ROXANA


By Daniel Defoe


The Fortunate Mistress or,
A History of the Life and Vast Variety Of Fortunes
of Mademoiselle de Beleau,

Afterwards called
The Countess De Wintselseim,
in GERMANY.

Being the person known by the name of the Lady Roxana,
in the time of King Charles II


I was born, as my friends told me, at the city of Poitiers, in the province 
or county of Poitou in France, from whence I was brought to England by my 
parents, who fled for their religion about the year 1683, when the 
Protestants were banished from France by the cruelty of their persecutors.
I, who knew little or nothing of what I was brought over hither for, was 
well enough pleased with being here. London, a large and gay city, took 
with me mighty well, who from my being a child loved a crowd and to see a 
great many fine folks.
I retained nothing of France but the language. My father and mother, being 
people of better fashion than ordinarily the people called refugees at that 
time were, and having fled early while it was easy to secure their effects, 
had, before their coming over, remitted considerable sums of money, or, as 
I remember, a considerable value in French brandy, paper, and other goods; 
and these selling very much to advantage here, my father was in very good 
circumstances at his coming over, so that he was far from applying to the 
rest of our nation that were here for countenance and relief. On the 
contrary, he had his door continually thronged with miserable objects of 
the poor starving creatures, who at that time fled hither for shelter on 
account of conscience or something else.
I have indeed heard my father say that he was pestered with a great many of 
those who for any religion they had might e'en have stayed where they were, 
but who flocked over hither in droves for what they call in English a 
livelihood; hearing with what open arms the refugees were received in 
England, and how they fell readily into business, being by the charitable 
assistance of the people in London encouraged to work in their 
manufactures, in Spitalfields, Canterbury, and other places, and that they 
had a much better price for their work than in France and the like.
My father, I say, told me that he was more pestered with the clamours of 
these people than of those who were truly refugees and fled in distress 
merely for conscience.
I was about ten years old when I was brought over hither, where, as I have 
said, my father lived in very good circumstances and died in about eleven 
years more; in which time, as I had accomplished myself for the sociable 
part of the world, so I had acquainted myself with some of our English 
neighbours, as is the custom in London; and as, while I was young, I had 
picked up three or four playfellows and companions suitable to my years, so 
as we grew bigger we learnt to call one another intimates and friends, and 
this forwarded very much the finishing me for conversation and the world.
I went to English schools, and, being young, I learnt the English tongue 
perfectly well, with all the customs of the English young women; so that I 
retained nothing of the French but the speech nor did I so much as keep any 
remains of the French language tagged to my way of speaking, as most 
foreigners do, but spoke what we call natural English, as if I had been 
born here.
Being to give my own character, I must be excused to give it as impartially 
as possible, and as if I was speaking of another body; and the sequel will 
lead you to judge whether I flatter myself or no.
I was (speaking of myself as about fourteen years of age) tall and very 
well made, sharp as a hawk in matters of common knowledge, quick and smart 
in discourse, apt to be satirical, full of repartee, and a little too 
forward in conversation; or, as we call it in English, bold, though 
perfectly modest in my behaviour. Being French born, I danced, as some say, 
naturally, loved it extremely, and sang well also; and so well, that, as 
you will hear, it was afterwards some advantage to me. With all these 
things, I wanted neither wit, beauty, nor money. In this manner I set out 
into the world, having all the advantages that any young woman could desire 
to recommend me to others and form a prospect of happy living to myself.
At about fifteen years of age my father gave me, as he called it in French, 
25,000 livres, that is to say, two thousand pounds portion, and married me 
to an eminent brewer in the City. Pardon me if I conceal his name, for 
though he was the foundation of my ruin, I cannot take so severe a revenge 
upon him.
With this thing called a husband I lived eight years in good fashion, and 
for some part of the time kept a coach; that is to say, a kind of mock 
coach, for all the week the horses were kept at work in the dray carts, but 
on Sunday I had the privilege to go abroad in my chariot, either to church 
or otherwise, as my husband and I could agree about it; which, by the way, 
was not very often. But of that hereafter.
Before I proceed in the history of the married part of my life, you must 
allow me to give as impartial an account of my husband as I have done of 
myself. He was a jolly, handsome fellow as any woman need wish for a 
companion, tall and well made, rather a little too large, but not so as to 
be ungenteel; he danced well, which I think was the first thing that 
brought us together. He had an old father who managed the business 
carefully, so that he had little of that part laid on him but now and then 
to appear and show himself; and he took the advantage of it, for he 
troubled himself very little about it, but went abroad, kept company, 
hunted much, and loved it exceedingly.
After I have told you that he was a handsome man and a good sportsman, I 
have indeed said all; and unhappy was I - like other young people of our 
sex, I chose him for being a handsome, jolly fellow, as I have said - for 
he was otherwise a weak, empty-headed, untaught creature as any woman could 
ever desire to be coupled with. And here I must take the liberty, whatever 
I have to reproach myself with in my after conduct, to turn to my fellow 
creatures, the young ladies of this country, and speak to them by way of 
precaution. If you have any regard to your future happiness, any view of 
living comfortably with a husband, any hope of preserving your fortunes or 
restoring them after any disaster, never, ladies, marry a fool. Any husband 
rather than a fool. With some other husbands you may be unhappy, but with a 
fool you will be miserable; with another husband, you may, I say, be 
unhappy, but with a fool you must; nay, if he would, he cannot make you 
easy, everything he does is so awkward, everything he says is so empty, a 
woman of any sense cannot but be surfeited and sick of him twenty times a 
day. What is more shocking than for a woman to bring a handsome, comely 
fellow of a husband into company and then be obliged to blush for him every 
time she hears him speak; to hear other gentlemen talk sense and he able to 
say nothing, and so look like a fool; or, which is worse, hear him talk 
nonsense and be laughed at for a fool?
In the next place, there are so many sorts of fools, such an infinite 
variety of fools, and so hard it is to know the worst of the kind, that I 
am obliged to say, no fool, ladies, at all, no kind of fool; whether a mad 
fool or a sober fool, a wise fool or a silly fool, take anything but a 
fool; nay, be anything, be even an old maid, the worst of nature's curses, 
rather than take up with a fool.
But to leave this awhile, for I shall have occasion to speak of it again, 
my case was particularly hard, for I had a variety of foolish things 
complicated in this unhappy match.
First, and which I must confess is very unsufferable, he was a conceited 
fool, tout opiniatre; everything he said was right, was best, and was to 
the purpose, whoever was in company and whatever was advanced by others, 
though with the greatest modesty imaginable. And yet when he came to defend 
what he had said by argument and reason, he would do it so weakly, so 
emptily, and so nothing to the purpose, that it was enough to make anybody 
that heard him sick and ashamed of him.
Secondly, he was positive and obstinate, and the most positive in the most 
simple and inconsistent things such as were intolerable to bear.
These two articles, if there had been no more, qualified him to be a most 
unbearable creature for a husband, and so it may be supposed at first sight 
what kind of life I led with him. However, I did as well as I could and 
held my tongue which was the only victory I gained over him, for when he 
would talk after his own empty rattling way with me, and I would not answer 
or enter into discourse with him on the point he was upon, he would rise up 
in the greatest passion imaginable and go away, which was the cheapest way 
I had to be delivered.
I could enlarge here much upon the method I took to make my life passable 
and easy with the most incorrigible temper in the world, but it is too long 
and the articles too trifling. I shall mention some of them as the 
circumstances I am to relate shall necessarily bring them in.
After I had been married about four years my own father died, my mother 
having been dead before. He liked my match so ill, and saw so little room 
to be satisfied with the conduct of my husband, that though he left me 5000 
livres and more at his death, yet he left it in the hands of my elder 
brother, who, running on too rashly in his adventures as a merchant, 
failed, and lost not only what he had but what he had for me too, as you 
shall hear presently. Thus I lost the last gift of my father's bounty by 
having a husband not fit to be trusted with it; there's one of the benefits 
of marrying a fool!
Within two years after my own father's death my husband's father also died, 
and, as I thought, left him a considerable addition to his estate; the 
whole trade of the brewhouse, which was a very good one, being now his own.
But this addition to his stock was his ruin, for he had no genius to 
business. He had no knowledge of his accounts; he bustled a little about it 
indeed at first, and put on a face of business, but he soon grew slack. It 
was below him to inspect his books, he committed all that to his clerks and 
book-keepers, and while he found money in cash to pay the maltman and the 
excise, and put some in his pocket, he was perfectly easy and indolent, let 
the main chance go how it would.
I foresaw the consequences of this, and attempted several times to persuade 
him to apply himself to his business. I put him in mind how his customers 
complained of the neglect of his servants on one hand, and how abundance 
broke in his debt, on the other hand, for want of the clerk's care to 
secure him, and the like; but he thrust me by, either with hard words or 
fraudulently with representing the cases otherwise than they were.
However, to cut short a dull story which ought not to be long, he began to 
find his trade sunk, his stock declined, and that, in short, he could not 
carry on his business; and once or twice his brewing utensils were extended 
for the excise, and the last time he was put to great extremities to clear 
them.
This alarmed him, and he resolved to lay down his trade, which indeed I was 
not sorry for; foreseeing that if he did not lay it down in time, he would 
be forced to do it another way, namely, as a bankrupt. Also, I was willing 
he should draw out while he had something left, lest I should come to be 
stripped at home and be turned out of doors with my children, for I had now 
five children by him: the only work (perhaps) that fools are good for.
I thought myself happy when he got another man to take his brewhouse clear 
off his hands; for, paying down a large sum of money, my husband found 
himself a clear man, all his debts paid, and with between two and three 
thousand pounds in his pocket. And being now obliged to remove from the 
brewhouse, we took a house at --, a village about two miles out of town; 
and happy I thought myself, all things considered, that I was got off clear 
upon so good terms, and had my handsome fellow had but one capful of wit, I 
had been still well enough.
I proposed to him either to buy some place with the money or with part of 
it, and offered to join my part to it, which was then in being and might 
have been secured; so we might have lived tolerably, at least, during his 
life. But as it is the part of a fool to be void of counsel, so he 
neglected it, lived on as he did before, kept his horses and men, rode 
every day out to the forest a-hunting, and nothing was done all this while. 
But the money decreased apace, and I thought I saw my ruin hastening on 
without any possible way to prevent it.
I was not wanting with all that persuasions and entreaties could perform, 
but it was all fruitless; representing to him how fast our money wasted, 
and what would be our condition when it was gone, made no impression on 
him; but like one stupid he went on, not valuing all that tears and 
lamentations could be supposed to do, nor did he abate his figure or 
equipage, his horses or servants, even to the last, till he had not a 
hundred pounds left in the whole world.
It was not above three years that all the ready money was thus spending 
off; yet he spent it, as I may say, foolishly too, for he kept no valuable 
company neither, but generally with huntsmen and horse-coursers, and men 
meaner than himself which is another consequence of a man's being a fool. 
Such can never take delight in men more wise and capable than themselves; 
and that makes them converse with scoundrels, drink belch with porters, and 
keep company always below themselves.
This was my wretched condition, when one morning my husband told me he was 
sensible he was come to a miserable condition and he would go and seek his 
fortune somewhere or other. He had said something to that purpose several 
times before that, upon my pressing him to consider his circumstances and 
the circumstances of his family before it should be too late. But as I 
found he had no meaning in anything of that kind, as indeed he had not much 
in anything he ever said, so I thought they were but words of course now. 
When he said he would be gone, I used to wish secretly, and even say in my 
thoughts, 'I wish you would, for if you go on thus you will starve us all.'
He stayed, however, at home all that day, and lay at home that night. Early 
the next morning he gets out of bed, goes to a window which looked out 
towards the stables, and sounds his French horn, as he called it, which was 
his usual signal to call his men to go out a-hunting.
It was about the latter end of August, and so was light yet at five 
o'clock, and it was about that time that I heard him and his two men go out 
and shut the yard gates after them. He said nothing to me more than as 
usual when he used to go out upon his sport; neither did I rise or say 
anything to him that was material, but went to sleep again after he was 
gone for two hours or thereabouts.
It must be a little surprising to the reader to tell him at once that after 
this I never saw my husband more; but to go further, I not only never saw 
him more, but I never heard from him or of him, neither of any or either of 
his two servants or of the horses, either what became of them, where or 
which way they went, or what they did or intended to do, no more than if 
the ground had opened and swallowed them all up, and nobody had known it, 
except as hereafter.
I was not for the first night or two at all surprised, no, nor very much 
the first week or two, believing that if anything evil had befallen them I 
should soon enough have heard of that, and also knowing that as he had two 
servants and three horses with him, it would be the strangest thing in the 
world that anything could befall them all, but that I must some time or 
other hear of them.
But you will easily allow that as time ran on a week, two weeks, a month, 
two months, and so on, I was dreadfully frighted at last, and the more when 
I looked into my own circumstances and considered the condition in which I 
was left; with five children and not one farthing subsistence for them, 
other than about seventy pounds in money and what few things of value I had 
about me, which, though considerable in themselves, were yet nothing to 
feed a family, and for a length of time too.
What to do I knew not, nor to whom to have recourse; to keep in the house 
where I was I could not, the rent being too great, and to leave it without 
his order, if my husband should return, I could not think of that neither; 
so that I continued extremely perplexed, melancholy, and discouraged to the 
last degree.
I remained in this dejected condition near a twelvemonth. My husband had 
two sisters, who were married and lived very well, and some other near 
relations that I knew of and I hoped would do something for me, and I 
frequently sent to these to know if they could give me any account of my 
vagrant creature; but they all declared to me in answer that they knew 
nothing about him, and, after frequent sending, began to think me 
troublesome, and to let me know they thought so too by their treating my 
maid with very slight and unhandsome returns to her enquiries
This grated hard and added to my affliction, but I had no recourse but to 
my tears, for I had not a friend of my own left me in the world. I should 
have observed that it was about half a year before this elopement of my 
husband that the disaster I mentioned above befell my brother, who broke, 
and that in such bad circumstances that I had the mortification to hear not 
only that he was in prison, but that there would be little or nothing to be 
had by way of composition.
Misfortunes seldom come alone. This was the forerunner of my husband's 
flight, and as my expectations were cut off on that side, my husband gone, 
and my family of children on my hands and nothing to subsist them, my 
condition was the most deplorable that words can express.
I had some plate and some jewels, as might be supposed, my fortune and 
former circumstances considered, and my husband, who had never stayed to be 
distressed, had not been put to the necessity of rifling me, as husbands 
usually do in such cases. But as I had seen an end of all the ready money 
during the long time I had lived in a state of expectation for my husband, 
so I began to make away one thing after another, till those few things of 
value which I had began to lessen apace, and I saw nothing but misery and 
the utmost distress before me, even to have my children starve before my 
face. I leave any one that is a mother of children, and has lived in plenty 
and good fashion, to consider and reflect what must be my condition. As to 
my husband, I had now no hope or expectation of seeing him any more, and 
indeed, if I had, he was the man of all the men in the world the least able 
to help me, or to have turned his hand to the gaining one shilling towards 
lessening our distress. He neither had the capacity nor the inclination; he 
could have been no clerk, for he scarce wrote a legible hand; he was so far 
from being able to write sense, that he could not make sense of what others 
wrote; he was so far from understanding good English, that he could not 
spell good English. To be out of all business was his delight, and he would 
stand leaning against a post for half an hour together, with a pipe in his 
mouth, with all the tranquillity in the world, smoking, like Dryden's 
countryman that whistled as he went, for want of thought; and this even 
when his family was, as it were, starving, that little he had wasting, and 
that we were all bleeding to death, he not knowing, and as little 
considering, where to get another shilling when the last was spent.
This being his temper and the extent of his capacity, I confess I did not 
see so much loss in his parting with me as at first I thought I did, though 
it was hard and cruel to the last degree in him not giving me the least 
notice of his design; and indeed, that which I was most astonished at was 
that, seeing he must certainly have intended this excursion some few 
moments at least before he put it in practice, yet he did not come and take 
what little stock of money we had left, or at least a share of it, to bear 
his expense for a little while
but he did not, and I am morally certain he had not five guineas with him 
in the world when he went away. All that I could come to the knowledge of 
about him was that he left his hunting horn, which he called the French 
horn, in the stable, and his hunting saddle, went away in a handsome 
furniture as they call it, which he used sometimes to travel with, having 
an embroidered housing, a case of pistols, and other things belonging to 
them; and one of his servants had another saddle with pistols, though 
plain, and the other a long gun; so that they did not go out as sportsmen, 
but rather as travellers. What part of the world they went to I never heard 
for many years.
As I have said, I sent to his relations, but they sent me short and surly 
answers; nor did any one of them offer to come to see me or to see the 
children, or so much as to enquire after them, well perceiving that I was 
in a condition that was likely to be soon troublesome to them. But it was 
no time now to dally with them or with the world. I left off sending to 
them and went myself among them, laid my circumstances open to them, told 
them my whole case and the condition I was reduced to, begged they would 
advise me what course to take, laid myself as low as they could desire, and 
entreated them to consider that I was not in a condition to help myself, 
and that without some assistance we must all inevitably perish. I told them 
that if I had had but one child, or two children, I would have done my 
endeavour to have worked for them with my needle, and should only have come 
to them to beg them to help me to some work, that I might get our bread by 
my labour; but to think of one single woman not bred to work, and at a loss 
where to get employment, to get the bread of five children, that was not 
possible, some of my children being young too, and none of them big enough 
to help one another.
It was all one; I received not one farthing of assistance from anybody, was 
hardly asked to sit down at the two sisters' houses, nor offered to eat or 
drink at two more near relations. The fifth, an ancient gentlewoman, aunt-
in-law to my husband, a widow, and the least able also of any of the rest, 
did indeed ask me to sit down, gave me a dinner, and refreshed me with a 
kinder treatment than any of the rest, but added the melancholy part, viz. 
that she would have helped me, but that indeed she was not able; which, 
however, I was satisfied was very true.
Here I relieved myself with the constant assistant of the afflicted, I mean 
tears; for, relating to her how I was received by the other of my husband's 
relations, it made me burst into tears, and I cried vehemently for a great 
while together, till I made the good old gentlewoman cry too several times.
However, I came home from them all without any relief, and went on at home 
till I was reduced to such inexpressible distress, that it is not to be 
described. I had been several times after this at the old aunt's, for I 
prevailed with her to promise me to go and talk with the other relations; 
at least, that if possible she could bring some of them to take off the 
children or to contribute something towards their maintenance; and to do 
her justice, she did use her endeavour with them, but all was to no 
purpose, they would do nothing, at least that way. I think, with much 
entreaty, she obtained by a kind of collection among them all, about eleven 
or twelve shillings in money, which, though it was a present comfort, was 
yet not to be named as capable to deliver me from any part of the load that 
lay upon me.
There was a poor woman that had been a kind of a dependent upon our family, 
and who I had often, among the rest of the relations, been very kind to. My 
maid put it into my head one morning to send to this poor woman and to see 
whether she might not be able to help in this dreadful case.
I must remember it here, to the praise of this poor girl, my maid, that 
though I was not able to give her any wages, and had told her so, nay, I 
was not able to pay her the wages that I was in arrears to her, yet she 
would not leave me; nay, and as long as she had any money when I had none, 
she would help me out of her own; for which, though I acknowledged her 
kindness and fidelity, yet it was but a bad coin that she was paid in at 
last, as will appear in its place.
Amy (for that was her name) put it into my thoughts to send for this poor 
woman to come to me, for I was now in great distress, and I resolved to do 
so; but just the very morning that I intended it, the old aunt, with the 
poor woman in her company, came to see me. The good old gentlewoman was, it 
seems, heartily concerned for me, and had been talking again among those 
people, to see what she could do for me, but to very little purpose.
You shall judge a little of my present distress by the posture she found me 
in. I had five little children, the eldest was under ten years old, and I 
had not a shilling in the house to buy them victuals, but had sent Amy out 
with a silver spoon to sell it and bring home something from the butcher's, 
and I was in a parlour, sitting on the ground with a great heap of old 
rags, linen, and other things about me, looking them over to see if I had 
anything among them that would sell or pawn for a little money, and had 
been crying ready to burst myself to think what I should do next.
At this juncture they knocked at the door. I thought it had been Amy, so I 
did not rise up, but one of the children opened the door and they came 
directly into the room where I was, and where they found me in that posture 
and crying vehemently, as above. I was surprised at their coming, you may 
be sure, especially seeing the person I had but just before resolved to 
send for. But when they saw me, how I looked, for my eyes were swelled with 
crying, and what a condition I was in as to the house and the heaps of 
things that were about me, and especially when I told them what I was doing 
and on what occasion, they sat down, like Job's three comforters, and said 
not one word to me for a great while, but both of them cried as fast and as 
heartily as I did.
The truth was, there was no need of much discourse in the case, the thing 
spoke for itself. They saw me in rags and dirt, who was but a little before 
riding in my coach; thin, and looking almost like one starved, who was 
before fat and beautiful. The house, that was before handsomely furnished 
with pictures and ornaments, cabinets, pier-glasses, and everything 
suitable, was now stripped and naked, most of the goods having been seized 
by the landlord for rent or sold to buy necessaries. In a word, all was 
misery and distress, the face of ruin was everywhere to be seen; we had 
eaten up almost everything, and little remained, unless, like one of the 
pitiful women of Jerusalem, I should eat up my very children themselves.
After these two good creatures had sat, as I say, in silence some time, and 
had then looked about them, my maid Amy came in and brought with her a 
small breast of mutton and two great bunches of turnips, which she intended 
to stew for our dinner. As for me, my heart was so overwhelmed at seeing 
these two friends, for such they were, though poor, and at their seeing me 
in such a condition, that I fell into another violent fit of crying; so 
that, in short, I could not speak to them again for a great while longer.
During my being in such an agony they went to my maid Amy at another part 
of the same room, and talked with her. Amy told them all my circumstances, 
and set them forth in such moving terms and so to the life, that I could 
not upon any terms have done it like her myself; and, in a word, affected 
them both with it in such a manner, that the old aunt came to me, and 
though hardly able to speak for tears, 'Look ye, cousin,' said she in a few 
words, 'things must not stand thus; some course must be taken, and that 
forthwith. Pray, where were these children born?' I told her the parish 
where we lived before; that four of them were born there and one in the 
house where I now was, where the landlord, after having seized my goods for 
the rent past, not then knowing my circumstances, had now given me leave to 
live for a whole year more without any rent, being moved with compassion, 
but that this year was now almost expired.
Upon hearing this account they came to this resolution: that the children 
should be all carried by them to the door of one of the relations mentioned 
above and be set down there by the maid Amy, and that I, the mother, should 
remove for some days, shut up the doors, and be gone; that the people 
should be told that if they did not think fit to take some care of the 
children, they might send for the churchwardens if they thought that 
better, for that they were born in that parish and there they must be 
provided for; as for the other child which was born in the parish of --, 
that was already taken care of by the parish officers there, for indeed 
they were so sensible of the distress of the family, that they had at first 
word done what was their part to do.
This was what these good women proposed, and bade me leave the rest to 
them. I was at first sadly afflicted at the thoughts of parting with my 
children, and especially at that terrible thing their being taken into the 
parish keeping; and then a hundred terrible things came into my thoughts, 
viz. of parish children being starved at nurse, of their being ruined, let 
grow crooked, lamed, and the like for want of being taken care of, and this 
sank my very heart within me.
But the misery of my own circumstances hardened my heart against my own 
flesh and blood, and when I considered they must inevitably be starved, and 
I too, if I continued to keep them about me, I began to be reconciled to 
parting with them all, anyhow and anywhere, that I might be freed from the 
dreadful necessity of seeing them all perish and perishing with them 
myself. So I agreed to go away out of the house and leave the management of 
the whole matter to my maid Amy and to them; and accordingly I did so, and 
the same afternoon they carried them all away to one of their aunts.
Amy, a resolute girl, knocked at the door with the children all with her, 
and bade the eldest, as soon as the door was open, run in, and the rest 
after her. She set them all down at the door before she knocked, and when 
she knocked she stayed till a maidservant came to the door. 'Sweetheart,' 
said she, 'pray go in and tell your mistress, here are her little cousins 
come to see her from --,' naming the town where we lived; at which the maid 
offered to go back. 'Here, child,' says Amy, 'take one of them in your 
hand, and I'll bring the rest.' So she gives her the least, and the wench 
goes in mighty innocently with the little one in her hand; upon which Amy 
turns the rest in after her, shuts the door softly, and marches off as fast 
as she could.
