said he; that is all, indeed!—But, said he—and was going on,
when the report of his coming had reached the ’squire, who came down,
in his morning-gown and slippers, into the parlour, where he and Mrs.
Jervis were talking.

What’s the matter, Goodman Andrews? said he, what’s the matter? Oh my
child! said the good old man, give me my child! I beseech you.—Why, I
thought, says the ’squire, that I had satisfied you about her: Sure you
have not the letter I sent you, written with my own hand. Yes, yes, but
I have, sir, said he; and that brought me hither; and I have walked all
night. Poor man, returned he, with great seeming compassion, I am sorry
for it truly! Why, your daughter has made a strange racket in my
family; and if I thought it would have disturbed you so much, I would
have e’en let her go home; but what I did was to serve her, and you
too. She is very safe, I do assure you, Goodman Andrews; and you may
take my honour for it, I would not injure her for the world. Do you
think I would, Mrs. Jervis? No, I hope not, sir, said she.—Hope not!
said the poor man; so do I; but pray, sir, give me my child, that is
all I desire; and I’ll take care no clergyman shall come near her.

Why, London is a great way off, said the ’squire, and I can’t send for
her back presently. What, then, said he, have you sent my poor Pamela
to London? I would not have said it so, replied the ’squire; but I
assure you, upon my honour, she is quite safe and satisfied, and will
quickly inform you of it by letter. She is in a reputable family, no
less than a bishop’s, and is to wait on his lady, till I get the matter
over that I mentioned to you.

O how shall I know this? replied he.—What, said the ’squire, pretending
anger, am I to be doubted?—Do you believe I can have any view upon your
daughter? And if I had, do you think I would take such methods as these
to effect it? Why, surely, man, thou forgettest whom thou talkest to.
O, sir, said he, I beg your pardon! but consider my dear child is in
the case; let me but know what bishop, and where; and I will travel to
London on foot, to see my daughter, and then be satisfied.

Why, Goodman Andrews, I think thou hast read romances as well as thy
daughter, and thy head’s turned with them. May I have not my word
taken? Do you think, once more, I would offer any thing dishonourable
to your daughter? Is there any thing looks like it?—Pr’ythee, man,
recollect a little who I am; and if I am not to be believed, what
signifies talking? Why, sir, said he, pray forgive me; but there is no
harm to say, What bishop’s, or whereabouts? What, and so you’d go
troubling his lordship with your impertinent fears and stories! Will
you be satisfied, if you have a letter from her within a week, it may
be less, if she be not negligent, to assure you all is well with her!
Why that, said the poor man, will be some comfort. Well then, said the
gentleman, I can’t answer for her negligence, if she don’t write: And
if she should send a letter to you, Mrs. Jervis, (for I desire not to
see it; I have had trouble enough about her already,) be sure you send
it by a man and horse the moment you receive it. To be sure I will,
answered she. Thank your honour, said the good man: And then I must
wait with as much patience as I can for a week, which will be a year to
me.

I tell you, said the gentleman, it must be her own fault if she don’t
write; for ’tis what I insisted upon, for my own reputation; and I
shan’t stir from this house, I assure you, till she is heard from, and
that to your satisfaction. God bless your honour, said the poor man, as
you say and mean truth! Amen, Amen, Goodman Andrews, said he: you see I
am not afraid to say Amen. So, Mrs. Jervis, make the good man as
welcome as you can; and let me have no uproar about the matter.

He then, whispering her, bid her give him a couple of guineas to bear
his charges home; telling him, he should be welcome to stay there till
the letter came, if he would, and be a witness, that he intended
honourably, and not to stir from his house for one while.

The poor old man staid and dined with Mrs. Jervis, with some tolerable
ease of mind, in hopes to hear from his beloved daughter in a few days;
and then accepting the present, returned for his own house, and
resolved to be as patient as possible.

Meantime Mrs. Jervis, and all the family, were in the utmost grief for
the trick put upon the poor Pamela; and she and the steward represented
it to their master in as moving terms as they durst; but were forced to
rest satisfied with his general assurances of intending her no harm;
which, however, Mrs. Jervis little believed, from the pretence he had
made in his letter, of the correspondence between Pamela and the young
parson; which she knew to be all mere invention, though she durst not
say so.

But the week after, they were made a little more easy by the following
letter brought by an unknown hand, and left for Mrs. Jervis, which, how
procured, will be shewn in the sequel.

‘DEAR MRS. JERVIS,

‘I have been vilely tricked, and, instead of being driven by Robin to
my dear father’s, I am carried off, to where, I have no liberty to
tell. However, I am at present not used hardly, in the main; and write
to beg of you to let my dear father and mother (whose hearts must be
well nigh broken) know that I am well, and that I am, and, by the grace
of God, ever will be, their honest, as well as dutiful daughter, and

‘Your obliged friend,

‘PAMELA ANDREWS.’

‘I must neither send date nor place; but have most solemn assurances of
honourable usage. This is the only time my low estate has been
troublesome to me, since it has subjected me to the frights I have
undergone. Love to yo

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