Just in the interval of this, and even while the maid and her mistress were 
quarrelling, for the mistress raved and scolded at her like a madwoman, and 
had ordered her to go and stop the maid Amy and turn all the children out 
of the doors again, but she had been at the door and Amy was gone, and the 
wench was out of her wits and the mistress too - I say, just at this 
juncture came the poor old woman, not the aunt, but the other of the two 
that had been with me, and knocks at the door. The aunt did not go because 
she had pretended to advocate for me, and they would have suspected her of 
some contrivance; but as for the other woman, they did not so much as know 
that she had kept up any correspondence with me.
Amy and she had contrived this between them, and it was well enough 
contrived that they did so. When she came into the house the mistress was 
fuming and raging like one distracted, and calling the maid all the foolish 
jades and sluts that she could think of, and that she would take the 
children and turn them all out into the streets. The good poor woman, 
seeing her in such a passion, turned about as if she would be gone again, 
and said, 'Madam, I'll come another time, I see you are engaged.' 'No, no, 
Mrs. --,' says the mistress, 'I am not much engaged; sit down. This 
senseless creature here has brought in my fool of a brother's whole house 
of children upon me, and tells me that a wench brought them to the door and 
thrust them in and bade her carry them to me; but it shall be no 
disturbance to me, for I have ordered them to be set in the street without 
the door, and so let the churchwardens take care of them, or else make this 
dull jade carry them back to -- again and let her that brought them into 
the world look after them if she will. What does she send her brats to me 
for?'
'The last indeed had been the best of the two,' says the poor woman, 'if it 
had been to be done; and that brings me to tell you my errand and the 
occasion of my coming, for I came on purpose about this very business, and 
to have prevented this being put upon you if I could; but I see I am come 
too late.'
'How do you mean too late?' says the mistress. 'What, have you been 
concerned in this affair, then? What, have you helped bring this family 
slur upon us?' 'I hope you do not think such a thing of me, madam,' says 
the poor woman; 'but I went this morning to -- to see my old mistress and 
benefactor, for she had been very kind to me, and when I came to the door I 
found all fast locked and bolted, and the house looking as if nobody was at 
home.
'I knocked at the door but nobody came, till at last some of the 
neighbours' servants called to me and said, "There's nobody lives there, 
mistress, what do you knock for?" I seemed surprised at that. "What, nobody 
live there!" said I; "what d'ye mean? Does not Mrs. -- live there?" The 
answer was, "No, she is gone"; at which I parleyed with one of them and 
asked her what was the matter. "Matter," says she, "why, 'tis matter 
enough; the poor gentlewoman has lived there all alone, and without 
anything to subsist her, a long time, and this morning the landlord turned 
her out of doors."
'"Out of doors!" says I; "what, with all her children! poor lambs, what is 
become of them?" "Why, truly nothing worse," said they,"can come to them 
than staying here, for they were almost starved with hunger." So the 
neighbours seeing the poor lady in such distress, for she stood crying and 
wringing her hands over her children like one distracted, sent for the 
churchwardens to take care of the children; and they when they came took 
the youngest, which was born in this parish, and have got it a very good 
nurse and taken care of it; but as for the other four, they had sent them 
away to some of their father's relations, who were very substantial people 
and who, besides that, lived in the parish where they were born.
'I was not so surprised at this as not presently to foresee that this 
trouble would be brought upon you or upon Mr. --, so I came immediately to 
bring you word of it, that you might be prepared for it and might not be 
surprised, but I see they have been too nimble for me, so that I know not 
what to advise. The poor woman, it seems, is turned out of doors into the 
street; and another of the neighbours there told me that when they took her 
children from her she swooned away, and when they recovered her out of that 
she ran distracted, and is put into a madhouse by the parish, for there is 
nobody else to take any care of her.'
This was all acted to the life by this good, kind, poor creature; for 
though her design was perfectly good and charitable, yet there was not one 
word of it true in fact; for I was not turned out of doors by the landlord, 
nor gone distracted. It was true indeed that at parting with my poor 
children I fainted, and was like one mad when I came to myself and found 
they were gone, but I remained in the house a good while after that, as you 
shall hear.
While the poor woman was telling this dismal story, in came the 
gentlewoman's husband, and though her heart was hardened against all pity, 
who was really and nearly related to the children, for they were the 
children of her own brother, yet the good man was quite softened with the 
dismal relation of the circumstances of the family; and when the poor woman 
had done he said to his wife, 'This is a dismal case, my dear, indeed, and 
something must be done.' His wife fell a-raving at him. 'What!' says she, 
'do you want to have four children to keep? Have we not children of our 
own? Would you have these brats come and eat up my children's bread? No, 
no, let them go to the parish, and let them take care of them; I'll take 
care of my own.'
'Come, come, my dear,' says the husband, 'charity is a duty to the poor, 
and he that gives to the poor lends to the Lord; let us lend our heavenly 
Father a little of our children's bread, as you call it; it will be a store 
well laid up for them, and will be the best security that our children 
shall never come to want charity or be turned out of doors as these poor 
innocent creatures are.'
'Don't tell me of security,' says the wife; ''tis a good security for our 
children to keep what we have together and provide for them, and then 'tis 
time enough to help to keep other folks' children. Charity begins at home.'
'Well, my dear,' says he again, 'I only talk of putting out a little money 
to interest; our Maker is a good borrower. Never fear making a bad debt 
there, child, I'll be bound for it.'
'Don't banter me with your charity and your allegories,' says the wife 
angrily; 'I tell you they are my relations, not yours, and they shall not 
roost here, they shall go to the parish.'
'All your relations are my relations now,' says the good gentleman very 
calmly, 'and I won't see your relations in distress and not pity them, any 
more than I would my own. Indeed, my dear, they shan't go to the parish; I 
assure you none of my wife's relations shall come to the parish if I can 
help it.'
'What! will you take four children to keep?' says the wife.
'No, no, my dear,' says he, 'there's your sister --, I'll go and talk with 
her; and your uncle --, I'll send for him and the rest. I'll warrant you 
when we are all together we will find ways and means to keep four poor 
little creatures from beggary and starving, or else it will be very hard; 
we are none of us in so bad circumstances but we are able to spare a mite 
for the fatherless; don't shut up your bowels of compassion against your 
own flesh and blood. Could you hear these poor innocent children cry at 
your door for hunger and give them no bread?'
'Prithee, why need they cry at our door?' says she, ''tis the business of 
the parish to provide for them. They shan't cry at our door; if they do, 
I'll give them nothing.' 'Won't you?' says he; 'but I will. Remember that 
dreadful Scripture is directly against us, Prov. 21. I3: "Whoso stoppeth 
his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself, but shall not 
be heard."'
'Well, well,' says she, 'you must do what you will, because you pretend to 
be master; but if I had my will, I would send them where they ought to be 
sent, I would send them from whence they came.'
Then the poor woman put in and said, 'But, madam, that is sending them to 
starve indeed, for the parish has no obligation to take care of them, and 
so they would lie and perish in the street.'
'Or be sent back again,' says the husband, 'to our parish in a cripple-cart 
by the Justice's warrant, and so expose us and all the relations to the 
last degree among our neighbours, and among those who knew the good old 
gentleman their grandfather, who lived and flourished in this parish so 
many years and was so well beloved among all people, and deserved it so 
well.'
'I don't value that one farthing, not I,' says the wife, 'I'll keep none of 
them.'
'Well, my dear,' says her husband, 'but I value it, for I won't have such a 
blot lie upon the family and upon your children; he was a worthy, ancient, 
and good man, and his name is respected among all his neighbours; it will 
be a reproach to you that are his daughter, and to our children that are 
his grandchildren, that we should let your brother's children perish, or 
come to be a charge to the public, in the very place where your family once 
flourished. Come, say no more, I'll see what can be done.'
Upon this he sends and gathers all the relations together at a tavern hard 
by, and sent for the four little children that they might see them, and 
they all at first word agreed to have them taken care of; and because his 
wife was so furious that she would not suffer one of them to be kept at 
home, they agreed to keep them all together for a while. So they committed 
them to the poor woman that had managed the affair for them, and entered 
into obligations to one another to supply the needful sums for their 
maintenance; and not to have one separated from the rest, they sent for the 
youngest from the parish where it was taken in, and had them all brought up 
together.
It would take up too long a part of this story to give a particular account 
with what a charitable tenderness this good person, who was but uncle-in-
law to them, managed that affair; how careful he was of them, went 
constantly to see them, and to see that they were well provided for, 
clothed, put to school, and at last put out in the world for their 
advantage; but 'tis enough to say he acted more like a father to them than 
an uncle-in-law, though all along much against his wife's consent, who was 
of a disposition not so tender and compassionate as her husband.
You may believe I heard this with the same pleasure which I now feel at the 
relating it again, for I was terribly frighted at the apprehensions of my 
children being brought to misery and distress, as those must be who have no 
friends but are left to parish benevolence.
I was now, however, entering on a new scene of life. I had a great house 
upon my hands, and some furniture left in it, but I was no more able to 
maintain myself and my maid Amy in it than I was my five children; nor had 
I anything to subsist with but what I might get by working, and that was 
not a town where much work was to be had.
My landlord had been very kind indeed after he came to know my 
circumstances, though before he was acquainted with that part he had gone 
so far as to seize my goods, and to carry some of them off too.
But I had lived three-quarters of a year in his house after that and had 
paid him no rent, and, which was worse, I was in no condition to pay him 
any. However, I observed he came oftener to see me, looked kinder upon me, 
and spoke more friendly to me than he used to do; particularly the last two 
or three times he had been there he observed, he said, how poorly I lived, 
how low I was reduced, and the like, told me it grieved him for my sake; 
and the last time of all he was kinder still, told me he came to dine with 
me, and that I should give him leave to treat me. So he called my maid Amy 
and sent her out to buy a joint of meat; he told her what she should buy, 
but naming two or three things, either of which she might take. The maid, a 
cunning wench, and faithful to me as the skin to my back, did not buy 
anything outright, but brought the butcher along with her with both the 
things that she had chosen, for him to please himself; the one was a large 
very good leg of veal, the other a piece of the fore-ribs of roasting beef. 
He looked at them, but bade me chaffer with the butcher for him, and I did 
so, and came back to him and told him what the butcher demanded for either 
of them and what each of them came to; so he pulls out IIS. 3d., which they 
came to together, and bade me take them both; the rest, he said, would 
serve another time.
I was surprised, you may be sure, at the bounty of a man that had but a 
little while ago been my terror and had torn the goods out of my house like 
a fury; but I considered that my distresses had mollified his temper, and 
that he had afterwards been so compassionate as to give me leave to live 
rent free in the house a whole year.
But now he put on the face, not of a man of compassion only, but of a man 
of friendship and kindness, and this was so unexpected that it was 
surprising. We chatted together, and were, as I may call it, cheerful, 
which was more than I could say I had been for three years before. He sent 
for wine and beer too, for I had none; poor Amy and I had drank nothing but 
water for many weeks, and indeed I have often wondered at the faithful 
temper of the poor girl, for which I but ill requited her at last.
When Amy was come with the wine he made her fill a glass to him, and with 
the glass in his hand he came to me and kissed me, which I was, I confess, 
a little surprised at, but more at what followed; for he told me that as 
the sad condition which I was reduced to had made him pity me, so my 
conduct in it and the courage I bore it with had given him a more than 
ordinary respect for me, and made him very thoughtful for my good; that he 
was resolved for the present to do something to relieve me, and to employ 
his thoughts in the meantime to see if he could, for the future, put me 
into a way to support myself.
While he found me change colour and look surprised at his discourse, for so 
I did, to be sure, he turns to my maid Amy, and looking at her, he says to 
me, 'I say all this, madam, before your maid, because both she and you 
shall know that I have no ill design, and that I have in mere kindness 
resolved to do something for you if I can; and as I have been a witness of 
the uncommon honesty and fidelity of Mrs. Amy here to you in all your 
distresses, I know she may be trusted with so honest a design as mine is, 
for, I assure you, I bear a proportioned regard to your maid too for her 
affection to you.'
Amy made him a curtsy, and the poor girl looked so confounded with joy that 
she could not speak, but her colour came and went, and every now and then 
she blushed as red as scarlet and the next minute looked as pale as death. 
Well, having said this, he sat down, made me sit down, and then drank to me 
and made me drink two glasses of wine together. 'For,' says he, 'you have 
need of it '; and so indeed I had. When he had done so, 'Come, Amy,' says 
he, 'with your mistress's leave you shall have a glass too '; so he made 
her drink two glasses also. And then rising up, 'And now, Amy,' says he, 
'go and get dinner; and you, madam,' says he to me, 'go up and dress you, 
and come down and smile and be merry,' adding, 'I'll make you easy if I can 
'; and in the meantime, he said, he would walk in the garden.
When he was gone, Amy changed her countenance indeed and looked as merry as 
ever she did in her life. s Dear madam,' says she, 'what does this 
gentleman mean?' 'Nay, Amy,' said I, 'he means to do us good, you see, 
don't he? I know no other meaning he can have, for he can get nothing by 
me.' 'I warrant you, madam,' says she, 'he'll ask you a favour by and by.' 
'No, no, you are mistaken, Amy, I dare say,' said I; 'you heard what he 
said, didn't you?' 'Ay,' says Amy, 'it's no matter for that; you shall see 
what he will do after dinner.' 'Well, well, Amy,' says I, 'you have hard 
thoughts of him; I cannot be of your Opinion. I don't see anything in him 
yet that looks like it.' 'As to that, madam,' says Amy, 'I don't see 
anything of it yet neither; but what should move a gentleman to take pity 
on us as he does?' 'Nay,' says I, 'that's a hard thing too, that we should 
judge a man to be wicked because he's charitable, and vicious because he's 
kind.' 'Oh, madam,' says Amy, 'there's abundance of charity begins in that 
vice, and he is not so unacquainted with things as not to know that poverty 
is the strongest incentive, a temptation against which no virtue is 
powerful enough to stand out; he knows your condition as well as you do.' 
'Well, and what then?' 'Why, then he knows too that you are young and 
handsome, and he has the surest bait in the world to take you with.'
'Well, Amy,' said I, 'but he may find himself mistaken too in such a thing 
as that.' 'Why, madam,' says Amy, 'I hope you won't deny him if he should 
offer it.'
'What d'ye mean by that, hussy?' said I. 'No, I'd starve first.'
'I hope not, madam, I hope you would be wiser; I'm sure if he will set you 
up, as he talks of, you ought to deny him nothing; and you will starve if 
you do not consent, that's certain.'
'What! consent to lie with him for bread? Amy,' said I, 'how can you talk 
so?'
'Nay, madam,' says Amy, 'I don't think you would for anything else; it 
would not be lawful for anything else but for bread, madam. Why nobody can 
starve; there's no bearing that, I'm sure.'
'Ay,' says I, 'but if he would give me an estate to live on, he should not 
lie with me, I assure you.'
'Why, look you, madam, if he would but give you enough to live easy upon, 
he should lie with me for it with all my heart.'
'That's a token, Amy, of inimitable kindness to me,' said I, 'and I know 
how to value it; but there's more friendship than honesty in it, Amy.'
'Oh, madam,' says Amy, 'I'd do anything to get you out of this sad 
condition. As to honesty, I think honesty is out of the question when 
starvation is the case; are not we almost starved to death?'
'I am indeed,' said I, 'and thou art for my sake; but to be a whore, Amy!' 
- and there I stopped.
'Dear madam,' says Amy, 'if I will starve for your sake, I will be a whore 
or anything for your sake; why, I would die for you if I were put to it.'
'Why, that's an excess of affection, Amy,' said I, 'I never met with 
before; I wish I may be ever in condition to make you some returns 
suitable. But, however, Amy, you shall not be a whore to him, to oblige him 
to be kind to me; no, Amy, nor I won't be a whore to him if he would give 
me much more than he is able to give me or do for me.
'Why, madam,' says Amy, 'I don't say I will go and ask him; but I say if he 
should promise to do so and so for you, and the condition was such that he 
would not serve you unless I would let him lie with me, he should lie with 
me as often as he would rather than you should not have his assistance. But 
this is but talk, madam, I don't see any need of such discourse, and you 
are of opinion that there will be no need of it.'
'Indeed, so I am, Amy; but,' said I, 'if there was, I tell you again I'd 
die before I would consent or before you should consent for my sake.'
Hitherto I had not only preserved the virtue itself, but the virtuous 
inclination and resolution; and had I kept myself there I had been happy, 
though I had perished of mere hunger; for, without question, a woman ought 
rather to die than to prostitute her virtue and honour, let the temptation 
be what it will.
But to return to my story. He walked about the garden, which was indeed all 
in disorder and overrun with weeds, because I had not been able to hire a 
gardener to do anything to it, no, not so much as to dig up ground enough 
to sow a few turnips and carrots for family use. After he had viewed it, he 
came in and sent Amy to fetch a poor man, a gardener that used to help our 
manservant, and carried him into the garden and ordered him to do several 
things in it to put it into a little order; and this took him up near an 
hour.
By this time I had dressed me as well as I could, for though I had good 
linen left still, yet I had but a poor head-dress, and no knots but old 
fragments, no necklace, no earrings; all those things were gone long ago 
for mere bread.
However, I was tight and clean, and in better plight than he had seen me in 
a great while, and he looked extremely pleased to see me so, for he said I 
looked so disconsolate and so afflicted before, that it grieved him to see 
me; and he bade me pluck up a good heart, for he hoped to put me in a 
condition to live in the world and be beholden to nobody.
I told him that was impossible, for I must be beholden to him for it, for 
all the friends I had in the world would not or could not do so much for me 
as that he spoke of. 'Well, widow,' says he (so he called me, and so indeed 
I was in the worst sense that desolate word could be used in), 'if you are 
beholden to me, you shall be beholden to nobody else.'
By this time dinner was ready and Amy came in to lay the cloth, and indeed 
it was happy there was none to dine but he and I, for I had but six plates 
left in the house and but two dishes. However, he knew how things were, and 
bade me make no scruple about bringing out what I had, he hoped to see me 
in a better plight. He did not come, he said, to be entertained, but to 
entertain me and comfort and encourage me. Thus he went on, speaking so 
cheerfully to me and such cheerful things, that it was a cordial to my very 
soul to hear him speak.
Well, we went to dinner. I'm sure I had not eaten a good meal hardly in a 
twelvemonth, at least not of such a joint of meat as the leg of veal was. I 
ate indeed very heartily, and so did he, and he made me drink three or four 
glasses of wine, so that, in short, my spirits were lifted up to a degree I 
had not been used to; and I was not only cheerful but merry, and so he 
pressed me to be.
I told him I had a great deal of reason to be merry, seeing he had been so 
kind to me and had given me hopes of recovering me from the worst 
circumstances that ever woman of any sort of fortune was sunk into; that he 
could not but believe that what he had said to me was like life from the 
dead; that it was like recovering one sick from the brink of the grave. How 
I should ever make him a return any way suitable was what I had not yet had 
time to think of; I could only say that I should never forget it while I 
had life, and should be always ready to acknowledge it.
He said that was all he desired of me, that his reward would be the 
satisfaction of having rescued me from misery; that he found he was 
obliging one that knew what gratitude meant; that he would make it his 
business to make me completely easy, first or last, if it lay in his power; 
and in the meantime he bade me consider of anything that I thought he might 
do for me for my advantage and in order to make me perfectly easy.
After we had talked thus he bade me be cheerful. 'Come,' says he, 'lay 
aside these melancholy things and let us be merry.' Amy waited at the 
table, and she smiled and laughed and was so merry she could hardly contain 
it, for the girl loved me to an excess hardly to be described; and it was 
such an unexpected thing to hear any one talk to her mistress, that the 
wench was beside herself almost; and as soon as dinner was over, Amy went 
upstairs and put on her best clothes too, and came down dressed like a 
gentlewoman.
We sat together talking of a thousand things, of what had been and what was 
to be, all the rest of the day, and in the evening he took his leave of me 
with a thousand expressions of kindness and tenderness and true affection 
to me, but offered not the least of what my maid Amy had suggested.
At his going away he took me in his arms, protested an honest kindness to 
me, said a thousand kind things to me which I cannot now recollect, and, 
after kissing me twenty times or thereabouts, put a guinea into my hand, 
which he said was for my present supply, and told me that he would see me 
again before 'twas out; also, he gave Amy half a crown.
When he was gone, 'Well, Amy,' said I, 'are you convinced now that he is an 
honest as well as a true friend, and that there has been nothing, not the 
least appearance of anything of what you imagined, in his behaviour?' 
'Yes,' says Amy, 'I am, but I admire at it; he is such a friend as the 
world sure has not abundance of to show.'
'I am sure,' says I, 'he is such a friend as I have long wanted, and as I 
have as much need of as any creature in the world has or ever had '; and, 
in short, I was so overcome with the comfort of it that I sat down and 
cried for joy a good while, as I had formerly cried for sorrow. Amy and I 
went to bed that night (for Amy lay with me) pretty early, but lay chatting 
almost all night about *, and the girl was so transported that she got up 
two or three times in the night and danced about the room in her shift; in 
short, the girl was half distracted with the joy of it, a testimony still 
of her violent affection for her mistress, in which no servant ever went 
beyond her.
We heard no more of him for two days, but the third day he came again; then 
he told me, with the same kindness, that he had ordered me a supply of 
household goods for the furnishing the house; that in particular he had 
sent me back all the goods that he had seized for rent, which consisted 
indeed of the best of my former furniture. 'And now,' says he, 'I'll tell 
you what I have had in my head for you for your present supply, and that 
is,' says he, 'that the house being well furnished, you shall let it out to 
lodgings for the summer gentry,' says he, 'by which you will easily get a 
good, comfortable subsistence, especially seeing you shall pay me no rent 
for two years, nor after neither, unless you can afford it.'
This was the first view I had of living comfortably indeed, and it was a 
very probable way, I must confess, seeing we had very good conveniences, 
six rooms on a floor, and three storeys high. While he was laying down the 
scheme of my management, came a cart to the door with a load of goods, and 
an upholsterer's man to put them up; they were chiefly the furniture of two 
rooms which he had carried away for his two years' rent, with two fine 
cabinets and some pier-glasses out of the parlour, and several other 
valuable things.
These were all restored to their places, and he told me he gave them me 
freely as a satisfaction for the cruelty he had used me with before; and 
the furniture of one room being finished and set up, he told me he would 
furnish one chamber for himself, and would come and be one of my lodgers if 
I would give him leave.
I told him he ought not to ask me leave, who had so much right to make 
himself welcome. So the house began to look in some tolerable figure and 
clean; the garden also in about a fortnight's work began to look something 
less like a wilderness than it used to do; and he ordered me to put up a 
bill for letting rooms, reserving one for himself to come to as he saw 
occasion.
When all was done to his mind, as to placing the goods, he seemed very well 
pleased, and we dined together again of his own providing, and the 
upholsterer's man gone. After dinner he took me by the hand. 'Come now, 
madam,' says he, 'you must show me your house' (for he had a mind to see 
everything over again). 'No, sir,' said I, 'but I'll go show you your 
house, if you please.' So we went up through all the rooms, and in the room 
which was appointed for himself Amy was doing something. 'Well, Amy,' says 
he, 'I intend to lie with you tomorrow night.' 'Tonight, if you please, 
sir,' says Amy very innocently; 'your room is quite ready.' 'Well, Amy,' 
says he, 'I am glad you are so willing.' 'No,' says Amy, 'I mean your 
chamber is ready tonight '; and away she ran out of the room, ashamed 
enough, for the girl meant no harm, whatever she had said to me in private.
However, he said no more then; but when Amy was gone he walked about the 
room and looked at everything, and taking me by the hand he kissed me and 
spoke a great many kind, affectionate things to me indeed: as of his 
measures for my advantage, and what he would do to raise me again in the 
world; told me that my afflictions and the conduct I had shown in bearing 
them to such an extremity had so engaged him to me, that he valued me 
infinitely above all the women in the world; that though he was under such 
engagements that he could not marry me (his wife and he had been parted for 
some reasons which make too long a story to intermix with mine), yet that 
he would be everything else that a woman could ask in a husband. And with 
that he kissed me again and took me in his arms, but offered not the least 
uncivil action to me, and told me he hoped I would not deny him all the 
favours he should ask, because he resolved to ask nothing of me but what it 
was fit for a woman of virtue and modesty, for such he knew me to be, to 
yield.
I confess the terrible pressure of my former misery, the memory of which 
lay heavy upon my mind, and the surprising kindness with which he had 
delivered me, and withal, the expectations of what he might still do for 
me, were powerful things and made me have scarce the power to deny him 
anything he would ask. However, I told him thus, with an air of tenderness 
too, that he had done so much for me that I thought I ought to deny him 
nothing, only I hoped and depended upon him that he would not take the 
advantage of the infinite obligations I was under to him, to desire 
anything of me the yielding to which would lay me lower in his esteem than 
I desired to be; that as I took him to be a man of honour, so I knew he 
could not like me the better for doing anything that was below a woman of 
honesty and good manners to do.
He told me that he had done all this for me without so much as telling me 
what kindness or real affection he had for me; that I might not be under 
any necessity of yielding to him in anything for want of bread, and he 
would no more oppress my gratitude now than he would my necessity before, 
nor ask anything, supposing he would stop his favours or withdraw his 
kindness, if he was denied. It was true, he said, he might tell me more 
freely his mind now than before, seeing I had let him see that I accepted 
his assistance and saw that he was sincere in his design of serving me; 
that he had gone thus far to show me that he was kind to me, but that now 
he would tell me that he loved me, and yet would demonstrate that his love 
was both honourable and that what he should desire was what he might 
honestly ask and I might honestly grant.
I answered that, within those two limitations, I was sure I ought to deny 
him nothing, and I should think myself not ungrateful only but very unjust 
if I should; so he said no more, but I observed he kissed me more and took 
me in his arms in a kind of familiar way more than usual, and which once or 
twice put me in mind of my maid Amy's words. And yet I must acknowledge I 
was so overcome with his goodness to me in those many kind things he had 
done, that I not only was easy at what he did and made no resistance, but 
was inclined to do the like, whatever he had offered to do. But he went no 
further than what I have said, nor did he offer so much as to sit down on 
the bedside with me, but took his leave, said he loved me tenderly and 
would convince me of it by such demonstrations as should be to my 
satisfaction. I told him I had a great deal of reason to believe him, that 
he was full master of the whole house and of me as far as was within the 
bounds we had spoken of, which I believed he would not break, and asked him 
if he would not lodge there that night.
He said he could not well stay that night, business requiring him in 
London, but added, smiling, that he would come the next day and take a 
night's lodging with me. I pressed him to stay that night, and told him I 
should be glad a friend so valuable should be under the same roof with me; 
and indeed I began at that time not only to be much obliged to him, but to 
love him too, and that in a manner that I had not been acquainted with 
myself.
Oh let no woman slight the temptation that being generously delivered from 
trouble is to any spirit furnished with gratitude and just principles. This 
gentleman had freely and voluntarily delivered me from misery, from 
poverty, and rags; he had made me what I was, and put me into a way to be 
even more than I ever was, namely, to live happy and pleased, and on his 
bounty I depended. What could I say to this gentleman when he pressed me to 
yield to him and argued the lawfulness of it? But of that in its place.
I pressed him again to stay that night, and told him it was the first 
completely happy night that I had ever had in the house in my life, and I 
should be very sorry to have it be without his company, who was the cause 
and foundation of it all; that we would be innocently merry, but that it 
could never be without him; and, in short, I courted him so, that he said 
he could not deny me, but he would take his horse and go to London, do the 
business he had to do, which, it seems, was to pay a foreign bill that was 
due that night and would else be protested, and that he would come back in 
three hours at furthest and sup with me; but bade me get nothing there, for 
since I was resolved to be merry, which was what he desired above all 
things, he would send me something from London. 'And we will make it a 
wedding supper, my dear,' says he, and with that word took me in his arms 
and kissed me so vehemently that I made no question but he intended to do 
everything else that Amy had talked of.
I started a little at the word 'wedding.' 'What do you mean, to call it by 
such a name?' says I; adding, 'We will have a supper, but t' other is 
impossible as well on your side as mine.' He laughed. 'Well,' says he, 'you 
shall call it what you will, but it may be the same thing, for I shall 
satisfy you it is not so impossible as you make it.'
'I don't understand you,' said I; 'have not I a husband and you a wife?'
'Well, well,' says he, 'we will talk of that after supper.' So he rose up, 
gave me another kiss, and took his horse for London.
This kind of discourse had fired my blood, I confess, and I knew not what 
to think of it. It was plain now that he intended to lie with me, but how 
he would reconcile it to a legal thing like a marriage, that I could not 
imagine. We had both of us used Amy with so much intimacy and trusted her 
with everything, having such unexampled instances of her fidelity, that he 
made no scruple to kiss me and say all these things to me before her, nor 
had he cared one farthing, if I would have let him lie with me, to have had 
Amy there too all night. When he was gone, 'Well, Amy,' says I, 'what will 
all this come to now?
am all in a sweat at him.' 'Come to, madam,' says Amy, 'I see what it will 
come to; I must put you to bed tonight together.' 'Why, you would not be so 
impudent, you jade you,' says I, 'would you?' 'Yes, I would,' says she, 
'with all my heart, and think you both as honest as ever you were in your 
lives.'
'What ails the slut to talk so?' said I. 'Honest! how can it be honest?' 
'Why, I'll tell you, madam,' says Amy; 'I sounded it as soon as I heard him 
speak, and it is very true too. He calls you widow, and such indeed you 
are, for as my master has left you so many years, he is dead to be sure - 
at least he is dead to you, he is no husband - you are and ought to be free 
to marry who you will; and his wife being gone from him and refuses to lie 
with him, then he is a single man again as much as ever; and though you 
cannot bring the laws of the land to join you together, yet one refusing to 
do the office of a wife, and the other of a husband, you may certainly take 
one another fairly.'
'Nay, Amy,' says I, 'if I could take him fairly, you may be sure I'd take 
him above all the men in the world. It turned the very heart within me when 
I heard him say he loved me; how could it do otherwise when you know what a 
condition I was in before, despised and trampled on by all the world? I 
could have taken him in my arms and kissed him as freely as he did me, if 
it had not been for shame.'
'Ay, and all the rest too,' says Amy, 'at the first word. I don't see how 
you can think of denying him anything. Has he not brought you out of the 
devil's clutches, brought you out of the blackest misery that ever poor 
lady was reduced to? Can a woman deny such a man anything?'
'Nay, I don't know what to do, Amy,' says I. 'I hope he won't desire 
anything of that kind of me, I hope he won't attempt it; if he does, I know 
not what to say to him.'
'Not ask you!' says Amy; 'depend upon it, he will ask you, and you will 
grant it, too; I'm sure my mistress is no fool. Come, pray, madam, let me 
go air you a clean shift; don't let him find you in foul linen the wedding 
night.'
'But that I know you to be a very honest girl, Amy,' says I, 'you would 
make me abhor you; why, you argue for the devil, as if you were one of his 
privy counsellors.'
'It's no matter for that, madam, I say nothing but what I think. You own 
you love this gentleman, and he has given you sufficient testimony of his 
affection to you; your conditions are alike unhappy, and he is of opinion 
that he may take another woman, his first wife having broke her honour, and 
living from him, and that, though the laws of the land will not allow him 
to marry formally, yet that he may take another woman into his arms, 
provided he keeps true to the other woman as a wife; nay, he says it is 
usual to do so, and allowed by the custom of the place, in several 
countries abroad. And I must own I'm of the same mind, else 'tis in the 
power of a whore, after she has jilted and abandoned her husband, to 
confine him from the pleasure as well as convenience of a woman all the 
days of his life, which would be very unreasonable and, as times go, not 
tolerable to all people; and the like on your side, madam.'
Had I now had my senses about me, and had my reason not been overcome by 
the powerful attraction of so kind, so beneficent a friend, had I consulted 
conscience and virtue, I should have repelled this Amy, however faithful 
and honest to me in other things, as a viper and engine of the devil. I 
ought to have remembered that neither he nor I, either by the laws of God 
or man, could come together upon any other terms than that of notorious 
adultery. The ignorant jade's argument that he had brought me out of the 
hands of the devil, by which she meant the devil of poverty and distress, 
should have been a powerful motive to me not to plunge myself into the jaws 
of hell and into the power of the real devil, in recompense for that 
deliverance. I should have looked upon all the good this man had done for 
me to have been the particular work of the goodness of Heaven, and that 
goodness should have moved me to a return of duty and humble obedience. I 
should have received the mercy thankfully, and applied it soberly to the 
praise and honour of my Maker, whereas by this wicked course all the bounty 
and kindness of this gentleman became a snare to me, was a mere bait to the 
devil's hook. I received his kindness at the dear expense of body and soul, 
mortgaging faith, religion, conscience, and modesty for (as I may call it) 
a morsel of bread, or, if you will, ruined my soul from a principle of 
gratitude and gave myself up to the devil to show myself grateful to my 
benefactor. I must do the gentleman that justice as to say I verily believe 
that he did nothing but what he thought was lawful, and I must do that 
justice upon myself as to say I did what my own conscience convinced me at 
the very time I did it was horribly unlawful, scandalous, and abominable.
But poverty was my snare, dreadful poverty! The misery I had been in was 
great, such as would make the heart tremble at the apprehensions of its 
return, and I might appeal to any that has had any experience of the world, 
whether one so entirely destitute as I was, of all manner of all helps or 
friends either to support me or to assist me to support myself, could 
withstand the proposal; not that I plead this as a justification of my 
conduct, but that it may move the pity even of those that abhor the crime.
Besides this, I was young, handsome, and with all the mortifications I had 
met with, was vain, and that not a little; and as it was a new thing, so it 
was a pleasant thing to be courted, caressed, embraced, and high 
professions of affection made to me by a man so agreeable and so able to do 
me good.
Add to this, that if I had ventured to disoblige this gentleman, I had no 
friend in the world to have recourse to; I had no prospect, no, not of a 
bit of bread; I had nothing before me but to fall back into the same misery 
that I had been in before.
Amy had but too much rhetoric in this cause. She represented all those 
things in their proper colours; she argued them all with her utmost skill, 
and at last the merry jade, when she came to dress me, 'Look ye, madam,' 
said she, 'if you won't consent, tell him you'll do as Rachel did to Jacob 
when she could have no children - put her maid to bed to him; tell him you 
cannot comply with him, but there's Amy, he may ask her the question, she 
has promised me she won't deny you.'
'And would you have me say so, Amy?' said I.
'No, madam, but I would really have you do so; besides, you are undone if 
you do not. And if my doing it would save you from being undone, as I said 
before, he shall if he will; if he asks me I won't deny him, not I; hang me 
if I do,' says Amy.
'Well, I know not what to do,' says I to Amy.
'Do!' says Amy; 'your choice is fair and plain. Here you may have a 
handsome, charming gentleman, be rich, live pleasantly and in plenty; or 
refuse him, and want a dinner, go in rags, live in tears; in short, beg and 
starve. You know this is the case, madam,' says Amy; 'I wonder how you can 
say you know not what to do.'
'Well, Amy,' says I, 'the case is as you say, and I think verily I must 
yield to him; but then,' said I, moved by conscience, 'don't talk any more 
of your cant, of its being lawful that I ought to marry again and that he 
ought to marry again, and such stuff as that; 'tis all nonsense,' says I, 
'Amy, there's nothing in it, let me hear no more of that; for if I yield 
'tis in vain to mince the matter, I am a whore, Amy, neither better nor 
worse, I assure you.
'I don't think so, madam, by no means,' says Amy, 'I wonder how you can 
talk so '; and then she ran on with her argument of the unreasonableness 
that a woman should be obliged to live single or a man to live single in 
such cases, as before. 'Well, Amy,' said I, 'come let us dispute no more, 
for the longer I enter into that part, the greater my scruples will be, but 
if I let it alone the necessity of my present circumstances is such that I 
believe I shall yield to him if he should importune me much about it, but I 
should be glad he would not do it at all but leave me as I am.'
'As to that, madam, you may depend,' says Amy, 'he expects to have you for 
his bedfellow tonight. I saw it plainly in his management all day, and at 
last he told you so too, as plain, I think, as he could.' 'Well, well, 
Amy,' said I, 'I don't know what to say; if he will, he must, I think; I 
don't know how to resist such a man that has done so much for me.' 'I don't 
know how you should,' says Amy.
Thus Amy and I canvassed the business between us. The jade prompted the 
crime, which I had but too much inclination to commit; that is to say, not 
as a crime, for I had nothing of the vice in my constitution; my spirits 
were far from being high, my blood had no fire in it to kindle the flame of 
desire, but the kindness and good humour of the man and the dread of my own 
circumstances concurred to bring me to the point, and I even resolved, 
before he asked, to give up my virtue to him whenever he should put it to 
the question.
In this I was a double offender, whatever he was, for I was resolved to 
commit the crime, knowing and owning it to be a crime. He, if it was true 
as he said, was fully persuaded it was lawful, and in that persuasion he 
took the measures and used all the circumlocutions which I am going to 
speak of.
About two hours after he was gone, came a Leadenhall basket-woman with a 
whole load of good things for the mouth (the particulars are not to the 
purpose), and brought orders to get supper by eight o'clock. However, I did 
not intend to begin to dress anything till I saw him, and he gave me time 
enough, for he came before seven; so that Amy, who had gotten one to help 
her, got everything ready in time.
We sat down to supper about eight, and were indeed very merry. Amy made us 
some sport, for she was a girl of spirit and wit, and with her talk she 
made us laugh very often, and yet the jade managed her wit with all the 
good manners imaginable.
But to shorten the story. After supper he took me up into his chamber, 
where Amy had made a good fire, and there he pulled out a great many papers 
and spread them upon a little table, and then took me by the hand, and 
after kissing me very much he entered into a discourse of his circumstances 
and of mine, how they agreed in several things exactly; for example, that I 
was abandoned of a husband in the prime of my youth and vigour, and he of a 
wife in his middle age; how the end of marriage was destroyed by the 
treatment we had either of us received, and it would be very hard that we 
should be tied by the formality of the contract where the essence of it was 
destroyed. I interrupted him, and told him there was a vast difference 
between our circumstances, and that in the most essential part, namely, 
that he was rich and I was poor, that he was above the world and I 
infinitely below it, that his circumstances were very easy, mine miserable, 
and this was an inequality the most essential that could be imagined. 'As 
to that, my dear,' says he, 'I have taken such measures as shall make an 
equality still '; and with that he showed me a contract in writing, wherein 
he engaged himself to me, to cohabit constantly with me, to provide for me 
in all respects as a wife, and repeating in the preamble a long account of 
the nature and reason of our living together, and an obligation in the 
penalty of £7000 never to abandon me, and at last showed me a bond for £500 
to be paid to me or to my assigns within three months after his death.
He read over all these things to me, and then in a most moving, 
affectionate manner, and in words not to be answered, he said, 'Now, my 
dear, is this not sufficient? Can you object anything against it? If not, 
as I believe you will not, then let us debate this matter no longer.' With 
that he pulled out a silk purse which had threescore guineas in it, and 
threw them into my lap, and concluded all the rest of his discourse with 
kisses and protestations of his love, of which, indeed, I had abundant 
proof.
Pity human frailty, you that read of a woman reduced in her youth and prime 
to the utmost misery and distress, and raised again, as above, by the 
unexpected and surprising bounty of a stranger; I say, pity her if she was 
not able, after all these things, to make any more resistance.
However, I stood out a little longer still. I asked him how he could expect 
that I could come into a proposal of such consequence the very first time 
it was moved to me, and that I ought (if I consented to it) to capitulate 
with him that he should never upbraid me with easiness and consenting too 
soon. He said no, but on the contrary he would take it as a mark of the 
greatest kindness I could show him. Then he went on to give reasons why 
there was no occasion to use the ordinary ceremony of delay or to wait a 
reasonable time of courtship, which was only to avoid scandal, but as this 
was private it had nothing of that nature in it; that he had been courting 
me some time by the best of courtship, viz. doing acts of kindness to me, 
and he had given testimonies of his sincere affection to me by deeds, not 
by flattering trifles and the usual courtship of words, which were often 
found to have very little meaning; that he took me not as a mistress but as 
his wife, and protested it was clear to him he might lawfully do it and 
that I was perfectly at liberty; and assured me by all that it was possible 
for an honest man to say, that he would treat me as his wife as long as he 
lived. In a word, he conquered all the little resistance I intended to 
make. He protested he loved me above all the world, and begged I would for 
once believe him; that he had never deceived me, and never would, but would 
make it his study to make my life comfortable and happy and to make me 
forget the misery I had gone through. I stood still awhile and said 
nothing, but seeing him eager for my answer, I smiled, and looking up at 
him, 'And must I, then,' says I, 'say yes at first asking? Must I depend 
upon your promise? Why, then,' said I, 'upon the faith of that promise, and 
in the sense of that inexpressible kindness you have shown me, you shall be 
obliged, and I will be wholly yours to the end of my life.' And with that I 
took his hand which held me by the hand, and gave it a kiss.
And thus, in gratitude for the favours I received from a man, was all sense 
of religion and duty to God, all regard to virtue and honour, given up at 
once, and we were to call one another man and wife, who in the sense of the 
laws both of God and our country were no more than two adulterers, in 
short, a whore and a rogue. Nor, as I have said above, was my conscience 
silent in it, though it seems his was; for I sinned with open eyes, and 
thereby had a double guilt upon me. As I always said, his notions were of 
another kind, and he either was before of the opinion, or argued himself 
into it now, that we were both free and might lawfully marry.
But I was quite of another side, nay, and my judgment was right, but my 
circumstances were my temptation; the terrors behind me looked blacker than 
the terrors before me, and the dreadful argument of wanting bread, and 
being run into the horrible distresses I was in before, mastered all my 
resolution, and I gave myself up, as above.
The rest of the evening we spent very agreeably to me; he was perfectly 
good-humoured and was at that time very merry. Then he made Amy dance with 
him, and I told him I would put Amy to bed to him. Amy said, with all her 
heart; she never had been a bride in her life. In short, he made the girl 
so merry, that had he not been to lie with me the same night, I believe he 
would have played the fool with Amy for half an hour, and the girl would so 
no more have refused him than I intended to do. Yet before, I had always 
found her a very modest wench as any I ever saw in all my life, but, in 
short, the mirth of that night and a few more such afterwards ruined the 
girl's modesty for ever, as shall appear by and by in its place.
So far does fooling and toying sometimes go, that I know nothing a young 
woman has to be more cautious of. So far had this innocent girl gone in 
jesting between her and I, and in talking that she would let him lie with 
her if he would but be kinder to me, that at last she let him lie with her 
in earnest; and so empty was I now of all principle, that I encouraged the 
doing it almost before my face.
I say but too justly that I was empty of principle, because, as above, I 
had yielded to him, not as deluded to believe it lawful, but as overcome by 
his kindness and terrified at the fear of my own misery if he should leave 
me. So with my eyes open and with my conscience, as I may say, awake, I 
sinned, knowing it to be a sin but having no power to resist. When this had 
thus made a hole in my heart, and I was come to such a height as to 
transgress against the light of my own conscience, I was then fit for any 
wickedness, and conscience left off speaking where it found it could not be 
heard.
But to return to our story. Having consented, as above, to his proposal, we 
had not much more to do. He gave me my writings, and the bond for my 
maintenance during his life and for £500 after his death; and so far was he 
from abating his affection to me afterwards, that two years after we were 
thus, as he called it, married, he made his will and gave me £1000 more, 
and all my household stuff, plate, etc., which was considerable too.
Amy put us to bed, and my new friend (I cannot call him husband) was so 
well pleased with Amy for her fidelity and kindness to me, that he paid her 
all the arrears of her wages that I owed her, and gave her five guineas 
over; and had it gone no further, Amy had richly deserved what she had, for 
never was a maid so true to a mistress in such dreadful circumstances as I 
was in. Nor was what followed more her own fault than mine, who led her 
almost into it at first and quite into it at last; and this may be a 
further testimony what a hardness of crime I was now arrived to, which was 
owing to the conviction that was from the beginning upon me, that I was a 
whore, not a wife, nor could I ever frame my mouth to call him husband or 
to say 'my husband' when I was speaking of him.
We lived surely the most agreeable life, the grand exception only excepted, 
that ever two lived together. He was the most obliging, gentlemanly man and 
the most tender of me that ever woman gave herself up to; nor was there 
ever the least interruption to our mutual kindness, no, not to the last day 
of his life. But I must bring Amy's disaster in at once, that I may have 
done with her.
Amy was dressing me one morning, for now I had two maids, and Amy was my 
chamber-maid 'Dear madam,' says Amy, 'what! ain't you with child yet?' 'No, 
Amy,' says I, 'nor any sign of it.' 'Law, madam,' says Amy, 'what have you 
been doing? Why, you have been married a year and a half; I warrant you 
master would have got me with child twice in that time.' 'It may be so, 
Amy,' says I, 'let him try, can't you.' 'No,' says Amy, 'you'll forbid it 
now; before, I told you he should with all my heart, but I won't now, now 
he's all your own.' 'Oh,' says I, 'Amy, I'll freely give you my consent, it 
will be nothing at all to me; nay, I'll put you to bed to him myself one 
night or other if you are willing.' 'No, madam, no,' says Amy, 'not now 
he's yours.'
'Why, you fool you,' says I, 'don't I tell you I'll put you to bed to him 
myself.'
'Nay, nay,' says Amy, 'if you put me to bed to him, that's another case; I 
believe I shall not rise again very soon.'
'I'll venture that, Amy,' says I.
After supper that night, and before we were risen from table, I said to 
him, Amy being by, 'Hark ye, Mr. --, do you know that you are to lie with 
Amy tonight?' 'No, not I,' says he; but turns to Amy, 'Is it so, Amy?' says 
he. 'No, sir,' says she. 'Nay, don't say no, you fool; did not I promise to 
put you to bed to him?' But the girl said no still, and it passed off.
At night, when we came to go to bed, Amy came into the chamber to undress 
me, and her master slipped into bed first. Then I began and told him all 
that Amy had said about my not being with child, and of her being with 
child twice in that time. 'Ay, Mrs. Amy,' says he, 'I believe so too; come 
hither and we'll try.' But Amy did not go. 'Go, you fool,' says I, 'can't 
you; I freely give you both leave.' But Amy would not go. 'Nay, you whore,' 
says I, 'you said if I would put you to bed you would with all your heart 
'; and with that I sat her down, pulled off her stockings and shoes, and 
all her clothes, piece by piece, and led her to the bed to him. 'Here,' 
says I, 'try what you can do with your maid Amy.' She pulled back a little, 
would not let me pull off her clothes at first, but it was hot weather and 
she had not many clothes on, and particularly no stays on; and at last, 
when she saw I was in earnest, she let me do what I would; so I fairly 
stripped her, and then I threw open the bed and thrust her in.
I need say no more; this is enough to convince anybody that I did not think 
him my husband, and that I had cast off all principle and all modesty and 
had effectually stifled conscience.
Amy, I dare say, began now to repent, and would fain have got out of bed 
again, but he said to her, 'Nay, Amy, you see your mistress has put you to 
bed, 'tis all her doing, you must blame her.' So he held her fast, and the 
wench being naked in the bed with him, 'twas too late to look back, so she 
lay still and let him do what he would with her.
Had I looked upon myself as a wife, you cannot suppose I would have been 
willing to have let my husband lie with my maid, much less before my face, 
for I stood by all the while; but as I thought myself a whore, I cannot say 
but that it was something designed in my thoughts that my maid should be a 
whore too, and should not reproach me with it.
Amy, however, less vicious than I, was grievously out of sorts the next 
morning, and cried and took on most vehemently, that she was ruined and 
undone, and there was no pacifying her; she was a whore, a slut, and she 
was undone! undone! and cried almost all day. I did all I could to pacify 
her. 'A whore!' says I; 'well, and am not I a whore as well as you?' 'No, 
no,' says Amy, 'no, you are not, for you are married.' 'Not I, Amy,' says 
I, 'I do not pretend to it; he may marry you tomorrow if he will, for 
anything I could do to hinder it; I am not married, I do not look upon it 
as anything.' Well, all did not pacify Amy; she cried two or three days 
about it, but it wore off by degrees.
But the case differed between Amy and her master exceedingly; for Amy 
retained the same kind temper she always had, but on the contrary he was 
quite altered, for he hated her heartily, and could, I believe, have killed 
her after it; and he told me so, for he thought this a vile action, whereas 
what he and I had done he was perfectly easy in, thought it just, and 
esteemed me as much his wife as if we had been married from our youth and 
had neither of us known any other; nay, he loved me, I believe, as entirely 
as if I had been the wife of his youth; nay, he told me, it was true in one 
sense, that he had two wives, but that I was the wife of his affection, the 
other the wife of his aversion.
I was extremely concerned at the aversion he had taken to my maid Amy, and 
used my utmost skill to get it altered; for though he had indeed debauched 
the wench, I knew that I was the principal occasion of it, and as he was 
the best-humoured man in the world, I never gave him over till I prevailed 
with him to be easy with her; and as I was now become the devil's agent to 
make others as wicked as myself, I brought him to lie with her again 
several times after that, till at last, as the poor girl said, so it 
happened, and she was really with child.
She was terribly concerned at it, and so was he too. 'Come, my dear,' says 
I, 'when Rachel put her handmaid to bed to Jacob she took the children as 
her own. Don't be uneasy, I'll take the child as my own; had not I a hand 
in the frolic of putting her to bed to you? It was my fault as much as 
yours.' So I called Amy and encouraged her too, and told her that I would 
take care of the child and her too, and added the same argument to her. 
'For,' says I, 'Amy, it was all my fault; did not I drag your clothes off 
your back and put you to bed to him?' Thus I, that had indeed been the 
cause of all the wickedness between them, encouraged them both when they 
had any remorse about it, and rather prompted them to go on with it than to 
repent of it.
When Amy grew big she went to a place I had provided for her, and the 
neighbours knew nothing but that Amy and I were parted. She had a fine 
child indeed, a daughter, and we had it nursed, and Amy came again in about 
half a year to live with her old mistress. But neither my gentleman nor Amy 
either cared for playing that game over again; for, as he said, the jade 
might bring him a houseful of children to keep.
We lived as merrily and as happily after this as could be expected, 
considering our circumstances; I mean as to the pretended marriage, etc. 
And as to that, my gentleman had not the least concern about him for it; 
but as much as I was hardened, and that was as much as I believe ever any 
wicked creature was, yet I could not help it; there was and would be hours 
of intervals and of dark reflections which came involuntarily in and thrust 
in sighs into the middle of all my songs and there would be sometimes a 
heaviness of heart which intermingled itself with all my joy and which 
would often fetch a tear from my eye. And let others pretend what they 
will, I believe it impossible to be otherwise with anybody. There can be no 
substantial satisfaction in a life of known wickedness; conscience will, 
and does, often break in upon them at particular times, let them do what 
they can to prevent it.
But I am not to preach, but to relate; and whatever loose reflections were, 
and how often soever those dark intervals came on, I did my utmost to 
conceal them from him, ay, and to suppress and smother them too in myself, 
and to outward appearance we lived as cheerfully and as agreeably as it was 
possible for any couple in the world to live.
After I had thus lived with him something above two years, truly I found 
myself with child too. My gentleman was mightily pleased at it, and nothing 
could be kinder than he was in the preparations he made for me and for my 
lying-in, which was, however, very private, because I cared for as little 
company as possible, nor had I kept up my neighbourly acquaintance, so that 
I had nobody to invite upon such an occasion.
I was brought to bed very well (of a daughter too, as well as Amy), but the 
child died at about six weeks old; so all that work was to do over again, 
that is to say, the charge, the expense, the travel, etc.
The next year I made him amends, and brought him a son, to his great 
satisfaction. It was a charming child and he did very well. After this, my 
husband, as he called himself, came to me one evening and told me he had a 
very difficult thing happened to him, which he knew not what to do in or 
how to resolve about unless I would make him easy; this was, that his 
occasions required him to go over to France for about two months.
'Well, my dear,' says I, 'and how shall I make you easy?'
'Why, by consenting to let me go,' says he; 'upon which condition I'll tell 
you the occasion of my going, that you may judge of the necessity there is 
for it on my side.' Then to make me easy in his going, he told me he would 
make his will before he went, which should be to my full satisfaction.
I told him the last part was so kind that I could not decline the first 
part, unless he would give me leave to add that if it was not for putting 
him to an extraordinary expense I would go over along with him.
He was so pleased with this offer that he told me he would give me full 
satisfaction for it, and accept of it too. So he took me to London with him 
the next day, and there he made his will, and showed it to me, sealed it 
before proper witnesses, and then gave it to me to keep. In this will he 
gave a thousand pounds to a person that we both knew very well, in trust, 
to pay it, with the interest from the time of his decease, to me or my 
assigns; then he willed the payment of my jointure, as he called it, viz. 
his bond of a hundred pounds, after his death, also he gave me all my 
household stuff, plate, etc.
This was a most engaging thing for a man to do to one under my 
circumstances, and it would have been hard, as I told him, to deny him 
anything or to refuse to go with him anywhere. So we settled everything as 
well as we could, left Amy in charge of the house, and for his other 
business, which was in jewels, he had two men he entrusted, whom he had 
good security for, and who managed for him and corresponded with him.
Things being thus concerted, we went away to France, arrived safe at 
Calais, and by easy journeys came in eight days more to Paris, where we 
lodged in the house of an English merchant of his acquaintance and were 
very courteously entertained.
My gentleman's business was with some persons of the first rank, and to 
whom he had sold some jewels of very good value and received a great sum of 
money in specie, and, as he told me privately, he gained 3000 pistoles by 
his bargain, but would not suffer the most intimate friend he had there to 
know what he had received, for it is not so safe a thing in Paris to have a 
great sum of money in keeping, as it might be in London.
We made this journey much longer than we intended, and my gentleman sent 
for one of his managers in London to come over to us to Paris with some 
diamonds, and sent him back to London again to fetch more. Then other 
business fell into his hands so unexpectedly, that I began to think we 
should take up our constant residence there, which I was not very averse 
to, it being my native country, and I spoke the language perfectly well. So 
we took a good house in Paris and lived very well there, and I sent for Amy 
to come over to me; for I lived gallantly, and my gentleman was two or 
three times going to keep me a coach, but I declined it, especially at 
Paris; but as they have those conveniences by the day there at a certain 
rate, I had an equipage provided for me whenever I pleased, and I lived 
here in a very good figure, and might have lived higher if I pleased
But in the middle of all this felicity a dreadful disaster befell me, which 
entirely unhinged all my affairs and threw me back into the same state of 
life that I was in before; with this one happy exception, however, that 
whereas before I was poor even to misery, now I was not only provided for, 
but very rich.
My gentleman had the name in Paris for a very rich man, and indeed he was 
so, though not so immensely rich as people imagined; but that which was 
fatal to him was that he generally carried a shagreen case in his pocket, 
especially when he went to court or to the houses of any of the princes of 
the blood, in which he had jewels of very great value.
It happened one day, that being to go to Versailles to wait upon the Prince 
of --, he came up into my chamber in the morning and laid out his jewel 
case, because he was not going to show any jewels, but to get a foreign 
bill accepted which he had received from Amsterdam. So when he gave me the 
case, he said, 'My dear, I think I need not carry this with me, because it 
may be I may not come back till night, and it is too much to venture.' I 
returned 'Then, my dear, you shan't go.' 'Why?' says he. 'Because as they 
are too much for you, so you are too much for me to venture, and you shall 
not go unless you will promise me not to stay, so as to come back in the 
night.'
'I hope there's no danger,' said she, 'seeing I have nothing about me of 
any value; and therefore, lest I should, take that too,' says he, and gives 
me his gold watch, and a rich diamond which he had in a ring and always 
wore on his finger.
'Well, but, my dear,' says I, 'you make me more uneasy now than before, for 
if you apprehend no danger, why do you use this caution? and if you 
apprehend there is danger, why do you go at all?'
'There is no danger,' says he, 'if I do not stay late, and I do not design 
to do so.'
'Well, but promise me, then, that you won't,' says I, 'or else I cannot let 
you go.'
'I won't indeed, my dear,' says he, 'unless I am obliged to it. I assure 
you I do not intend it, but if I should, I am not worth robbing now, for I 
have nothing about me but about six pistoles in my little purse, and that 
little ring,' showing me a small diamond ring, worth about ten or twelve 
pistoles, which he put upon his finger in the room of the rich one he 
usually wore.
I still pressed him not to stay late, and he said he would not. 'But if I 
am kept late,' says he, 'beyond my expectation, I'll stay all night and 
come next morning.' This seemed a very good caution, but still my mind was 
very uneasy about him, and I told him so, and entreated him not to go. I 
told him I did not know what might be the reason, but that I had a strange 
terror upon my mind about his going, and that, if he did go, I was 
persuaded some harm would attend him. He smiled, and returned, 'Well, my 
dear, if it should be so, you are now richly provided for; all that I have 
here I give to you.' And with that he takes up the casket or case. 'Here,' 
says he, 'hold your hand, there is a good estate for you in this case; if 
anything happens to me, 'tis all your own, I give it you for yourself.' And 
with that he put the casket, the fine ring, and his gold watch all into my 
hands, and the key of his escritoire besides, adding, 'And in my escritoire 
there is some money; 'tis all your own.'
I stared at him as if I was frighted, for I thought all his face looked 
like a death's head, and then immediately I thought I perceived his head 
all bloody, and then his clothes looked bloody too; and immediately it all 
went off and he looked as he really did. Immediately I fell a-crying and 
hung about him. 'My dear,' said I, 'I am frighted to death; you shall not 
go; depend upon it, some mischief will befall you.' I did not tell him how 
my vapourish fancy had represented him to me; that, I thought, was not 
proper; besides, he would only have laughed at me, and would have gone away 
with a jest about it. But I pressed him seriously not to go that day, or, 
if he did, to promise me to come home to Paris again by daylight. He looked 
a little graver then than he did before, told me he was not apprehensive of 
the least danger; but if there was, he would either take care to come in 
the day or, as he had said before, would stay all night.
But all these promises came to nothing, for he was set upon in the open day 
and robbed by three men on horseback, masked, as he went; and one of them, 
who it seems rifled him while the rest stood to stop the coach, stabbed him 
into the body with a sword, so that he died immediately. He had a footman 
behind the coach whom they knocked down with the stock or butt end of a 
carbine. They were supposed to kill him because of the disappointment they 
met with in not getting his case or casket of diamonds, which they knew he 
carried about him; and this was supposed, because after they had killed him 
they made the coachman drive out of the road a long way over the heath till 
they came to a convenient place, where they pulled him out of the coach and 
searched his clothes more narrowly than they could do while he was alive.
But they found nothing but his little ring, six pistoles, and the value of 
about seven livres in small moneys.
This was a dreadful blow to me, though I cannot say I was so surprised as I 
should otherwise have been; for all the while he was gone my mind was 
oppressed with the weight of my own thoughts, and I was as sure that I 
should never see him any more, that I think nothing could be like it; the 
impression was so strong, that I think nothing could make so deep a wound 
that was imaginary, and I was so dejected and disconsolate, that when I 
received the news of his disaster, there was no room for any extraordinary 
alteration in me. I had cried all that day, ate nothing, and only waited, 
as I might say, to receive the dismal news, which I had brought to me about 
five o'clock in the afternoon.
I was in a strange country, and, though I had a pretty many acquaintances, 
had but very few friends that I could consult on this occasion. All 
possible enquiry was made after the rogues that had been thus barbarous, 
but nothing could be heard of them; nor was it possible that the footman 
could make any discovery of them by his description, for they knocked him 
down immediately, so that he knew nothing of what was done afterwards. The 
coachman was the only man that could say anything, and all his account 
amounted to no more than this, that one of them had soldier's clothes, but 
he could not remember the particulars of his mounting so as to know what 
regiment he belonged to; and as to their faces, that he could know nothing 
of, because they had all of them masks on.
I had him buried as decently as the place would permit a Protestant 
stranger to be buried, and made some of the scruples and difficulties on 
that account easy by the help of money to a certain person, who went 
impudently to the curate of the parish St. Sulpice in Paris and told him 
that the gentleman that was killed was a Catholic, that the thieves had 
taken from him a cross of gold set with diamonds, worth 6000 livres, that 
his widow was a Catholic and had sent by him sixty crowns to the Church of 
-- for Masses to be said for the repose of his soul. Upon all which, though 
not one word of it was true, he was buried with all the ceremonies of the 
Roman Church.
I think I almost cried myself to death for him for I abandoned myself to 
all the excesses of grief, and indeed I loved him to a degree 
inexpressible; and considering what kindness he had shown me at first, and 
how tenderly he had used me to the last, what could I do less?
Then the manner of his death was terrible and frightful to me, and, above 
all, the strange notices I had of it. I had never pretended to the second 
sight or anything of that kind, but certainly if any one ever had such a 
thing, I had it at this time, for I saw him as plainly in all those 
terrible shapes as above. First, as a skeleton, not dead only, but rotten 
and wasted; secondly, as killed, and his face bloody; and thirdly, his 
clothes bloody; and all within the space of one minute, or indeed of a very 
few moments.
These things amazed me, and I was a good while as one stupid. However, 
after some time I began to recover and look into my affairs. I had the 
satisfaction not to be left in distress or in danger of poverty; on the 
contrary, besides what he had put into my hands fairly in his lifetime, 
which amounted to a very considerable value, I found above seven hundred 
pistoles in gold in his escritoire, of which he had given me the key, and I 
found foreign bills accepted for about 12,000 livres; so that, in a word, I 
found myself possessed of almost ten thousand pounds sterling in a very few 
days after the disaster.
The first thing I did upon this occasion was to send a letter to my maid 
(as I still called her) Amy, wherein I gave her an account of my disaster; 
how my husband, as she called him (for I never called him so), was 
murdered, and as I did not know how his relations or his wife's friends 
might act upon that occasion, I ordered her to convey away all the plate, 
linen, and other things of value and to secure them in a person's hands 
that I directed her to, and then to sell or dispose the furniture of the 
house if she could, and so, without acquainting anybody with the reason of 
her going, withdraw, sending notice to his head manager at London that the 
house was quitted by the tenant, and they might come and take possession of 
it for the executors. Amy was so dexterous, and did her work so nimbly, 
that she gutted the house, and sent the key to the said manager almost as 
soon as he had notice of the misfortune that befell their master.
Upon their receiving the surprising news of his death, the head manager 
came over to Paris and came to the house. I made no scruple of calling 
myself Madame --, the widow of Monsieur --, the English jeweller; and as I 
spoke French naturally, I did not let him know but that I was his wife, 
married in France, and that I had not heard that he had any wife in 
England, but pretended to be surprised, and exclaimed against him for so 
base an action; and that I had good friends in Poitou, where I was born, 
who would take care to have justice done me in England out of his estate.
I should have observed that as soon as the news was public of a man being 
murdered, and that he was a jeweller, fame did me the favour as to publish 
presently that he was robbed of his casket of jewels, which he always 
carried about with him. I confirmed this, among my daily lamentations, for 
his disaster, and added that he had with him a fine diamond ring which he 
was known to wear frequently about him, valued at 100 pistoles, a gold 
watch, and a great quantity of diamonds of inestimable value in his casket, 
which jewels he was carrying to the Prince of --, to show some of them to 
him; and the Prince owned that he had spoken to him to bring some such 
jewels to let him see them. But I sorely repented this part afterwards, as 
you shall hear.
This rumour put an end to all enquiry after his jewels, his ring, or his 
watch; and as for the 700 pistoles, that I secured. For the bills which 
were in hand, I owned I had them; but that as, I said, I brought my husband 
30,000 livres portion, I claimed the said bills, which came to not above 
12,000 livres, for my amende; and this, with the plate and the household 
stuff, was the principal of all his estate which they could come at. As to 
the foreign bill which he was going to Versailles to get accepted, it was 
really lost with him; but his manager, who had remitted the bill to him by 
way of Amsterdam, bringing over the second bill, the money was saved, as 
they called it, which would otherwise have been also gone. The thieves who 
robbed and murdered him were, to be sure, afraid to send anybody to get the 
bill accepted, for that would undoubtedly have discovered them.
By this time my maid Amy was arrived, and she gave me an account of her 
management and how she had secured everything, and that she had quitted the 
house and sent the key to the head manager of his business, and let me know 
how much she had made of everything, very punctually and honestly.
I should have observed in the account of his dwelling with me so long at 
--, that he never passed for anything there but a lodger in the house, and 
though he was landlord, that did not alter the case; so that at his death, 
Amy coming to quit the house and give them the key, there was no affinity 
between that and the case of their master who was newly killed.
I got good advice at Paris from an eminent lawyer, a counsellor of the 
parliament there, and, laying my case before him, he directed me to make a 
process in dower upon the estate for making good my new fortune upon 
matrimony, which accordingly I did; and, upon the whole, the manager went 
back to England well satisfied that he had gotten the unaccepted bills of 
exchange, which was for £2500, with some other things, which together 
amounted to 17,000 livres, and thus I got rid of him.
I was visited with great civility on this sad occasion of the loss of my 
husband (as they thought him) by a great many ladies of quality; and the 
Prince of --, to whom it was reported he was carrying the jewels, sent his 
gentleman with a very handsome compliment of condolence to me; and his 
gentleman, whether with or without order, hinted as if His Highness did 
intend to have visited me himself, but that some accident, which he made a 
long story of, had prevented him.
By the concourse of ladies and others that thus came to visit me I began to 
be much known, and as I did not forget to set myself out with all possible 
advantage, considering the dress of a widow, which in those days was a most 
frightful thing - I say, as I did thus from my own vanity, for I was not 
ignorant that I was very handsome - I say, on this account I was soon made 
very public, and was known by the name of La belle veuve de Poitou, or 'The 
pretty widow of Poitou.' As I was very well pleased to see myself thus 
handsomely used in my affliction, it soon dried up all my tears; and though 
I appeared as a widow, yet, as we say in England, it was of a widow 
comforted. I took care to let the ladies see that I knew how to receive 
them, that I was not at a loss how to behave to any of them; and, in short, 
I began to be very popular there. But I had an occasion afterwards which 
made me decline that kind of management, as you shall hear presently.
About four days after I had received the compliments of condolence from the 
Prince of --, the same gentleman he had sent before came to tell me that 
His Highness was coming to give me a visit. I was indeed surprised at that, 
and perfectly at a loss how to behave. However, as there was no remedy, I 
prepared to receive him as well as I could. It was not many minutes after 
but he was at the door, and came in, introduced by his own gentleman, as 
above, and after by my woman Amy.
He treated me with abundance of civility, and condoled handsomely the loss 
of my husband and likewise the manner of it. He told me he understood he 
was coming to Versailles, to himself, to show him some jewels; that it was 
true that he had discoursed with him about jewels, but could not imagine 
how any villains should hear of his coming at that time with them; that he 
had not ordered him to attend with them at Versailles, but told him that he 
would come to Paris by such a day, so that he was no way accessory to the 
disaster. I told him gravely I knew very well that all His Highness had 
said of that part was true, that these villains knew his profession, and 
knew, no doubt, that he always carried a casket of jewels about him, and 
that he always wore a diamond ring on his finger worth a hundred pistoles, 
which report had magnified to five hundred; and that if he had been going 
to any other place, it would have been the same thing. After this His 
Highness rose up to go, and told me he had resolved, however, to make me 
some reparation, and with these words put a silk purse into my hand with a 
hundred pistoles, and told me he would make me a further compliment of a 
small pension, which his gentleman would inform me of.
You may be sure I behaved with a due sense of so much goodness, and offered 
to kneel to kiss his hand, but he took me up and saluted me, and sat down 
again (though before he made as if he was going away), making me sit down 
by him.
He then began to talk with me more familiarly; told me he hoped I was not 
left in bad circumstances; that Mr. -- was reputed to be very rich, and 
that he had gained lately great sums by some jewels; and he hoped, he said, 
that I had still a fortune agreeable to the condition I had lived in 
before.
I replied, with some tears, which I confess were a little forced, that I 
believed if Mr. -- had lived we should have been out of danger of want, but 
that it was impossible to estimate the loss which I had sustained, besides 
that of the life of my husband; that by the opinion of those that knew 
something of his affairs and of what value the jewels were which he 
intended to have shown to His Highness, he could not have less about him 
than the value of a hundred thousand livres; that it was a fatal blow to me 
and to his whole family, especially that they should be lost in such a 
manner.
His Highness returned, with an air of concern, that he was very sorry for 
it, but he hoped if I settled in Paris I might find ways to restore my 
fortune. At the same time he complimented me upon my being very handsome, 
as he was pleased to call it, and that I could not fail of admirers. I 
stood up and humbly thanked His Highness, but told him I had no 
expectations of that kind; that I thought I should be obliged to go over to 
England to look after my husband's effects there, which I was told were 
considerable; but that I did not know what justice a poor stranger would 
get among them; and as for Paris, my fortune being so impaired, I saw 
nothing before me but to go back to Poitou to my friends, where some of my 
relations, I hoped, might do something for me, and added that one of my 
brothers was an Abbot at --, near Poitiers.
He stood up and, taking me by the hand, led me to a large looking-glass 
which made up the pier in the front of the parlour. 'Look there, madam,' 
said he; 'is it fit that face,' pointing to my figure in the glass, 'should 
go back to Poitou? No, madam,' says he, 'stay and make some gentleman of 
quality happy, that may in return make you forget all your sorrows '; and 
with that he took me in his arms and, kissing me twice, told me he would 
see me again, but with less ceremony.
Some little time after this, but the same day, his gentleman came to me 
again, and with great ceremony and respect delivered me a black box tied 
with a scarlet riband and sealed with a noble coat of arms, which I suppose 
was the Prince's. There was in it a grant from His Highness, or an 
assignment, I know not which to call it, with a warrant to his banker to 
pay me two thousand livres a year during my stay in Paris, as the widow of 
Monsieur -- the jeweller, mentioning the horrid murder of my late husband 
as the occasion of it, as above.
I received it with great submission and expressions of being infinitely 
obliged to his master, and of my showing myself on all occasions His 
Highness's most obedient servant; and after giving my most humble duty to 
His Highness, with the utmost acknowledgments of the obligation, etc., I 
went to a little cabinet, and taking out some money, which made a little 
sound in taking it out, offered to give him five pistoles.
He drew back, but with the greatest respect, and told me he humbly thanked 
me, but that he durst not take a farthing; that His Highness would take it 
so ill of him, he was sure he would never see his face more; but that he 
would not fail to acquaint His Highness what respect I had offered; and 
added, 'I assure you, madam, you are more in the good graces of my master, 
the Prince of --, than you are aware of, and I believe you will hear more 
of him.
Now I began to understand him, and resolved, if His Highness did come 
again, he should see me under no disadvantages if I could help it. I told 
him if His Highness did me the honour to see me again, I hoped he would not 
let me be so surprised as I was before; that I would be glad to have some 
little notice of it, and would be obliged to him if he would procure it me. 
He told me he was very sure that when His Highness intended to visit me he 
should be sent before to give me notice of it, and that he would give me as 
much warning of it as possible.
He came several times after this on the same errand, that is, about the 
settlement, the grant, requiring several things yet to be done for making 
it payable, without going every time to the Prince again for a fresh 
warrant. The particulars of this part I did not understand, but as soon as 
it was finished, which was above two months, the gentleman came one 
afternoon and said His Highness designed to visit me in the evening, but 
desired to be admitted without ceremony.
I prepared not my rooms only but myself, and when he came in there was 
nobody appeared in the house but his gentleman and my maid Amy; and of her 
I bid the gentleman acquaint His Highness that she was an Englishwoman, 
that she did not understand a word of French, and that she was one also 
that might be trusted.
When he came into my room I fell down at his feet before he could come to 
salute me, and with words that I had prepared, full of duty and respect, 
thanked him for his bounty and goodness to a poor desolate woman, oppressed 
by the weight of so terrible a disaster, and refused to rise till he would 
allow me the honour to kiss his hand.
'Levez-vous donc,' says the Prince, taking me in his arms, 'I design more 
favours for you than this trifle '; and going on, he added, 'you shall, for 
the future, find a friend where you did not look for it, and I resolve to 
let you see how kind I can be to one who is to me the most agreeable 
creature on earth.'
I was dressed in a kind of half-mourning, had turned off my weeds, and my 
head, though I had yet no ribands or lace, was so dressed as failed not to 
set me out with advantage enough, for I began to understand his meaning; 
and the Prince protested I was the most beautiful creature on earth. 'And 
where have I lived,' says he, 'and how ill have I been served that I should 
never till now be shown the finest woman in France?'
This was the way, in all the world, the most likely to break in upon my 
virtue, if I had been mistress of any, for I was now become the vainest 
creature upon earth, and particularly of my beauty; which, as other people 
admired, so I became every day more foolishly in love with myself than 
before.
He said some very kind things to me after this and sat down with me for an 
hour or more, when, getting up and calling his gentleman by his name, he 
threw open the door. 'Au boire,' says he; upon which his gentleman 
immediately brought up a little table covered with a fine damask cloth, the 
table no bigger than he could bring in his two hands, but upon it was set 
two decanters, one of champagne and the other of water, six silver plates, 
and a service of fine sweetmeats in fine china dishes, on a set of rings 
standing up about twenty inches high, one above another; below was three 
roasted partridges and a quail. As soon as his gentleman had set it all 
down he ordered him to withdraw. 'Now,' says the Prince, 'I intend to sup 
with you.'
When he sent away his gentleman I stood up and offered to wait on His 
Highness while he ate, but he positively refused, and told me 'No; tomorrow 
you shall be the widow of Monsieur -- the jeweller, but tonight you shall 
be my mistress; therefore sit here,' says he, 'and eat with me, or I will 
get up and serve.'
I would then have called up my woman Amy, but I thought that would not be 
proper neither, so I made my excuse that since His Highness would not let 
his own servant wait I would not presume to let my woman come up, but if he 
would please to let me wait, it would be my honour to fill His Highness's 
wine; but, as before, he would by no means allow me, so we sat and ate 
together.
'Now, madam,' says the Prince, 'give me leave to lay aside my character, 
let us talk together with the freedom of equals. My quality sets me at a 
distance from you and makes you ceremonious, your beauty exalts you to more 
than an equality; I must then treat you as lovers do their mistresses, but 
I cannot speak the language; 'tis enough to tell you how agreeable you are 
to me, how I am surprised at your beauty, and resolve to make you happy and 
to be happy with you.'
I knew not what to say to him for a good while, but blushed and, looking up 
towards him, said I was already made happy in the favour of a person of 
such rank, and had nothing to ask of His Highness but that he would believe 
me infinitely obliged.
After he had eaten he poured the sweetmeats into my lap, and the wine being 
out he called his gentleman again to take away the table, who at first only 
took the cloth and the remains of what was to eat away, and laying another 
cloth, set the table on one side of the room, with a noble service of plate 
upon it worth at least 200 pistoles; then having set the two decanters 
again upon the table, filled as before, he withdrew, for I found the fellow 
understood his business very well, and his lord's business too.
About half an hour after, the Prince told me that I offered to wait a 
little before, that if I would now take the trouble he would give me leave 
to give him some wine. So I went to the table, filled a glass of wine, and 
brought it to him on a fine salver which the glasses stood on, and brought 
the bottle, or decanter for water, in my other hand to mix it as he thought 
fit.
He smiled and bid me look on that salver, which I did, and admired it much, 
for it was a very fine one indeed. 'You may see,' says he, 'I resolve to 
have more of your company, for my servant shall leave you that plate for my 
use.' I told him I believed His Highness would not take it ill that I was 
not furnished fit to entertain a person of his rank, and that I would take 
great care of it, and value myself infinitely upon the honour of His 
Highness's visit.
It now began to grow late and he began to take notice of it. 'But,' says 
he, 'I cannot leave you; have you not a spare lodging for one night?' I 
told him I had but a homely lodging to entertain such a guest. He said 
something exceedingly kind on that head, but not fit to repeat, adding that 
my company would make him amends.
About midnight he sent his gentleman on an errand, after telling him aloud 
that he intended to stay here all night. In a little time his gentleman 
brought him a night-gown, slippers, two caps, a neckcloth, and a shirt, 
which he gave me to carry into his chamber, and sent his man home; and 
then, turning to me, said I should do him the honour to be his chamberlain 
of the household, and his dresser also. I smiled, and told him I would do 
myself the honour to wait on him upon all occasions.
About one in the morning, while his gentleman was yet with him, I begged 
leave to withdraw, supposing he would go to bed; but he took the hint, and 
said, 'I'm not going to bed yet, pray let me see you again.'
I took this time to undress me and to come in a new dress, which was in a 
manner un deshabille, but so fine, and all about me so clean and so 
agreeable, that he seemed surprised. 'I thought,' says he, 'you could not 
have dressed to more advantage than you had done before; but now,' says he, 
'you charm me a thousand times more, if that be possible.'
'It is only a loose habit, my lord,' said I, 'that I may the better wait on 
Your Highness.' He pulls me to him. 'You are perfectly obliging,' says he; 
and sitting on the bedside, says he, 'Now you shall be a princess and know 
what it is to oblige the gratefullest man alive'; and with that he took me 
in his arms.... I can go no further in the particulars of what passed at 
that time, but it ended in this, that, in short, I lay with him all night.
I have given you the whole detail of this story, to lay it down as a black 
scheme of the way how unhappy women are ruined by great men; for though 
poverty and want is an irresistible temptation to the poor, vanity and 
great things are as irresistible to others. To be courted by a prince, and 
by a prince who was first a benefactor, then an admirer, to be called 
handsome, the finest woman in France, and to be treated as a woman fit for 
the bed of a prince: these are things a woman must have no vanity in her, 
nay, no corruption in her, that is not overcome by it; and my case was 
such, that, as before, I had enough of both.
I had now no poverty attending me. On the contrary, I was mistress of ten 
thousand pounds before the Prince did anything for me. Had I been mistress 
of my resolution, had I been less obliging and rejected the first attack, 
all had been safe; but my virtue was lost before, and the devil, who had 
found the way to break in upon me by one temptation, easily mastered me now 
by another, and I gave myself up to a person who, though a man of high 
dignity, was yet the most tempting and obliging that ever I met with in my 
life.
I had the same particular to insist upon here with the Prince that I had 
with my gentleman before. I hesitated much at consenting at first asking, 
but the Prince told me princes did not court like other men, that they 
brought more powerful arguments, and he very prettily added that they were 
sooner repulsed than other men and ought to be sooner complied with, 
intimating, though very genteelly, that after a woman had positively 
refused him once, he could not, like other men, wait with importunities and 
stratagems and laying long sieges; but as such men as he stormed warmly, 
so, if repulsed, they made no second attacks; and indeed it was but 
reasonable, for as it was below their rank to be long battering a woman's 
constancy, so they ran greater hazards in being exposed in their amours 
than other men did.
I took this for a satisfactory answer, and told His Highness that I had the 
same thoughts in respect to the manner of his attacks, for that his person 
and his arguments were irresistible; that a person of his rank and a 
munificence so unbounded could not be withstood; that no virtue was proof 
against him, except such as was able too to suffer martyrdom; that I 
thought it impossible I could be overcome, but that now I found it was 
impossible I should not be overcome; that so much goodness, joined with so 
much greatness, would have conquered a saint; and that I confessed he had 
the victory over me by a merit infinitely superior to the conquest he had 
made.
He made me a most obliging answer; told me abundance of fine things which 
still flattered my vanity, till at last I began to have pride enough to 
believe him and fancied myself a fit mistress for a prince.
As I had thus given the Prince the last favour, and he had all the freedom 
with me that it was possible for me to grant, so he gave me leave to use as 
much freedom with him another way, and that was to have everything of him I 
thought fit to command. And yet I did not ask of him with an air of 
avarice, as if I was greedily making a penny of him, but I managed him with 
such art that he generally anticipated my demands; he only requested of me 
that I would not think of taking another house, as I had intimated to His 
Highness that I had intended, not thinking it good enough to receive his 
visits in. But, he said, my house was the most convenient that could 
possibly be found in all Paris for an amour, especially for him, having a 
way out into three streets, and not overlooked by any neighbours, so that 
he could pass and repass without observation, for one of the back ways 
opened into a narrow dark alley, which alley was a thoroughfare or passage 
out of one street into another, and any person that went in or out by the 
door had no more to do but to see that there was nobody following him in 
the alley before he went in at the door. This request I knew was 
reasonable, and therefore I assured him I would not change my dwelling, 
seeing His Highness did not think it too mean for me to receive him in.
He also desired me that I would not take any more servants or set up any 
equipage, at least for the present, for that it would then be immediately 
concluded I had been left very rich, and then I should be thronged with the 
impertinence of admirers, who would be attracted by the money as well as by 
the beauty of a young widow, and he should be frequently interrupted in his 
visits; or that the world would conclude I was maintained by somebody and 
would be indefatigable to find out the person; so that he should have spies 
peeping at him every time he went out or in, which it would be impossible 
to disappoint, and that he should presently have it talked over all the 
toilets in Paris that the Prince de -- had got the jeweller's widow for a 
mistress.
This was too just to oppose, and I made no scruple to tell His Highness 
that since he had stooped so low as to make me his own, he ought to have 
all the satisfaction in the world that I was all his own; that I would take 
all the measures he should please to direct me to avoid the impertinent 
attacks of others; and that if he thought fit I would be wholly within 
doors, and have it given out that I was obliged to go to England to solicit 
my affairs there after my husband's misfortune, and that I was not expected 
there again for at least a year or two. This he liked very well; only, he 
said, that he would by no means have me confined, that it would injure my 
health, and that I should then take a country house in some village, a good 
way off from the city, where it should not be known who I was, and that I 
should be there sometimes, to divert me.
I made no scruple of the confinement, and told His Highness no place could 
be a confinement where I had such a visitor; and so I put off the country 
house, which would have been to remove myself further from him and have 
less of his company, and I made the house be, as it were, shut up. Amy 
indeed appeared, and when any of the neighbours and servants enquired, she 
answered in broken French that I was gone to England to look after my 
affairs, which presently went current through the streets about us. For you 
are to note that the people of Paris, especially the women, are the most 
busy and impertinent enquirers into the conduct of their neighbours, 
especially that of a single woman, that are in the world; though there are 
no greater intriguers in the universe than themselves, and perhaps that may 
be the reason of it, for it is an old but a sure rule that

When deep intrigues are close and shy,
The guilty are the first that spy.

Thus His Highness had the most easy and yet the most undiscoverable access 
to me imaginable, and he seldom failed to come two or three nights in a 
week, and sometimes stayed two or three nights together. Once he told me he 
was resolved I should be weary of his company, and that he would learn to 
know what it was to be a prisoner; so he gave out among his servants that 
he was gone to --, where he often went a-hunting, and that he should not 
return under a fortnight. And that fortnight he stayed wholly with me, and 
never went out of my doors.
Never woman in such a station lived a fortnight in so complete a fullness 
of human delight. For, to have the entire possession of one of the most 
accomplished princes in the world, and of the politest, best-bred man, to 
converse with him all day and, as he professed, charm him all night, what 
could be more inexpressibly pleasing, and especially to a woman of a vast 
deal of pride as I was?
To finish the felicity of this part, I must not forget that the devil had 
played a new game with me, and prevailed with me to satisfy myself with 
this amour as a lawful thing; that a prince of such grandeur and majesty, 
so infinitely superior to me, and one who had made such an introduction by 
an unparalleled bounty, I could not resist; and therefore that it was very 
lawful for me to do it, being at that time perfectly single and unengaged 
to any other man-as I was, most certainly, by the unaccountable absence of 
my first husband, and the murder of my gentleman who went for my second.
It cannot be doubted but that I was the easier to persuade myself of the 
truth of such a doctrine as this, when it was so much for my ease and for 
the repose of my mind to have it be so.

In things we wish, 'tis easy to deceive;
What we would have, we willingly believe.

Besides, I had no casuists to resolve this doubt. The same devil that put 
this into my head bade me go to any of the Romish clergy and, under the 
pretence of confession, state the case exactly, and I should see they would 
either resolve it to be no sin at all, or absolve me upon the easiest 
penance. This I had a strong inclination to try, but I know not what 
scruple put me off it, for I could never bring myself to like having to do 
with those priests. And though it was strange that I, who had thus 
prostituted my chastity and given up all sense of virtue in two such 
particular cases, living a life of open adultery, should scruple anything; 
yet so it was, I argued with myself, that I could not be a cheat in 
anything that was esteemed sacred, that I could not be of one opinion and 
then pretend myself to be of another, nor could I go to confession who knew 
nothing of the manner of it, and should betray myself to the priest to be a 
Huguenot, and then might come into trouble; but, in short, though I was a 
whore, yet I was a Protestant whore, and could not act as if I was Popish 
upon any account whatsoever.
But, I say, I satisfied myself with the surprising occasion that as it was 
all irresistible, so it was all lawful; for that Heaven would not suffer us 
to be punished for that which it was not possible for us to avoid. And with 
these absurdities I kept conscience from giving me any considerable 
disturbance in all this matter, and I was as perfectly easy as to the 
lawfulness of it as if I had been married to the Prince and had had no 
other husband. So possible is it for us to roll ourselves up in wickedness, 
till we grow invulnerable by conscience; and that sentinel, once dozed, 
sleeps fast, not to be awakened while the tide of pleasure continues to 
flow or till something dark and dreadful brings us to ourselves again.
I have, I confess, wondered at the stupidity that my intellectual part was 
under all that while, what lethargic fumes dozed the soul, and how it was 
possible that I, who in the case before, where the temptation was many ways 
more forcible and the arguments stronger and more irresistible, was yet 
under a continued inquietude on account of the wicked life I led, could now 
live in the most profound tranquillity and with an uninterrupted peace, 
nay, even rising up to satisfaction and Joy, and yet in a more palpable 
state of adultery than before; for before, my gentleman who had called me 
wife had the pretence of his wife, being parted from him, refusing to do 
the duty of her office as a wife to him. As for me, my circumstances were 
the same; but as for the Prince, as he had a fine and extraordinary lady, 
or Princess, of his own, so he had had two or three mistresses more besides 
me and made no scruple of it at all.
However, I say, as to my own part I enjoyed myself in perfect tranquillity, 
and as the Prince was the only deity I worshipped, so I was really his 
idol. And however it was with his Princess, I assure you his other 
mistresses found a sensible difference; and though they could never find me 
out, yet I had good intelligence that they guessed very well that their 
lord had got some new favourite that robbed them of his company, and 
perhaps of some of his usual bounty too. And now I must mention the 
sacrifices he made to his idol; and they were not a few, I assure you.
As he loved like a prince, so he rewarded like a prince; for though he 
declined my making a figure, as above, he let me see that he was above 
doing it for the saving the expense of it - and so he told me - and that he 
would make it up in other things. First of all he sent me a toilet with all 
the appurtenances of silver, even so much as the frame of the table, and 
then for the house he gave me the table or sideboard of plate I mentioned 
above, with all things belonging to it of massy silver; so that, in short, 
I could not for my life study to ask him for any thing of plate which I had 
not.
He could then accommodate me in nothing more but jewels and clothes, or 
money for clothes. He sent his gentleman to the mercers, and bought me a 
suit or whole piece of the finest brocaded silk, figured with gold, and 
another with silver, and another of crimson, so that I had three suits of 
clothes such as the Queen of France would not have disdained to have worn 
at that time. Yet I went out nowhere; but as these were for me to put on 
when I went out of mourning, I dressed myself in them, one after another, 
always when His Highness came to see me.
I had no less than five several morning dresses besides these, so that I 
need never be seen twice in the same dress. To these he added several 
parcels of fine linen and of lace, so much that I had no room to ask for 
more, or indeed for so much.
I took the liberty once in our freedoms to tell him he was too bountiful 
and that I was too chargeable to him for a mistress, and that I would be 
his faithful servant at less expense to him; and that he not only left me 
no room to ask him for anything, but that he supplied me with such a 
profusion of good things that I scarce could wear them or use them unless I 
kept a great equipage, which he knew was no way convenient for him or for 
me. He smiled and took me in his arms, and told me he was resolved, while I 
was his, I should never be able to ask him for anything, but that he would 
be daily asking new favours of me.
After we were up, for this conference was in bed, he desired I would dress 
me in the best suit of clothes I had. It was a day or two after the three 
suits were made and brought home. I told him, if he pleased, I would rather 
dress me in that suit which I knew he liked best. He asked me how I could 
know which he would like best before he had seen them. I told him I would 
presume for once to guess at his fancy by my own, so I went away and 
dressed me in the second suit brocaded with silver, and returned in full 
dress, with a suit of lace upon my head which would have been worth in 
England £200 sterling; and I was every way set out as well as Amy could 
dress me, who was a very genteel dresser too. In this figure I came to him 
out of my dressing-room, which opened with folding doors into his 
bedchamber.
He sat as one astonished a good while, looking at me without speaking a 
word, till I came quite up to him, knelt on one knee to him, and almost, 
whether he would or no, kissed his hand. He took me up, and stood up 
himself, but was surprised when, taking me in his arms, he perceived tears 
to run down my cheeks. 'My dear,' says he aloud, 'what mean these tears?' 
'My lord,' said I after some little check, for I could not speak presently, 
'I beseech you to believe me, they are not tears of sorrow but tears of 
joy. It is impossible for me to see myself snatched from the misery I was 
fallen into and at once to be in the arms of a Prince of such goodness, 
such immense bounty, and be treated in such a manner - 'tis not possible, 
my lord,' said I, 'to contain the satisfaction of it. and it will break out 
in an excess in some measure proportioned to your immense bounty and to the 
affection which Your Highness treats me with, who am so infinitely below 
you.'
It would look a little too much like a romance here to repeat all the kind 
things he said to me on that occasion, but I can't omit one passage. As he 
saw the tears drop down my cheek, he pulls out a fine cambric handkerchief 
and was going to wipe the tears off, but checked his hand as if he was 
afraid to deface something. I say he checked his hand, and tossed the 
handkerchief to me to do it myself. I took the hint immediately, and with a 
kind of pleasant disdain, 'How! my lord,' said I, 'have you kissed me so 
often and don't you know whether I am painted or not? Pray let Your 
Highness satisfy yourself that you have no cheats put upon you; for once 
let me be vain enough to say I have not deceived you with false colours.' 
With this I put a handkerchief into his hand and, taking his hand into 
mine, I made him wipe my face so hard that he was unwilling to do it for 
fear of hurting me.
He appeared surprised more than ever, and swore, which was the first time 
that I had heard him swear from my first knowing him, that he could not 
have believed there was any such skin, without paint, in the world. 'Well, 
my lord,' said I, 'Your Highness shall have a further demonstration than 
this - as to that which you are pleased to accept for beauty, that it is 
the mere work of nature.' And with that I stepped to the door, and rang a 
little bell for my woman Amy and bade her bring me a cupful of hot water, 
which she did. And when it was come I desired His Highness to feel if it 
was warm, which he did, and I immediately washed my face all over with it 
before him. This was indeed more than satisfaction, that is to say, than 
believing, for it was an undeniable demonstration, and he kissed my cheeks 
and breasts a thousand times with expressions of the greatest surprise 
imaginable.
Nor was I a very indifferent figure as to shape. Though I had had two 
children by my gentleman and five by my true husband, I say I was no 
despisable shape. And my Prince (I must be allowed the vanity to call him 
so) was taking his view of me as I walked from one end of the room to the 
other. At last he leads me to the darkest part of the room and, standing 
behind me, bade me hold up my head, when putting both his hands round my 
neck, as if he was spanning my neck to see how small it was, for it was 
long and small, he held my neck so long and so hard in his hands that I 
complained he hurt me a little. What he did it for I knew not, nor had I 
the least suspicion but that he was spanning my neck. But when I said he 
hurt me, he seemed to let go, and in half a minute more led me to a pier-
glass, and behold I saw my neck clasped with a fine necklace of diamonds, 
whereas I felt no more what he was doing at all than if he had really done 
nothing at all, nor did I suspect it in the least. If I had an ounce of 
blood in me that did not fly up into my face, neck, and breasts, it must be 
from some interruption in the vessels. I was all on fire with the sight, 
and began to wonder what it was that was coming to me.
However, to let him see that I was not unqualified to receive benefits, I 
turned about: 'My lord,' says I, 'Your Highness is resolved to conquer by 
your bounty the very gratitude of your servants; you will leave no room for 
anything but thanks, and make those thanks useless too by their bearing no 
proportion to the occasion.'
'I love, child,' says he, 'to see everything suitable: a fine gown and 
petticoat, a fine laced head. A fine face and neck and no necklace would 
not have made the object perfect. But why that blush, my dear?' says the 
Prince. 'My lord,' said I, 'all your gifts call for blushes, but above all 
I blush to receive what I am so ill able to merit, and may become so ill 
also.'
Thus far I am a standing mark of the weakness of great men in their vice, 
that value not squandering away immense wealth upon the most worthless 
creatures; or, to sum it up in a word, they raise the value of the object 
which they pretend to pitch upon by their fancy - I say, raise the value of 
it at their own expense, give vast presents for a ruinous favour which is 
so far from being equal to the price, that nothing will at last prove more 
absurd than the cost men are at to purchase their own destruction.
I could not, in the height of all this fine doing, I say I could not be 
without some just reflection, though conscience was, as I said, dumb as to 
any disturbance it gave me in my wickedness. My vanity was fed up to such a 
height that I had no room to give way to such reflections.
But I could not but sometimes look back with astonishment at the folly of 
men of quality, who, immense in their bounty as in their wealth, give, to a 
profusion and without bounds, to the most scandalous of our sex for 
granting them the liberty of abusing themselves and ruining both.
I that knew what this carcase of mine had been but a few years before, how 
overwhelmed with grief, drowned in tears, frighted with the prospect of 
beggary, and surrounded with rags and fatherless children; that was pawning 
and selling the rags that covered me, for a dinner, and sat on the ground, 
despairing of help and expecting to be starved, till my children were 
snatched from me to be kept by the parish - I that was after this a whore 
for bread and, abandoning conscience and virtue, lived with another woman's 
husband; I that was despised by all my relations and my husband's too; I 
that was left so entirely desolate, friendless, and helpless that I knew 
not how to get the least help to keep me from starving - that I should be 
caressed by a prince for the honour of having the scandalous use of my 
prostituted body, common before to his inferiors, and perhaps would not 
have denied one of his footmen but a little while before if I could have 
got my bread by it.
I say I could not but reflect upon the brutality and blindness of mankind, 
that, because nature had given me a good skin and some agreeable features, 
should suffer that beauty to be such a bait for appetite as to do such 
sordid, unaccountable things to obtain the possession of it.
It is for this reason that I have so largely set down the particulars of 
the caresses I was treated with by the jeweller, and also by this Prince; 
not to make the story an incentive to the vice, which I am now such a 
sorrowful penitent for being guilty of - God forbid any should make so vile 
a use of so good a design - but to draw the just picture of a man enslaved 
to the rage of his vicious appetite: how he defaces the image of God in his 
soul, dethrones his reason, causes conscience to abdicate the possession, 
and exalts sense into the vacant throne; how he deposes the man and exalts 
the brute.
Oh, could we hear now the reproaches this great man afterwards loaded 
himself with when he grew weary of this admired creature and became sick of 
his vice, how profitable would the report of them be to the reader of this 
story. But had he himself also known the dirty history of my actings upon 
the stage of life that little time I had been in the world, how much more 
severe would those reproaches have been upon himself. But I shall come to 
this again.
I lived in this gay sort of retirement almost three years, in which time no 
amour of such a kind, sure, was ever carried up so high. The Prince knew no 
bounds to his munificence - he could give me nothing, either for my wearing 
or using, or eating or drinking, more than he had done from the beginning.
His presents were after that in gold, and very frequent and large - often a 
hundred pistoles, never less than fifty at a time - and I must do myself 
the justice that I seemed rather backward to receive than craving and 
encroaching. Not that I had not an avaricious temper, nor was it that I did 
not foresee that this was my harvest in which I was to gather up and that 
it would not last long, but it was that really his bounty always 
anticipated my expectations and even my wishes, and he gave me money so 
fast that he rather poured it in upon me than left me room to ask it, so 
that before I could spend fifty pistoles I had always a hundred to make it 
up.
After I had been near a year and a half in his arms, as above, or 
thereabouts, I proved with child. I did not take any notice of it to him 
till I was satisfied that I was not deceived; when one morning early, when 
we were in bed together, I said to him, 'My lord, I doubt Your Highness 
never gives yourself leave to think what the case should be if I should 
have the honour to be with child by you.' 'Why, my dear,' says he, 'we are 
able to keep it if such a thing should happen. I hope you are not concerned 
about that.' 'No, my lord,' said I, 'I should think myself very happy if I 
could bring Your Highness a son; I should hope to see him a lieutenant-
general of the King's armies, by the interest of his father and by his own 
merit.
'Assure yourself, child,' says he, 'if it should be so I will not refuse 
owning him for my son, though it be, as they call it, a natural son, and 
shall never slight or neglect him for the sake of his mother.' Then he 
began to importune me to know if it was so, but I positively denied it so 
long till at last I was able to give him the satisfaction of knowing it 
himself, by the motion of the child within me.
He professed himself overjoyed at the discovery, but told me that now it 
was absolutely necessary for me to quit the confinement which he said I had 
suffered for his sake, and to take a house somewhere in the country in 
order for health as well as for privacy against my lying-in. This was quite 
out of my way, but the Prince, who was a man of pleasure, had, it seems, 
several retreats of this kind which he made use of, I suppose, upon like 
occasions. And so leaving it, as it were, to his gentleman, he provided a 
very convenient house about four miles south of Paris, at the village of -- 
where I had very agreeable lodgings, good gardens, and all things very easy 
to my content. But one thing did not please me at all, viz. that an old 
woman was provided and put into the house, to furnish everything necessary 
to my lying-in and to assist at my travail.
I did not like this old woman at all. She looked so like a spy upon me, or 
(as sometimes I was frighted to imagine) like one set privately to dispatch 
me out of the world as might best suit with the circumstances of my lying-
in. And when His Highness came the next time to see me, which was not many 
days, I expostulated a little on the subject of the old woman, and by the 
management of my tongue as well as by the strength of reasoning I convinced 
him that it would not be at all convenient, that it would be the greater 
risk on his side, and that first or last it would certainly expose him and 
me also. I assured him that my servant, being an Englishwoman, never knew 
to that hour who His Highness was, that I always called him the Count de 
Clerac, and that she knew nothing else of him, nor ever should; that if he 
would give me leave to choose proper persons for my use, it should be so 
ordered that not one of them should know who he was or perhaps ever see his 
face, and that for the reality of the child that should be born, His 
Highness, who had alone been at the first of it, should if he pleased be 
present in the room all the time, so that he would need no witnesses on 
that account.
This discourse fully satisfied him, so that he ordered his gentleman to 
dismiss the old woman the same day; and without any difficulty I sent my 
maid Amy to Calais and thence to Dover, where she got an English midwife 
and an English nurse to come over on purpose to attend an English lady of 
quality, as they styled me, for four months certain. The midwife, Amy had 
agreed to pay a hundred guineas to, and bear her charges to Paris and back 
again to Dover; the poor woman that was to be my nurse had twenty pounds, 
and the same terms for charges as the other.
I was very easy when Amy returned, and the more because she brought with 
the midwife a good motherly sort of woman who was to be her assistant and 
would be very helpful on occasion, and bespoke a man-midwife at Paris too, 
if there should be any necessity for his help. Having thus made provision 
for everything, the Count, for so we all called him in public, came as 
often to see me as I could expect, and continued exceeding kind, as he had 
always been. One day, conversing together upon the subject of my being with 
child, I told him how all things were in order, but that I had a strange 
apprehension that I should die with that child. He smiled. 'So all the 
ladies say, my dear,' says he, 'when they are with child.' 'Well, however, 
my lord,' said I, 'it is but just that care should be taken that what you 
have bestowed in your excess of bounty upon me should not be lost.' And 
upon this I pulled a paper out of my bosom, folded up but not sealed, and I 
read it to him; wherein I had left order that all the plate and jewels and 
fine furniture which His Highness had given me should be restored to him by 
my woman, and the keys be immediately delivered to his gentleman in case of 
disaster.
Then I recommended my woman Amy to his favour for a hundred pistoles, on 
condition she gave up the keys, as above, to his gentleman, and his 
gentleman's receipt for them. When he saw this, 'My dear child,' said he, 
and took me in his arms; 'what, have you been making your will and 
disposing your effects? Pray whom do you make your universal heir?' 'So far 
as to do justice to Your Highness, in case of mortality, I have, my lord,' 
said I; 'and who should I dispose the valuable things to which I have had 
from your hand as pledges of your favour and testimonies of your bounty, 
but to the giver of them? If the child should live, Your Highness will, I 
don't question, act like yourself in that part, and I shall have the utmost 
satisfaction that it will be well used by your direction.'
I could see he took this very well. 'I have forsaken all the ladies in 
Paris,' says he, 'for you; and I have lived every day since I knew you to 
see that you know how to merit all that a man of honour can do for you. Be 
easy, child, I hope you shall not die; and all you have is your own, to do 
with it what you please.'
I was then within about two months of my time, and that soon wore off. When 
I found my time was come, it fell out very happily that he was in the 
house, and I entreated he would continue a few hours in the house, which he 
agreed to. They called His Highness to come into the room if he pleased, as 
I had offered, and as I desired him, and I sent word I would make as few 
cries as possible to prevent disturbing him. He came into the room once and 
called to me to be of good courage, it would soon be over, and then he 
withdrew again; and in about half an hour more Amy carried him the news 
that I was delivered and had brought him a charming boy. He gave her ten 
pistoles for her news, stayed till they had adjusted things about me, and 
then came into the room again, cheered me and spoke kindly to me, and 
looked on the child, then withdrew; and came again the next day to visit 
me.
Since this, and when I have looked back upon these things with eyes 
unpossessed with crime, when the wicked part has appeared in its clearer 
light and I have seen it in its own natural colours; when no more blinded 
with the glittering appearances which at that time deluded me, and, as in 
like cases, if I may guess at others by myself, too much possessed the mind 
- I say, since this I have often wondered with what pleasure or 
satisfaction the Prince could look upon the poor innocent infant, which, 
though his own, and that he might that way have some attachment in his 
affections to it, yet must always afterwards be a remembrancer to him of 
his most early crime; and, which was worse, must bear upon itself, 
unmerited, an eternal mark of infamy, which should be spoken of upon all 
occasions to its reproach, from the folly of its father and wickedness of 
its mother.
Great men are indeed delivered from the burden of their natural children, 
or bastards, as to their maintenance. This is the main affliction in other 
cases, where there is not substance sufficient without breaking into the 
fortunes of the family. In those cases either a man's legitimate children 
suffer, which is very unnatural, or the unfortunate mother of that 
illegitimate birth has a dreadful affliction either of being turned off 
with her child and be left to starve, etc., or of seeing the poor infant 
packed off with a piece of money to some of those she-butchers who take 
children off their hands, as 'tis called - that is to say, starve 'em and, 
in a word, murder em.
Great men, I say, are delivered from this burden, because they are always 
furnished to supply the expense of their out-of-the-way offspring by making 
little assignments upon the Bank of Lyons or the Town House of Paris, and 
settling those sums to be received for the maintenance of such expense as 
they see cause.
Thus, in the case of this child of mine, while he and I conversed there was 
no need to make any appointment, as an appanage or maintenance for the 
child or its nurse, for he supplied me more than sufficiently for all those 
things. But afterwards, when time and a particular circumstance put an end 
to our conversing together - as such things always meet with a period and 
generally break off abruptly - I say, after that I found he appointed the 
children a settled allowance, by an assignment of annual rent upon the Bank 
of Lyons, which was sufficient for bringing them handsomely though 
privately up in the world, and that not in a manner unworthy of their 
father's blood, though I came to be sunk and forgotten in the case; nor did 
the children ever know anything of their mother to this day, other than as 
you may have an account hereafter.
But to look back to the particular observation I was making, which I hope 
may be of use to those who read my story, I say it was something wonderful 
to me to see this person so exceedingly delighted at the birth of this 
child, and so pleased with it; for he would sit and look at it, and with an 
air of seriousness sometimes, a great while together, and particularly, I 
observed, he loved to look at it when it was asleep.
It was indeed a lovely, charming child, and had a certain vivacity in its 
countenance that is far from being common to all children so young; and he 
would often say to me that he believed there was something extraordinary in 
the child, and he did not doubt but he would come to be a great man.
I could never hear him say so, but though secretly it pleased me, yet it so 
closely touched me another way, that I could not refrain sighing, and 
sometimes tears; and one time in particular it so affected me that I could 
not conceal it from him. But when he saw tears run down my face there was 
no concealing the occasion from him, he was too importunate to be denied in 
a thing of that moment; so I frankly answered, 'It sensibly affects me, my 
lord,' said I, 'that whatever the merit of this little creature may be, he 
must always have a bend on his arms; the disaster of his birth will be 
always not a blot only to his honour, but a bar to his fortunes in the 
world; our affection will be ever his affliction, and his mother's crime be 
the son's reproach; the blot can never be wiped out by the most glorious 
actions; nay, if it lives to raise a family,' said I, 'the infamy must 
descend even to its innocent posterity.'
He took the thought and sometimes told me afterwards that it made a deeper 
impression on him than he discovered to me at that time; but for the 
present he put it off with telling me these things could not be helped, 
that they served for a spur to the spirits of brave men, inspired them with 
the principles of gallantry and prompted them to brave actions; that though 
it might be true that the mention of illegitimacy might attend the name, 
yet that personal virtue placed a man of honour above the reproach of his 
birth; that as he had no share in the offence, he would have no concern at 
the blot; when having by his own merit placed himself out of the reach of 
scandal, his fame should drown the memory of his beginning.
That as it was usual for men of quality to make such little escapes, so the 
number of their natural children were so great, and they generally took 
such good care of their education, that some of the greatest men in the 
world had a bend in their coat of arms, and that it was of no consequence 
to them, especially when their fame began to rise upon the basis of their 
acquired merit. And upon this he began to reckon up to me some of the 
greatest families in France, and in England also.
This carried off our discourse for a time; but I went further with him 
once, removing the discourse from the part attending our children to the 
reproach which those children would be apt to throw upon us their 
originals; and when speaking a little too feelingly on the subject, he 
began to receive the impression a little deeper than I wished he had done. 
At last he told me I had almost acted the confessor to him, that I might 
perhaps preach a more dangerous doctrine to him than we should either of us 
like, or than I was aware of. 'For, my dear,' says he, 'if once we come to 
talk of repentance, we must talk of parting.'
If tears were in my eyes before, they flowed too fast now to be restrained, 
and I gave him but too much satisfaction by my looks that I had yet no 
reflections upon my mind strong enough to go that length, and that I could 
no more think of parting than he could.
He said a great many kind things which were great, like himself, and, 
extenuating our crime, intimated to me that he could no more part with me 
than I could with him. So we both, as I may say, even against our light and 
against our conviction, concluded to sin on; indeed, his affection to the 
child was one great tie to him, for he was extremely fond of it.
This child lived to be a considerable man. He was first an officer of the 
Garde du Corps of France, and afterwards colonel of a regiment of dragoons 
in Italy, and on many extraordinary occasions showed that he was not 
unworthy such a father, but many ways deserving a legitimate birth and a 
better mother. Of which hereafter.
I think I may say now that I lived indeed like a queen, or if you will have 
me confess that my condition had still the reproach of a whore, I may say, 
I was sure, the queen of whores; for no woman was ever more valued or more 
caressed by a person of such quality, only in the station of a mistress. I 
had indeed one deficiency which women in such circumstances seldom are 
chargeable with, namely, I craved nothing of him. I never asked him for 
anything in my life, nor suffered myself to be made use of, as is too much 
the custom of mistresses, to ask favours for others. His bounty always 
prevented me in the first, and my strict concealing myself in the last, 
which was no less to my convenience than his.
The only favour I ever asked of him was for his gentleman, whom he had all 
along entrusted with the secret of our affair, and who had once so much 
offended him by some omissions in his duty, that he found it very hard to 
make his peace. He came and laid his case before my woman Amy and begged 
her to speak to me, to intercede for him, which I did, and on my account he 
was received again and pardoned; for which, the grateful dog requited me by 
getting to bed to his benefactress Amy. At which I was very angry, but Amy 
generously acknowledged that it was her fault as much as his, that she 
loved the fellow so much that she believed if he had not asked her, she 
should have asked him; I say this pacified me, and I only obtained of her 
that she should not let him know that I knew it.
I might have interspersed this part of my story with a great many pleasant 
parts and discourses which happened between my maid Amy and I, but I omit 
them on account of my own story, which has been so extraordinary. However, 
I must mention something as to Amy and her gentleman. I enquired of Amy 
upon what terms they IOO came to be so intimate, but Amy seemed backward to 
explain herself. I did not care to press her upon a question of that 
nature, knowing that she might have answered my question with a question 
and have said, Why, how did I and the Prince come to be so intimate? So I 
left off further enquiring into it, till after some time she told it me all 
freely of her own accord; which, to cut it short, amounted to no more than 
this, that like mistress, like maid. As they had many leisure hours 
together below while they waited respectively when my lord and I were 
together above, I say they could hardly avoid the usual question one to 
another, namely, Why might not they do the same thing below that we did 
above?
On that account indeed, as I said above, I could not find in my heart to be 
angry with Amy. I was indeed afraid the girl would have been with child 
too, but that did not happen, and so there was no hurt done; for Amy had 
been hanselled before as well as her mistress, and by the same party too, 
as you have heard.
After I was up again and my child provided with a good nurse, and, withal, 
winter coming on, it was proper to think of coming to Paris again, which I 
did. But as I had now a coach and horses, and some servants to attend me, 
by my lord's allowance, I took the liberty to have them come to Paris 
sometimes, and so to take a tour into the Garden of the Tuileries and the 
other pleasant places of the city. It happened one day that my Prince (if I 
may call him so) had a mind to give me some diversion and to take the air 
with me, but that he might do it and not be publicly known, he comes to me 
in a coach of the Count de --, a great officer of the Court, attended by 
his liveries also; so that, in a word, it was impossible to guess by the 
equipage who I was or whom I belonged to. Also, that I might be the more 
effectually concealed, he ordered me to be taken up at a mantua-maker's 
house, where he sometimes came, whether upon other amours or not was no 
business of mine to enquire. I knew nothing whither he intended to carry 
me, but when he was in the coach with me, he told me he had ordered his 
servants to go to Court with me, and he would show me some of the beau-
monde. I told him I cared not where I went while I had the honour to have 
him with me. So he carried me to the fine palace of Meudon, where the 
Dauphin then was, and where he had some particular intimacy with one of the 
Dauphin's domestics, who procured a retreat for me in his lodgings while we 
stayed there, which was three or four days.
While I was there the King happened to come thither from Versailles, and, 
making but a short stay, visited madam the Dauphiness, who was then living. 
The Prince was here incognito only because of his being with me, and 
therefore when he heard that the King was in the Gardens he kept close 
within the lodgings; but the gentleman in whose lodgings we were, with his 
lady and several others, went out to see the King, and I had the honour to 
be asked to go with them.
After we had seen the King, who did not stay long in the Gardens, we walked 
up the broad terrace and, crossing the hall towards the great staircase, I 
had a sight which confounded me at once, as I doubt not it would have done 
to any woman in the world. The Horse Guards, or what they call there the 
Gendarmes, had upon some occasion been either upon duty or been reviewed, 
or something (I did not understand that part) was the matter that 
occasioned their being there, I know not what; but walking in the guard-
chamber, and with his jack-boots on and the whole habit of the troop as it 
is worn when our Horse Guards are upon duty, as they call it, at St. 
James's Park, I say, there, to my inexpressible confusion, I saw Mr. --, my 
first husband, the brewer.
I could not be deceived. I passed so near him that I almost brushed him 
with my clothes, and looked him full in the face, but having my fan before 
my face so that he could not know me. However, I knew him perfectly well, 
and I heard him speak, which was a second way of knowing him. Besides 
being, you may be sure, astonished and surprised at such a sight, I turned 
about after I had passed him some steps, and pretending to ask the lady 
that was with me some questions, I stood as if I had viewed the great hall, 
the outer guard-chamber, and some other things; but I did it to take a full 
view of his dress, that I might further inform myself.
While I stood thus amusing the lady that was with me with questions, he 
walked, talking with another man of the same cloth, back again, just by me; 
and to my particular satisfaction, or dissatisfaction, take it which way 
you will, I heard him speak English, the other being, it seems, an 
Englishman.
I then asked the lady some other questions. 'Pray, madam,' says I, 'what 
are these troopers here? Are they the King's Guards?' 'No,' says she, 'they 
are the Gendarmes; a small detachment of them, I suppose, attended the King 
today, but they are not His Majesty's ordinary guard.' Another lady that 
was with her said, 'No, madam, it seems that is not the case, for I heard 
them saying the Gendarmes were here today by special order, some of them 
being to march towards the Rhine, and these attend for orders, but they go 
back tomorrow to Orleans where they are expected.'
This satisfied me in part, but I found means after this to enquire whose 
particular troop it was that the gentlemen that were here belonged to, and 
with that I heard they would all be at Paris the week after.
Two days after this we returned for Paris, when I took occasion to speak to 
my lord that I heard the Gendarmes were to be in the city the next week, 
and that I should be charmed with seeing them march if they came in a body. 
He was so obliging in such things, that I need but just name a thing of 
that kind and it was done; so he ordered his gentleman (I should now call 
him Amy's gentleman) to get me a place in a certain house, where I might 
see them march.
As he did not appear with me on this occasion, so I had the liberty of 
taking my woman Amy with me, and stood where we were very well accommodated 
for the observation which I was to make. I told Amy what I had seen, and 
she was as forward to make the discovery as I was to have her, and almost 
as much surprised at the thing itself. In a word, the Gendarmes entered the 
city, as was expected, and made a most glorious show indeed, being new 
clothed and armed, and being to have their standards blessed by the 
Archbishop of Paris. On this occasion they indeed looked very gay, and as 
they marched very leisurely I had time to take as critical a view and make 
as nice a search among them as I pleased. Here, in a particular rank 
eminent for one monstrous-sized man on the right, here, I say, I saw my 
gentleman again, and a very handsome jolly fellow he was as any in the 
troop, though not so monstrous large as that great one I spoke of, who it 
seems was, however, a gentleman of a good family in Gascony, and was called 
the Giant of Gascony.
It was a kind of good fortune to us, among the other circumstances of it, 
that something caused the troops to halt in their march a little before 
that particular rank came right against that window which I stood in, so 
that then we had occasion to take our full view of him at a small distance, 
and so as not to doubt of his being the same person.
Amy, who thought she might on many accounts venture with more safety to be 
particular than I could, asked her gentleman how a particular man whom she 
saw there among the Gendarmes might be enquired after and found out, she 
having seen an Englishman riding there which was supposed to be dead in 
England for several years before she came out of London, and that his wife 
had married again. It was a question the gentleman did not well understand 
how to answer, but another person that stood by told her, if she would tell 
him the gentleman's name, he would endeavour to find him out for her, and 
asked jestingly if he was her lover. Amy put that off with a laugh but 
still continued her enquiry, and in such a manner as the gentleman easily 
perceived she was in earnest; so he left bantering and asked her in what 
part of the troop he rode. She foolishly told him his name, which she 
should not have done, and pointing to the cornet that troop carried, which 
was not then quite out of sight, she let him easily know whereabouts he 
rode, only she could not name the captain. However, he gave her such 
directions afterwards that, in short, Amy, who was an indefatigable girl, 
found him out. It seems he had not changed his name, not supposing any 
enquiry would be made after him here; but I say Amy found him out and went 
boldly to his quarters, asked for him, and he came out to her immediately.
I believe I was not more confounded at my first seeing him at Meudon than 
he was at seeing Amy. He started, and turned pale as death; Amy believed if 
he had seen her at first in any convenient place for so villainous a 
purpose, he would have murdered her.
But he started, as I say above, and asked in English, with an admiration, 
'What are you?' 'Sir,' says she, 'don't you know me?' 'Yes,' says he, 'I 
knew you when you were alive, but what you are now, whether ghost or 
substance, I know not.' 'Be not afraid, sir, of that,' says Amy, 'I am the 
same Amy that I was in your service, and do not speak to you now for any 
hurt, but that I saw you accidentally, yesterday, ride among the soldiers, 
I thought you might be glad to hear from your friends at London.' 'Well, 
Amy,' says he then, having a little recovered himself, 'how does everybody 
do? What, is your mistress here?' Thus they began: - 
Amy. 'My mistress, sir, alas! not the mistress you mean; poor gentlewoman, 
you left her in a sad condition.'
Gent. 'Why, that's true, Amy, but it could not be helped. I was in a sad 
condition myself.'
Amy. 'I believe so indeed, sir, or else you had not gone away as you did; 
for it was a very terrible condition you left them all in, that I must 
say.'
Gent. 'What did they do after I was gone?'
Amy. 'Do, sir! very miserably, you may be sure. How could it be otherwise?'
Gent. 'Well, that's true indeed, but you may tell me, Amy, what became of 
them, if you please; for though I went so away, it was not because I did 
not love them all very well, but because I could not bear to see the 
poverty that was coming upon them and which it was not in my power to help. 
What could I do?'
Amy. 'Nay, I believe so indeed, and I have heard my mistress say many times 
she did not doubt but your affliction was as great as hers almost, wherever 
you were.'
Gent. 'Why, did she believe I was alive, then?'
Amy. 'Yes, sir, she always said she believed you were alive, because she 
thought she should have heard something of you if you had been dead.'
Gent. 'Ay, ay, my perplexity was very great indeed, or else I had never 
gone away.'
Amy. 'It was very cruel, though, to the poor lady, sir, my mistress. She 
almost broke her heart for you at first, for fear of what might befall you, 
and at last because she could not hear from you.'
Gent. 'Alas! Amy, what could I do? things were driven to the last extremity 
before I went. I could have done nothing but help starve them all if I had 
stayed, and besides, I could not bear to see it.'
Amy. 'You know, sir, I can say little to what passed before, but I am a 
melancholy witness to the sad distresses of my poor mistress as long as I 
stayed with her, and which would grieve your heart to hear them.'
Here she tells my whole story to the time that the parish took off one of 
my children, and which she perceived very much affected him, and he shook 
his head and said some things very bitter when he heard of the cruelty of 
his own relations to me.
Gent. 'Well, Amy, I have heard enough so far; what did she do afterwards?'
Amy. 'I can't give you any further account, sir; my mistress would not let 
me stay with her any longer, she said she could neither pay me nor subsist 
me. I told her I would serve her without any wages; but I could not live 
without victuals, you know, so I was forced to leave her, poor lady, sore 
against my will, and I heard afterwards that the landlord seized her goods. 
So she was, I suppose, turned out of doors, for as I went by the door about 
a month after I saw the house shut up, and about a fortnight after that I 
found there were workmen at work fitting it up, as I suppose, for a new 
tenant. But none of the neighbours could tell me what was become of my poor 
mistress, only that they said she was so poor that it was next to begging; 
that some of the neighbouring gentlefolks had relieved her or that else she 
must have starved.' Then she went on and told him that after that they 
never heard any more of (me) her mistress, but that she had been seen once 
or twice in the city, very shabby and poor in clothes, and it was thought 
she worked with her needle for her bread. All this the jade said with so 
much cunning, and managed and humoured it so well, and wiped her eyes and 
cried so artificially, that he took it all as it was intended he should, 
and once or twice she saw tears in his eyes too. He told her it was a 
moving, melancholy story and it had almost broken his heart at first, but 
that he was driven to the last extremity and could do nothing but stay and 
see them all starve, which he could not bear the thoughts of, but should 
have pistoled himself if any such thing had happened while he was there. 
That he left (me) his wife all the money he had in the world but £25, which 
was as little as he could take with him to seek his fortune in the world; 
he could not doubt but that his relations, seeing they were all rich, would 
have taken the poor children off and not let them come to the parish; and 
that his wife was young and handsome and, he thought, might marry again, 
perhaps to her advantage, and for that very reason he never wrote to her or 
let her know he was alive, that she might in a reasonable term of years 
marry, and perhaps mend her fortunes. That he resolved never to claim her, 
because he should rejoice to hear that she had settled to her mind, and 
that he wished there had been a law made to empower a woman to marry if her 
husband was not heard of in so long time, which time he thought should not 
be above four years, which was long enough to send word in to a wife or 
family from any part of the world.
Amy said she could say nothing to that but this, that she was satisfied her 
mistress would marry nobody unless she had certain intelligence that he had 
been dead from somebody that saw him buried. 'But, alas!' says Amy, 'my 
mistress was reduced to such dismal circumstances that nobody would be so 
foolish to think of her unless it had been somebody to go a-begging with 
her.'
Amy then, seeing him so perfectly deluded, made a long and lamentable 
outcry, how she had been deluded away to marry a poor footman. 'For he is 
no worse or better,' says she, 'though he calls himself a lord's gentleman; 
and here,' says Amy,
he has dragged me over into a strange country to make a beggar of me.' And 
then she falls a-howling again and snivelling, which, by the way, was all 
hypocrisy, but acted so to the life as perfectly deceived him, and he gave 
entire credit to every word of it.
'Why, Amy,' says he, 'you are very well dressed, you don't look as if you 
were in danger of being a beggar.' 'Ay, hang him,' says Amy, 'they love to 
have fine clothes here if they have never a smock under them, but I love to 
have money in cash rather than a chest full of fine clothes; besides, sir,' 
says she, 'most of the clothes I have were given me in the last place I had 
when I went away from my mistress.'
Upon the whole of the discourse Amy got out of him what condition he was in 
and how he lived, upon her promise to him that if ever she came to England 
and should see her old mistress she should not let her know that he was 
alive. 'Alas! sir,' says Amy, 'I may never come to see England again as 
long as I live, and if I should, it would be ten thousand to one whether I 
shall see my old mistress; for how should I know which way to look for her, 
or what part of England she may be in? Not I,' says she, 'I don't so much 
as know how to enquire for her; and if I should,' says Amy, 'ever be so 
happy as to see her, I would not do her so much mischief as to tell her 
where you were, sir, unless she was in a condition to help herself and you 
too.' This further deluded him, and made him entirely open in his 
conversing with her. As to his own circumstances, he told her she saw him 
in the highest preferment he had arrived to or was ever like to arrive to, 
for having no friends or acquaintances in France, and which was worse, no 
money, he never expected to rise; that he could have been made a lieutenant 
to a troop of light horse but the week before, by the favour of an officer 
in the Gendarmes who was his friend, but that he must have found 8000 
livres to have paid for it to the gentleman who possessed it and had leave 
given him to sell. 'But where could I get 8000 livres,' says he, 'that have 
never been master of 500 livres ready money at a time since I came into 
France?'
'Oh dear! sir,' says Amy, 'I am very sorry to hear you say so. I fancy if 
you once got up to some preferment you would think of my old mistress again 
and do something for her. Poor lady,' says Amy, 'she wants it, to be sure.' 
And then she falls a-crying again. ''Tis a sad thing indeed,' says she, 
'that you should be so hard put to it for money when you had got a friend 
to recommend you, and should lose it for want of money.' 'Ay, so it was, 
Amy, indeed,' says he; 'but what can a stranger do that has neither money 
nor friends?' Here Amy puts in again on my account. 'Well,' says she, 'my 
poor mistress has had the loss, though she knows nothing of it. Oh dear! 
how happy it would have been, to be sure, sir, you would have helped her 
all you could.' 'Ay,' says he, 'Amy, so I would, with all my heart, and 
even as I am I would send her some relief if I thought she wanted it; only 
that then letting her know I was alive might
III
do her some prejudice in case of her settling, or marrying anybody.'
'Alas!' says Amy. 'Marry! who will marry her in the poor condition she is 
in?' And so their discourse ended for that time.
All this was mere talk on both sides, and words of course, for on further 
enquiry Amy found that he had no such offer of a lieutenant's commission or 
anything like it, and that he rambled in his discourse from one thing to 
another. But of that in its place.
You may be sure that this discourse as Amy at first related it was moving 
to the last degree upon me, and I was once going to have sent him the 8000 
livres to purchase the commission he had spoken of, but as I knew his 
character better than anybody, I was willing to search a little further 
into it; and so I sent Amy to enquire of some other of the troop to see 
what character he had, and whether there was anything in the story of a 
lieutenant's commission or no.
But Amy soon came to a better understanding of him, for she presently 
learnt that he had a most scoundrelly character, that there was nothing of 
weight in anything he said, but that he was, in short, a mere sharper, one 
that would stick at nothing to get money, and that there was no depending 
on anything he said; and that, more especially about the lieutenant's 
commission, she understood that there was nothing at all in it, but they 
told her how he had often made use of that sham to borrow money, and move 
gentlemen to pity him and lend him money in hopes to get him preferment; 
that he had reported that he had a wife and five children in England whom 
he maintained out of his pay, and by these shifts had run into debt in 
several places, and upon several complaints for such things he had been 
threatened to be turned out of the Gendarmes; and that, in short, he was 
not to be believed in anything he said, or trusted on any account.
Upon this information Amy began to cool in her further meddling with him, 
and told me it was not safe for me to attempt doing him any good, unless I 
resolved to put him upon suspicions and enquiries, which might be to my 
ruin in the condition I was now in.
I was soon confirmed in this part of his character, for the next time that 
Amy came to talk with him he discovered himself more effectually; for while 
she had put him in hopes of procuring one to advance the money for the 
lieutenant's commission for him upon easy conditions, he by degrees dropped 
the discourse, then pretended it was too late and that he could not get it, 
and then descended to ask poor Amy to lend him 500 pistoles.
Amy pretended poverty, that her circumstances were but mean, and that she 
could not raise such a sum; and this she did to try him to the utmost. He 
descended to 300, then to 100, then to 50, and then to a pistole, which she 
lent him; and he, never intending to pay it, played out of her sight as 
much as he could. And thus being satisfied that he was the same worthless 
thing he had ever been, I threw off all thoughts of him; whereas had he 
been a man of any sense and of any principle of honour, I had it in my 
thoughts to retire to England again, send over for him, and have lived 
honestly with him. But as a fool is the worst of husbands to do a woman 
good, so a fool is the worst husband a woman can do good to. I would 
willingly have done him good, but he was not qualified to receive it or 
make the best use of it. Had I sent him 10,000 crowns instead of 8000 
livres, and sent it with the express condition that he should immediately 
have bought himself the commission he talked of with part of the money, and 
have sent some of it to relieve the necessities of his poor miserable wife 
at London and to prevent his children to be kept by the parish, it was 
evident he would have been still but a private trooper, and his wife and 
children should still have starved at London or been kept of mere charity, 
as, for aught he knew, they then were.
Seeing therefore no remedy, I was obliged to withdraw my hand from him that 
had been my first destroyer, and reserve the assistance that I intended to 
have given him for another more desirable opportunity. All that I had now 
to do was to keep myself out of his sight, which was not very difficult for 
me to do considering in what station he lived.
Amy and I had several consultations then upon the main question, namely, 
how to be sure never to chop upon him again by chance and so be surprised 
into a discovery, which would have been a fatal discovery indeed. Amy 
proposed that we should take care always to know where the Gendarmes were 
quartered, and thereby effectually avoid them; and this was one way.
But this was not so as to be fully to my satisfaction. No ordinary ways of 
enquiring where the Gendarmes were quartered were sufficient to me, but I 
found out a fellow who was completely qualified for the work of a spy (for 
France has plenty of such people). This man I employed to be a constant and 
particular attendant upon his person and motions, and he was especially 
employed and ordered to haunt him as a ghost, that he should scarce let him 
be ever out of his sight. He performed this to a nicety, and failed not to 
give me a perfect journal of all his motions from day to day; and, whether 
for his pleasures or his business, was always at his heels.
This was somewhat expensive, and such a fellow merited to be well paid; but 
he did his business so exquisitely punctual, that this poor man scarce went 
out of the house without my knowing the way he went, the company he kept, 
when he went abroad, and when he stayed at home.
By this extraordinary conduct I made myself safe, and so went out in public 
or stayed at home, as I found he was or was not in a possibility of being 
at Paris, at Versailles, or any place I had occasion to be at. This, though 
it was very chargeable, yet as I found it absolutely necessary, so I took 
no thought about the expense of it, for I knew I could not purchase my 
safety too dear.
By this management I found an opportunity to see what a most insignificant, 
unthinking life the poor indolent wretch, who by his unactive temper had at 
first been my ruin, now lived; how he only rose in the morning to go to bed 
at night; that saving the necessary motion of the troops, which he was 
obliged to attend, he was a mere motionless animal, of no consequence in 
the world; that he seemed to be one who, though he was indeed alive, had no 
manner of business in life but to stay to be called out of it. He neither 
kept any company, minded any sport, played at any game, nor indeed did 
anything of moment, but, in short, sauntered about like one that it was not 
two livres' value whether he was dead or alive; that when he was gone would 
leave no remembrance behind him that ever he was here; that if he ever did 
anything in the world to be talked of, it was only to get five beggars and 
starve his wife. The journal of his life, which I had constantly sent me 
every week, was the least significant of anything of its kind that was ever 
seen. As it had really nothing of earnest in it, so it would make no jest 
to relate it; it was not important enough so much as to make the reader 
merry withal, and for that reason I omit it.
Yet this nothing-doing wretch I was obliged to watch and guard against, as 
against the only thing that was capable of doing me hurt in the world. I 
was to shun him as we would shun a spectre, or even the devil if he was 
actually in our way, and it cost me after the rate of 150 livres a month, 
and very cheap too, to have this creature constantly kept in view. That is 
to say, my spy undertook never to let him be out of his sight an hour but 
so as that he could give an account of him; which was much the easier to be 
done, considering his way of living, for he was sure that for whole weeks 
together he would be ten hours of the day half asleep on a bench at the 
tavern door where he quartered, or drunk within the house.
Though this wicked life he led sometimes moved me to pity him and to wonder 
how so well-bred, gentlemanly a man as he once was could degenerate into 
such a useless thing as he now appeared, yet at the same time it gave me 
most contemptible thoughts of him, and made me often say I was a warning 
for all the ladies of Europe against marrying of fools. A man of sense 
falls in the world and gets up again, and a woman has some chance for 
herself; but with a fool, once fall and ever undone, once in the ditch and 
die in the ditch, once poor and sure to starve.
But 'tis time to have done with him. Once I had nothing to hope for but to 
see him again, now my only felicity was if possible never to see him, and 
above all to keep him from seeing me; which, as above, I took effectual 
care of.
I was now returned to Paris. My little son of honour, as I called him, was 
left at --, where my last country seat then was, and I came to Paris at the 
Prince's request. Thither he came to me as soon as I arrived, and told me 
he came to give me joy of my return and to make his acknowledgments for 
that I had given him a son. I thought indeed he had been going to give me a 
present, and so he did the next day, but in what he said then he only 
jested with me. He gave me his company all the evening, supped with me 
about midnight, and did me the honour, as I then called it, to lodge me in 
his arms all the night, telling me in jest that the best thanks for a son 
born was giving the pledge for another.
But as I hinted, so it was. The next morning he laid me down on my toilet a 
purse with 300 pistoles. I saw him lay it down and understood what he 
meant, but I took no notice of it till I came to it (as it were) casually, 
then I gave a great cry out and fell a-scolding in my way, for he gave me 
all possible freedom of speech on such occasions. I told him he was unkind, 
that he would never give me an opportunity to ask him for anything, and 
that he forced me to blush by being too much obliged, and the like; all 
which I knew was very agreeable to him, for as he was bountiful beyond 
measure, so he was infinitely obliged by my being so backward to ask any 
favours; and I was even with him, for I never asked him for a farthing in 
my life.
Upon this rallying him he told me I had either perfectly studied the art of 
humour, or else what was the greatest difficulty to others was natural to 
me, adding that nothing could be more obliging to a man of honour than not 
to be soliciting and craving.
I told him nothing could be craving upon him, that he left no room for it, 
that I hoped he did not give merely to avoid the trouble of being 
importuned; I told him he might depend upon it that I should be reduced 
very low indeed before I offered to disturb him that way.
He said a man of honour ought always to know what he ought to do, and as he 
did nothing but what he knew was reasonable, he gave me leave to be free 
with him if I wanted anything; that he had too much value for me to deny me 
anything if I asked, but that it was infinitely agreeable to him to hear me 
say that what he did was to my satisfaction.
We strained compliments thus a great while, and as he had me in his arms 
most part of the time, so upon all my expressions of his bounty to me he 
put a stop to me with his kisses, and would admit me to go on no further.
I should in this place mention that this Prince was not a subject of 
France, though at that time he resided at Paris and was much at Court, 
where I suppose he had or expected some considerable employment. But I 
mention it on this account that a few days after this he came to me and 
told me he was come to bring me not the most welcome news that ever I heard 
from him in his life. I looked at him a little surprised, but he returned, 
'Do not be uneasy; it is as unpleasant to me as to you, but I came to 
consult with you about it and see if it cannot be made a little easy to us 
both.'
I seemed still more concerned and surprised. At last he said it was that he 
believed he should be obliged to go into Italy, which though otherwise it 
was very agreeable to him, yet his parting with me made it a very dull 
thing but to think of.
I sat mute as one thunderstruck for a good while, and it presently occurred 
to me that I was going to lose him, which indeed I could but ill bear the 
thoughts of, and as he told me I turned pale. 'What's the matter?' said he 
hastily; 'I have surprised you indeed '; and stepping to the sideboard 
fills a dram of cordial water (which was of his own bringing) and comes to 
me. 'Be not surprised,' said she, 'I'll go nowhere without you,' adding 
several other things so kind as nothing could exceed it.
I might indeed turn pale, for I was very much surprised at first, believing 
that this was, as it often happens in such cases, only a project to drop me 
and break off an amour which he had now carried on so long; and a thousand 
thoughts whirled about my head in the few moments while I was kept in 
suspense (for they were but a few) - I say I was indeed surprised, and 
might perhaps look pale, but I was not in any danger of fainting that I 
knew of.
However, it not a little pleased me to see him so concerned and anxious 
about me; but I stopped a little when he put the cordial to my mouth, and 
taking the glass in my hand, I said, 'My lord, your words are infinitely 
more of a cordial to me than this citron, for as nothing can be a greater 
affliction than to lose you, so nothing can be a greater satisfaction than 
the assurance that I shall not have that misfortune.'
He made me sit down and sat down by me, and after saying a thousand kind 
things to me he turns upon me with a smile. 'Why, will you venture yourself 
to Italy with me?' says he. I stopped a while and then answered that I 
wondered he would ask me that question, for I would go anywhere in the 
world, or all over the world, wherever he should desire me and give me the 
felicity of his company.
Then he entered into a long account of the occasion of his journey and how 
the King had engaged him to go, and some other circumstances which are not 
proper to enter into here, it being by no means proper to say anything that 
might lead the reader into the least guess at the person.
But to cut short this part of the story and the history of our journey and 
stay abroad, which would almost fill up a volume of itself, I say we spent 
all that evening in cheerful consultations about the manner of our 
travelling, the equipage and figure he should go in, and in what manner I 
should go. Several ways were proposed but none seemed feasible, till at 
last I told him I thought it would be so troublesome, so expensive, and so 
public that it would be many ways inconvenient to him; and though it was a 
kind of death to me to lose him, yet that rather than so very much perplex 
his affairs I would submit to anything.
At the next visit I filled his head with the same difficulties, and then at 
last came over him with a proposal that I would stay in Paris or where else 
he should direct, and when I heard of his safe arrival would come away by 
myself and place myself as near him as I could.
This gave him no satisfaction at all, nor would he hear any more of it, but 
if I durst venture myself, as he called it, such a journey, he would not 
lose the satisfaction of my company; and as for the expense, that was not 
to be named, neither indeed was there room to name it, for I found that he 
travelled at the King's expense, as well for himself as for all his 
equipage, being upon a piece of secret service of the last importance.
But after several debates between ourselves he came to this resolution, 
viz. that he would travel incognito, and so he should avoid all public 
notice either of himself or of who went with him, and that then he should 
not only carry me with him, but have a perfect leisure of enjoying my 
agreeable company (as he was pleased to call it) all the way.
This was so obliging that nothing could be more, so upon this foot he 
immediately set to work to prepare things for his journey, and by his 
directions so did I too. But now I had a terrible difficulty upon me, and 
which way to get over it I knew not; and that was, in what manner to take 
care of what I had to leave behind me. I was rich, as I have said, very 
rich, and what to do with it I knew not, nor whom to leave in trust I knew 
not. I had nobody but Amy in the world, and to travel without Amy was very 
uncomfortable; or to leave all I had in the world with her, and if she 
miscarried, be ruined at once, was still a frightful thought, for Amy might 
die, and whose hands things might fall into I knew not. This gave me great 
uneasiness and I knew not what to do, for I could not mention it to the 
Prince lest he should see that I was richer than he thought I was.
But the Prince made all this easy for me, for in concerting measures for 
our journey he started the thing himself, and asked me merrily one evening 
whom I would trust with all my wealth in my absence.
'My wealth, my lord,' said I, 'except what I owe to your goodness, is but 
small; but yet that little I have, I confess, causes some thoughtfulness, 
because I have no acquaintance in Paris that I dare trust with it, nor 
anybody but my woman to leave in the house, and how to do without her upon 
the road I do not well know.'
'As to the road, be not concerned,' says the Prince, 'I'll provide you 
servants to your mind; and as for your woman, if you can trust her, leave 
her here, and I'll put you in a way how to secure things as well as if you 
were at home.' I bowed and told him I could not be put into better hands 
than his own, and that therefore I would govern all my measures by his 
directions; so we talked no more of it that night.
The next day he sent me in a great iron chest, so large that it was as much 
as six lusty fellows could get up the steps into the house, and in this I 
put indeed all my wealth. And for Amy's safety he ordered a good, honest 
ancient man and his wife to be in the house with her to keep her company, 
and a maidservant and a boy, so that there was a good family, and Amy was 
madam the mistress of the house.
Things being thus secured, we set out incog. as he called it, but we had 
two coaches and six horses, two chaises, and about eight menservants on 
horseback all very well armed.
Never was woman better used in this world that went upon no other account 
than I did. I had three women servants to wait on me, one whereof was an 
old Madam --, who thoroughly understood her business and managed everything 
as if she had been major-domo, so I had no trouble. They had one coach to 
themselves and the Prince and I in the other, only that sometimes, where he 
knew it necessary, I went into their coach, and one particular gentleman of 
the retinue rode with him.
I shall say no more of the journey than that when we came to those 
frightful mountains the Alps, there was no travelling in our coaches, so he 
ordered a horse litter, but carried by mules, to be provided for me, and 
himself went on horseback. The coaches went some other way back to Lyons; 
then we had coaches hired at Turin which met us at Susa, so that we were 
accommodated again, and went by easy journeys afterwards to Rome, where his 
business whatever it was called him to stay some time, and from thence to 
Venice.
He was as good as his word, indeed, for I had the pleasure of his company 
and, in a word, engrossed his conversation almost all the way. He took 
delight in showing me everything that was to be seen, and particularly in 
telling me something of the history of everything he showed me.
What valuable pains were here thrown away upon one whom he was sure at last 
to abandon with regret! How below himself did a man of quality and of a 
thousand accomplishments behave in all this! 'Tis one of my reasons for 
entering into this part, which otherwise would not be worth relating. Had I 
been a daughter or a wife of whom it might be said that he had a just 
concern in their instruction or improvement, it had been an admirable step, 
but all this to a whore! - to one whom he carried with him upon no account 
that could be rationally agreeable, and none but to gratify the meanest of 
human frailties. This was the wonder of it.
But such is the power of a vicious inclination. Whoring was, in a word, his 
darling crime, the worst excursion he made, for he was otherwise one of the 
most excellent persons in the world. No passions, no furious excursions, no 
ostentatious pride, the most humble, courteous, affable person in the 
world, not an oath, not an indecent word or the least blemish in behaviour 
was to be seen in all his conversation except as before excepted. And it 
has given me occasion for many dark reflections since, to look back and 
think that I should be the snare of such a person's life, that I should 
influence him to so much wickedness, and that I should be the instrument in 
the hand of the devil to do him so much prejudice.
We were near two years upon this Grand Tour, as it may be called, during 
most of which I resided at Rome or at Venice, having only been twice at 
Florence and once at Naples. I made some very diverting and useful 
observations in all these places, and particularly of the conduct of the 
ladies, for I had opportunity to converse very much among them by the help 
of the old witch that travelled with us. She had been at Naples and at 
Venice, and had lived in the former several years, where, as I found, she 
had lived but a loose life, as indeed the women of Naples generally do; 
and, in short, I found she was fully acquainted with all the intriguing 
arts of that part of the world.
Here my lord bought me a little female Turkish slave, who, being taken at 
sea by a Maltese man-of-war, was brought in there, and of her I learnt the 
Turkish language, their way of dressing and dancing, and some Turkish, or 
rather Moorish, songs, of which I made use to my advantage on an 
extraordinary occasion some years after, as you shall hear in its place. I 
need not say I learnt Italian too, for I got pretty well mistress of that 
before I had been there a year, and as I had leisure enough and loved the 
language, I read all the Italian books I could come at.
I began to be so in love with Italy, especially with Naples and Venice, 
that I could have been very well satisfied to have sent for Amy and have 
taken up my residence there for life.
As to Rome, I did not like it at all. The swarms of ecclesiastics of all 
kinds on one side, and the scoundrelly rabbles of the common people on the 
other, make Rome the unpleasantest place in the world to live in. The 
innumerable number of valets, lackeys, and other servants is such that they 
used to say that there are very few of the common people in Rome but what 
have been footmen or porters or grooms to cardinals or foreign ambassadors. 
In a word, they have an air of sharping and cozening, quarrelling and 
scolding, upon their general behaviour, and when I was there the footmen 
made such a broil between two great families in Rome, about which of their 
coaches (the ladies being in the coaches on either side) should give way to 
the other, that there was above thirty people wounded on both sides, flve 
or six killed outright, and both the ladies frighted almost to death.
But I have no mind to write the history of my travels on this side of the 
world, at least not now; it would be too full of variety.
I must not, however, omit that the Prince continued in all this journey the 
most kind, obliging person to me in the world, and so constant, that though 
we were in a country where 'tis well known all manner of liberties are 
taken, I am yet well assured he neither took the liberty he knew he might 
have, nor so much as desired it.
I have often thought of this noble person on that account. Had he been but 
half so true, so faithful and constant to the best lady in the world, I 
mean his Princess, how glorious a virtue had it been in him, and how free 
had he been from those just reflections which touched him in her behalf 
when it was too late.
We had some very agreeable conversations upon this subject, and once he 
told me, with a kind of more than ordinary concern upon his thoughts, that 
he was greatly beholden to me for taking this hazardous and difficult 
journey, for that I had kept him honest. I looked up in his face, and 
coloured as red as fire. 'Well, well,' says he, 'do not let that surprise 
you; I do say you have kept me honest.' 'My lord,' said I, ''tis not for me 
to explain your words, but I wish I could turn 'em my own way. I hope,' 
says I, 'and believe we are both as honest as we can be in our 
circumstances.' 'Ay, ay,' says he, 'and honester than I doubt I should have 
been if you had not been with me. I cannot say but if you had not been here 
I should have wandered among the gay world here in Naples, and in Venice 
too, for 'tis not such a crime here as 'tis in other places; but I 
protest,' says he, 'I have not touched a woman in Italy but yourself, and 
more than that, I have not so much as had any desire to it, so that, I say, 
you have kept me honest.'
I was silent, and was glad that he interrupted me, or kept me from 
speaking, with kissing me, for really I knew not what to say. I was once 
going to say that if his lady the Princess had been with him she would 
doubtless have had the same influence upon his virtue, with infinitely more 
advantage to him, but I considered this might give him offence; and, 
besides, such things might have been dangerous to the circumstances I stood 
in, so it passed off. But I must confess I saw that he was quite another 
man as to women than I understood he had always been before, and it was a 
particular satisfaction to me that I was thereby convinced that what he 
said was true, and that he was, as I may say, all my own.
I was with child again in this journey and lay in at Venice, but was not so 
happy as before. I brought him another son, and a very fine boy it was, but 
it lived not above two months; nor, after the first touches of affection 
(which are usual, I believe, to all mothers) were over, was I sorry the 
child did not live, the necessary difficulties attending it in our 
travelling being considered.
After these several perambulations my lord told me his business began to 
close and we would think of returning to France, which I was very glad of, 
but principally on account of my treasure I had there, which, as you have 
heard, was very considerable. It is true I had letters very frequently from 
my maid Amy, with accounts that everything was very safe, and that was very 
much to my satisfaction. However, as the Prince's negotiations were at an 
end and he was obliged to return, I was very glad to go; so we returned 
from Venice to Turin, and on the way I saw the famous city of Milan. From 
Turin we went over the mountains again, as before, and our coaches met us 
at Pont-a-Voisin, between Chambery and Lyons; and so by easy journeys we 
arrived safely at Paris, having been absent about two years, wanting about 
eleven days, as above.
I found the little family we left just as we left them, and Amy cried for 
joy when she saw me, and I almost did the same.
The Prince took his leave of me the night before, for as he told me, he 
knew he should be met upon the road by several persons of quality, and 
perhaps by the Princess herself. So we lay at two different inns that night 
lest some should come quite to the place, as indeed it happened.
After this I saw him not for above twenty days, being taken up in his 
family and also with business, but he sent me his gentleman to tell me the 
reason of it, and bid me not be uneasy, and that satisfied me effectually.
In all this affluence of my good fortune I did not forget that I had been 
rich and poor once already, alternately, and that I ought to know that the 
circumstances I was now in were not to be expected to last always; that I 
had one child and expected another, and if I bred often it would something 
impair me in the great article that supported my interest, I mean what he 
called beauty; that as that declined I might expect the fire would abate, 
and the warmth with which I was now so caressed would cool, and in time, 
like the other mistresses of great men, I might be dropped again; and that, 
therefore, it was my business to take care that I should fall as softly as 
I could.
I say I did not forget, therefore, to make as good provision for myself as 
if I had had nothing to have subsisted on but what I now gained, whereas I 
had not less than ten thousand pounds, as I said above, which I had 
amassed, or secured rather, out of the ruins of my faithful friend the 
jeweller; and which, he little thinking of what was so near him when he 
went out, told me, though in a kind of a jest, was all my own if he was 
knocked on the head, and which, upon that title, I took care to preserve.
My greatest difficulty now was how to secure my wealth and to keep what I 
had got, for I had greatly added to this wealth by the generous bounty of 
the Prince --, and the more by the private retired manner of living, which 
he rather desired for privacy than parsimony, for he supplied me for a more 
magnificent way of life than I desired if it had been proper.
I shall cut short the history of this prosperous wickedness with telling 
you I brought him a third son within little more than eleven months after 
our return from Italy, that now I lived a little more openly, and went by a 
particular name which he gave me abroad, but which I must omit, viz. the 
Countess de --, and had coaches and servants suitable to the quality he had 
given me the appearance of. And which is more than usually happens in such 
cases, this held eight years from the beginning, during which time, as I 
had been very faithful to him, so I must say, as above, that I believe he 
was so separated to me, that whereas he usually had two or three women 
which he kept privately, he had not in all that time meddled with any of 
them, but that I had so perfectly engrossed him that he dropped them all. 
Not perhaps that he saved much by it, for I was a very chargeable mistress 
to him, that I must acknowledge, but it was all owing to his particular 
affection to me, not to my extravagance; for, as I said, he never gave me 
leave to ask him for anything, but poured in his favours and presents 
faster than I expected, and so fast as I could not have the assurance to 
make the least mention of desiring more.
Nor do I speak this of my own guess - I mean about his constancy to me and 
his quitting all other women - but the old harridan, as I may call her, 
whom he made the guide of our travelling, and who was a strange old 
creature, told me a thousand stories of his gallantry, as she called it, 
and how, as he had no less than three mistresses at one time and, as I 
found, all of her procuring, he had of a sudden dropped them all, and that 
he was entirely lost to both her and them, that they did believe he had 
fallen into some new hands, but she could never hear whom or where till he 
sent for her to go this journey. And then the old hag complimented me upon 
his choice: that she did not wonder I had so engrossed him - so much 
beauty, etc. - and there she stopped.
Upon the whole I found by her what was, you may be sure, to my particular 
satisfaction, viz. that, as above, I had him all my own.
But the highest tide has its ebb, and in all things of this kind there is a 
reflux which sometimes also is more impetuously violent than the first 
aggression. My Prince was a man of a vast fortune, though no sovereign, and 
therefore there was no probability that the expense of keeping a mistress 
could be injurious to him as to his estate. He had also several 
employments, both out of France as well as in it, for, as above, I say he 
was not a subject of France, though he lived in that Court. He had a 
Princess, a wife with whom he had lived several years, and a woman (so the 
voice of fame reported) the most valuable of her sex, of birth equal to him 
if not superior, and of fortune proportionable, but in beauty, wit, and a 
thousand good qualities superior not to most women but even to all her sex; 
and as to her virtue, the character, which was most justly her due, was 
that of not only the best of princesses but even the best of women.
They lived in the utmost harmony, as with such a Princess it was impossible 
to be otherwise. But yet the Princess was not insensible that her lord had 
his foibles, that he did make some excursions, and particularly that he had 
one favourite mistress which sometimes engrossed him more than she (the 
Princess) could wish or be easily satisfied with. However, she was so good, 
so generous, so truly kind a wife, that she never gave him any uneasiness 
on this account, except so much as must arise from his sense of her bearing 
the affront of it with such patience and such a profound respect for him as 
was in itself enough to have reformed him, and did sometimes shock his 
generous mind so as to keep him at home, as I may call it, a great while 
together; and it was not long before I not only perceived it by his 
absence, but really got a knowledge of the reason of it, and once or twice 
he even acknowledged it to me.
It was a point that lay not in me to manage. I made a kind of motion once 
or twice to him to leave me and keep himself to her, as he ought by the 
laws and rites of matrimony to do, and argued the generosity of the 
Princess to him to persuade him; but I was a hypocrite, for had I prevailed 
with him really to be honest, I had lost him, which I could not bear the 
thoughts of; and he might easily see I was not in earnest. One time in 
particular, when I took upon me to talk at this rate, I found when I argued 
so much for the virtue and honour, the birth, and above all the generous 
usage he found in the person of the Princess with respect to his private 
amours, and how it should prevail upon him, etc. - I found it began to 
affect him, and he returned, 'And do you indeed,' says he, 'persuade me to 
leave you? Would you have me think you sincere?' I looked up in his face, 
smiling, 'Not for any other favourite, my lord,' said I, 'that would break 
my heart, but for madam the Princess!' said I; and then I could say no 
more. Tears followed, and I sat silent awhile. 'Well,' said she, 'if ever I 
do leave you it shall be on the virtuous account; it shall be for the 
Princess, I assure you it shall be for no other woman.' 'That's enough, my 
lord,' said I, 'there I ought to submit; and while I am assured it shall be 
for no other mistress, I promise Your Highness I will not repine, or that, 
if I do, it shall be a silent grief, it shall not interrupt your felicity.'
All this while I said I knew not what, and said what I was no more able to 
do than he was able to leave me, which, at that time, he owned he could not 
do, no, not for the Princess herself.
But another turn of affairs determined this matter, for the Princess was 
taken very ill, and in the opinion of all her physicians, very dangerously 
so. In her sickness she desired to speak with her lord and to take her 
leave of him. At this grievous parting she said so many passionate kind 
things to him, lamented that she had left him no children (she had had 
three but they were dead), hinted to him that it was one of the chief 
things which gave her satisfaction in death, as to this world, that she 
should leave him room to have heirs to his family by some princess that 
should supply her place; with all humility, but with a Christian 
earnestness, recommended to him to do justice to such princess, whoever it 
should be, from whom, to be sure, he would expect justice; that is to say, 
to keep to her singly according to the solemnest part of the marriage 
covenant; humbly asked His Highness's pardon if she had any way offended 
him, and appealing to Heaven, before whose tribunal she was to appear, that 
she had never violated her honour or her duty to him, and praying to Jesus 
and the Blessed Virgin for His Highness; - and thus, with the most moving 
and most passionate expressions of her affection to him, took her last 
leave of him and died the next day.
This discourse from a Princess so valuable in herself and so dear to him, 
and the loss of her following so immediately after, made such deep 
impressions on him that he looked back with detestation upon the former 
part of his life, grew melancholy and reserved, changed his society and 
much of the general conduct of his life, resolved on a life regulated most 
strictly by the rules of virtue and piety, and, in a word, was quite 
another man.
The first part of his reformation was a storm upon me, for about ten days 
after the Princess's funeral he sent a message to me by his gentleman, 
intimating, though in very civil terms and with a short preamble or 
introduction, that he desired I would not take it ill that he was obliged 
to let me know that he could see me no more. His gentleman told me a long 
story of the new regulation of life his lord had taken up, and that he had 
been so afflicted for the loss of his Princess, that he thought it would 
either shorten his life or he would retire into some religious house to end 
his days in solitude.
I need not direct anybody to suppose how I received this news. I was indeed 
exceedingly surprised at it, and had much to do to support myself when the 
first part of it was delivered, though the gentleman delivered his errand 
with great respect, and with all the regard to me that he was able and with 
a great deal of ceremony, also telling me how much he was concerned to 
bring me such a message.
But when I heard the particulars of the story at large, and especially that 
of the lady's discourse to the Prince a little before her death, I was 
fully satisfied. I knew very well he had done nothing but what any man must 
do that had a true sense upon him of the justice of the Princess's 
discourse to him, and of the necessity there was of his altering his course 
of life if he intended to be either a Christian or an honest man. I say, 
when I heard this, I was perfectly easy. I confess it was a circumstance 
that it might be reasonably expected should have wrought something also 
upon me. I that had so much to reflect upon more than the Prince, that had 
now no more temptation of poverty or of the powerful motive which Amy used 
with me - namely, comply and live, deny and starve - I say, I that had no 
poverty to introduce vice, but was grown not only well supplied but rich, 
and not only rich but was very rich; in a word, richer than I knew how to 
think of; for the truth of it was that thinking of it sometimes almost 
distracted me for want of knowing how to dispose of it and for fear of 
losing it all again by some cheat or trick, not knowing anybody that I 
could commit the trust of it to.
Besides, I should add at the close of this affair that the Prince did not, 
as I may say, turn me off rudely and with disgust, but with all the decency 
and goodness peculiar to himself and that could consist with a man reformed 
and struck with the sense of his having abused so good a lady as his late 
Princess had been. Nor did he send me away empty, but did everything like 
himself, and in particular ordered his gentleman to pay the rent of the 
house and all the expense of his two sons, and to tell me how they were 
taken care of and where; and also that I might at all times inspect the 
usage they had, and if I disliked anything it should be rectified. And 
having thus finished everything, he retired into Lorraine or somewhere that 
way, where he had an estate, and I never heard of him more, I mean not as a 
mistress.
Now I was at liberty to go to any part of the world and take care of my 
money myself. The first thing that I resolved to do was to go directly to 
England, for there I thought, being among my countryfolks (for I esteemed 
myself an Englishwoman though I was born in France); but there, I say, I 
thought I could better manage things than in France, at least that I would 
be in less danger of being circumvented and deceived. But how to get away 
with such a treasure as I had with me was a difficult point, and what I was 
greatly at a loss about.
There was a Dutch merchant in Paris that was a person of great reputation 
for a man of substance and of honesty, but I had no manner of acquaintance 
with him, nor did I know how to get acquainted with him so as to discover 
my circumstances to him; but at last I employed my maid Amy (such I must be 
allowed to call her, notwithstanding what has been said of her, because she 
was in the place of a maidservant) - I say I employed my maid Amy to go to 
him, and she got a recommendation to him from somebody else, I knew not 
who, so that she got access to him well enough.
But now was my case as bad as before; for when I came to him what could I 
do? I had money and jewels to a vast value, and I might leave all those 
with him. That I might indeed do, and so I might with several other 
merchants in Paris, who would give me bills for it payable at London, but 
then I ran a hazard of my money, and I had nobody at London to send the 
bills to and so to stay till I had an account that they were accepted; for 
I had not one friend in London that I could have recourse to, so that 
indeed I knew not what to do.
In this case I had no remedy but that I must trust somebody, so I sent Amy 
to this Dutch merchant, as I said above. He was a little surprised when Amy 
came to him and talked to him of remitting a sum of about 12,000 pistoles 
to England, and began to think she came to put some cheat upon him; but 
when he found that Amy was but a servant, and that I came to him myself, 
the case was altered presently.
When I came to him myself I presently saw such a plainness in his dealing 
and such honesty in his countenance, that I made no scruple to tell him my 
whole story, viz. that I was a widow, that I had some jewels to dispose of, 
and also some money which I had a mind to send to England and to follow 
there myself, but being but a woman, and having no correspondence in London 
or anywhere else, I knew not what to do or how to secure my effects.
He dealt very candidly with me, but advised me, when he knew my case so 
particularly, to take bills upon Amsterdam and to go that way to England; 
for that I might lodge my treasure in the bank there in the most secure 
manner in the world, and that there he could recommend me to a man who 
perfectly understood jewels and would deal faithfully with me in the 
disposing them.
I thanked him; but scrupled very much the travelling so far in a strange 
country, and especially with such a treasure about me, that whether known 
or concealed, I did not know how to venture with it. Then he told me he 
would try to dispose of them there, that is, at Paris, and convert them 
into money, and so get me bills for the whole; and in a few days he brought 
a Jew to me who pretended to buy the jewels.
As soon as the Jew saw the jewels, I saw my folly, and it was ten thousand 
to one but I had been ruined and perhaps put to death in as cruel a manner 
as possible; and I was put in such a fright by it that I was once upon the 
point of flying for my life, and leaving the jewels and money too in the 
hands of the Dutchman without any bills or anything else. The case was 
thus:
As soon as the Jew saw the jewels he falls a-jabbering in Dutch or 
Portuguese to the merchant, and I could presently perceive that they were 
in some great surprise, both of them. The Jew held up his hands, looked at 
me with some horror, then talked Dutch again, and put himself into a 
thousand shapes, twisting his body and wringing up his face this way and 
that way in his discourse, stamping with his feet and throwing abroad his 
hands, as if he was not in a rage only but in a mere fury; then he would 
turn and give a look at me like the devil; I thought I never saw anything 
so frightful in my life.
At length I put in a word. 'Sir,' says I to the Dutch merchant, 'what is 
all this discourse to my business? What is this gentleman in all these 
passions about? I wish, if he is to treat with me, he would speak, that I 
may understand him; or if you have business of your own between you that is 
to be done first, let me withdraw and I'll come again when you are at 
leisure.'
'No, no, madam,' says the Dutchman very kindly, 'you must not go, all our 
discourse is about you and your jewels, and you shall hear it presently; it 
concerns you very much, I assure you.' 'Concerns me,' says I, 'what can it 
concern me so much as to put this gentleman into such agonies? And what 
makes him give me such devil's looks as he does? Why, he looks as if he 
would devour me.'
The Jew understood me presently, continuing in a kind of rage and speaking 
in French, 'Yes, madam, it does concern you much, very much, very much,' 
repeating the words, shaking his head, and then turning to the Dutchman, 
'Sir,' says he, 'pray tell her what is the case.' 'No,' says the merchant, 
'not yet, let us talk a little further of it by ourselves.' Upon which they 
withdrew into another room, where still they talked very high, but in a 
language I did not understand. I began to be a little surprised at what the 
Jew had said, you may be sure, and eager to know what he meant, and was 
very impatient till the Dutch merchant came back, and that so impatient 
that I called one of his servants to let him know I desired to speak with 
him. When he came in I asked his pardon for being so impatient, but told 
him I could not be easy till he had told me what the meaning of all this 
was. 'Why, madam,' says the Dutch merchant, 'in short, the meaning is what 
I am surprised at too. This man is a Jew and understands jewels perfectly 
well, and that was the reason I sent for him, to dispose of them to him for 
you; but as soon as he saw them he knew the jewels very distinctly, and 
flying out in a passion, as you see he did, told me in short that they were 
the very parcel of jewels which the English jeweller had about him, who was 
robbed going to Versailles (about eight years ago), to show them to the 
Prince de --, and that it was for these very jewels that the poor gentleman 
was murdered. And he is in all this agony to make me ask you how you came 
by them, and he says you ought to be charged with the robbery and murder, 
and put to the question to discover who were the persons that did it, that 
they might be brought to justice.' While he said this the Jew came 
impudently back into the room without calling, which a little surprised me 
again.
The Dutch merchant spoke pretty good English, and he knew that the Jew did 
not understand English at all, so he told me the latter part, when the Jew 
came into the room, in English; at which I smiled, which put the Jew into 
his mad fit again, and shaking his head, and making his devil's faces 
again, he seemed to threaten me for laughing, saying in French this was an 
affair I should have little reason to laugh at, and the like. At this I 
laughed again and flouted him, letting him see that I scorned him, and 
turning to the Dutch merchant, 'Sir,' says I, 'that those jewels were 
belonging to Mr. -- the English jeweller,' naming his name readily, 'in 
that,' says I, 'this person is right, but that I should be questioned how I 
came to have them is a token of his ignorance, which, however, he might 
have managed with a little more good manners till I had told him who I am. 
And both he and you too will be more easy in that part when I should tell 
you that I am the unhappy widow of that Mr. -- who was so barbarously 
murdered going to Versailles, and that he was not robbed of those jewels 
but of others, Mr. --
having left those behind him with me lest he should be robbed. Had I, sir, 
come otherwise by them, I should not have been weak enough to have exposed 
them to sale here, where the thing was done, but have carried them further 
off.'
This was an agreeable surprise to the Dutch merchant, who, being an honest 
man himself, believed everything I said; which indeed, being all really and 
literally true except the deficiency of my marriage, I spoke with such an 
unconcerned easiness, that it might plainly be seen that I had no guilt 
upon me as the Jew suggested.
The Jew was confounded when he heard that I was the jeweller's wife; but as 
I had raised his passion with saying he looked at me with a devil's face, 
he studied mischief in his heart, and answered that should not serve my 
turn; so called the Dutchman out again, when he told him that he resolved 
to prosecute this matter further.
There was one kind chance in this affair which indeed was my deliverance, 
and that was that the fool could not restrain his passion but must let it 
fly to the Dutch merchant, to whom, when they withdrew a second time, as 
above, he told that he would bring a process against me for the murder, and 
that it should cost me dear for using him at that rate; and away he went, 
desiring the Dutch merchant to tell him when I would be there again. Had he 
suspected that the Dutchman would have communicated the particulars to me, 
he would never have been so foolish as to have mentioned that part to him.
But the malice of his thoughts anticipated him, and the Dutch merchant was 
so good as to give me an account of his design, which indeed was wicked 
enough in its nature; but to me it would have been worse than otherwise it 
would to another, for upon examination I could not have proved myself to be 
the wife of the jeweller, so the suspicion might have been carried on with 
the better face; and then I should also have brought all his relations in 
England upon me, who, finding by the proceedings that I was not his wife 
but a mistress, or in English a whore, would immediately have laid claim to 
the jewels, as I had owned them to be his.
This thought immediately rushed into my head as soon as the Dutch merchant 
had told me what wicked things were in the head of that cursed Jew; and the 
villain (for so I must call him) convinced the Dutch merchant that he was 
in earnest by an expression which showed the rest of his design, and that 
was a plot to get the rest of the jewels into his hand.
When first he hinted to the Dutchman that the jewels were such a man's, 
meaning my husband's, he made wonderful explanations on account of their 
having been concealed so long. Where must they have lain? and what was the 
woman that brought them? and that she, meaning me, ought to be immediately 
apprehended and put into the hands of justice; and this was the time that, 
as I said, he made such horrid gestures and looked at me so like a devil.
The merchant hearing him talk at that rate, and seeing him in earnest, said 
to him, 'Hold your tongue a little, this is a thing of consequence; if it 
be so, let you and I go into the next room and consider of it there.' And 
so they withdrew and left me.
Here, as before, I was uneasy and called him out, and having heard how it 
was, gave him that answer, that I was his wife, or widow, which the 
malicious Jew said should not serve my turn. And then it was that the 
Dutchman called him out again; and in this time of his withdrawing the 
merchant, finding as above, that he was really in earnest, counterfeited a 
little to be of his mind and entered into proposals with him for the thing 
itself.
In this they agreed to go to an advocate or counsel for directions how to 
proceed, and to meet again the next day, against which time the merchant 
was to appoint me to come again with the jewels in order to sell them. 
'No,' says the merchant, 'I will go further with her than so; I will desire 
her to leave the jewels with me, to show to another person, in order to get 
the better price for them.' 'That's right,' says the Jew, 'and I'll engage 
she shall never be mistress of them again. They shall either be seized by 
us,' says he, 'in the King's name, or she shall be glad to give them up to 
us to prevent her being put to the torture.'
The merchant said yes to everything he offered, and they agreed to meet the 
next morning about it, and I was to be persuaded to leave the jewels with 
him and come to them the next day at four o'clock in order to make a good 
bargain for them, and on these conditions they parted. But the honest 
Dutchman, filled with indignation at the barbarous design, came directly to 
me and told me the whole story. 'And now, madam,' says he, 'you are to 
consider immediately what you have to do.'
I told him if I was sure to have justice I would not fear all that such a 
rogue could do to me, but how such things were carried on in France I knew 
not. I told him the greatest difficulty would be to prove our marriage, for 
that it was done in England, and in a remote part of England too, and which 
was worse, it would be hard to produce authentic vouchers of it, because we 
were married in private. 'But as to the death of your husband, madam, what 
can be said to that?' said he. 'Nay,' said I, 'what can they say to it? In 
England,' added I, 'if they would offer such an injury to any one, they 
must prove the fact or give just reason for their suspicions. That my 
husband was murdered, that every one knows; but that he was robbed, or of 
what or how much, that none knows, no, not myself; and why was I not 
questioned for it then? I have lived in Paris ever since, lived publicly, 
and no man has had yet the impudence to suggest such a thing of me.'
'I am fully satisfied of that,' says the merchant, 'but as this is a rogue 
who will stick at nothing, what can we say? And who knows what he may 
swear? Suppose he should swear that he knows your husband had those 
particular jewels with him the morning when he went out, and that he showed 
them to him to consider their value and what price he should ask the Prince 
de -- for them.'
'Nay, by the same rule,' said I, 'he may swear that I murdered my husband, 
if he finds it for his turn.' 'That's true,' said she, 'and if he should, I 
do not see what could save you. But,' he added, 'I have found out his more 
immediate design. His design is to have you carried to the Chatelet, that 
the suspicion may appear just, and then to get the jewels out of your hands 
if possible, then at last to drop the prosecution on your consenting to 
quit the jewels to him; and how you will do to avoid this is the question 
which I would have you consider of.'
'My misfortune, sir,' said I, 'is that I have no time to consider, and I 
have no person to consider with or advise about it. I find that innocence 
may be oppressed by such an impudent fellow as this; he that does not value 
a perjury has any man's life at his mercy. But, sir,' said I, 'is the 
justice such here, that while I may be in the hands of the public and under 
prosecution, he may get hold of my effects and get my jewels into his 
hands?'
'I don't know,' says he, 'what may be done in that case; but if not he, if 
the court of justice should get hold of them, I do not know but you may 
find it as difficult to get them out of their hands again, and at least it 
may cost you half as much as they are worth; so I think it would be a much 
better way to prevent their coming at them at all.'
'But what course can I take to do that,' says I, 'now they have got notice 
that I have them? If they get me into their hands they will oblige me to 
produce them, or perhaps sentence me to prison till I do.'
'Nay,' says he, 'as this brute says too, put you to the question, that is, 
to the torture, on pretence of making you confess who were the murderers of 
your husband.'
'Confess!' said I; 'how can I confess what I know nothing of?'
'If they come to have you to the rack,' said he, they will make you confess 
you did it yourself, whether you did it or no, and then you are cast.'
The very word rack frighted me to death almost, and I had no spirit left in 
me. 'Did it myself!' said I; 'that's impossible!'
'No, madam,' says he, ''tis far from impossible; the most innocent people 
in the world have been forced to confess themselves guilty of what they 
never heard of, much less had any hand in.'
'What then must I do?' said I; 'what would you advise me to?'
'Why,' says he, 'I would advise you to be gone. You intended to go away in 
four or five days, and you may as well go in two days; and if you can do 
so, I shall manage it so that he shall not suspect your being gone for 
several days after.' Then he told me how the rogue would have me ordered to 
bring the jewels the next day for sale, and that then he would have me 
apprehended; how he had made the Jew believe he would join with him in his 
design, and that he (the merchant) would get the jewels into his hands. 
'Now,' says the merchant, 'I shall give you bills for the money you 
desired, immediately, and such as shall not fail of being paid. Take your 
jewels with you and go this very evening to St. Germain-en-Laye; I'll send 
a man thither with you, and from thence he shall guide you tomorrow to 
Rouen, where there lies a ship of mine just ready to sail for Rotterdam. 
You shall have your passage in that ship on my account, and I will send 
orders for him to sail as soon as you are on board, and a letter to my 
friend at Rotterdam to entertain and take care of you.'
This was too kind an offer for me, as things stood, not to be accepted and 
be thankful for; and as to going away, I had prepared everything for 
parting, so that I had little to do but to go back, take two or three boxes 
and bundles and such things, and my maid Amy, and be gone.
Then the merchant told me the measures he had resolved to take to delude 
the Jew while I made my escape, which were very well contrived indeed. 
'First,' said she, 'when he comes tomorrow, I shall tell him that I 
proposed to you to leave the jewels with me as we agreed, but that you said 
you would come and bring them in the afternoon, so that we must stay for 
you till four o'clock; but then at that time I will show a letter from you 
as if just come in, wherein you shall excuse your not coming for that some 
company came to visit you and prevented you, but that you desire me to take 
care that the gentleman be ready to buy your jewels, and that you will come 
tomorrow at the same hour without fail.
'When tomorrow is come we shall wait at the time, but you not appearing, I 
shall seem most dissatisfied and wonder what can be the reason; and so we 
shall agree to go the next day to get out a process against you. But the 
next day, in the morning, I'll send to give him notice that you have been 
at my house, but, he not being there, have made another appointment, and 
that I desire to speak with him. When he comes I'll tell him you appear 
perfectly blind as to your danger, and that you appeared much disappointed 
that he did not come, though you could not meet the night before, and 
obliged me to have him here tomorrow at three o'clock. When tomorrow 
comes,' says he, 'you shall send word that you are taken so ill that you 
cannot come out for that day, but that you will not fail the next day; and 
the next day you shall neither come nor send or let us ever hear any more 
of you, for by that time you shall be in Holland, if you please.'
I could not but approve all his measures, seeing they were so well 
contrived and in so friendly a manner for my benefit; and as he seemed to 
be so very sincere, I resolved to put my life in his hands. Immediately I 
went to my lodgings and sent away Amy with such bundles as I had prepared 
for my travelling. I also sent several parcels of my fine furniture to the 
merchant's house to be laid up for me, and bringing the key of the lodgings 
with me, I came back to his house. Here we finished our matters of money, 
and I delivered into his hands 7800 pistoles in bills and money, a copy of 
an assignment on the Town House of Paris for 4000 pistoles at 3 per cent. 
interest, attested, and a procuration for receiving the interest half-
yearly, but the original I kept myself.
I could have trusted all I had with him, for he was perfectly honest and 
had not the least view of doing me any wrong; indeed, after it was so 
apparent that he had, as it were, saved my life, or at least saved me from 
being exposed and ruined - I say, after this, how could I doubt him in 
anything?
When I came to him he had everything ready as I wanted and as he had 
proposed. As to my money, he gave me first of all an accepted bill, payable 
at Rotterdam, for 4000 pistoles, and drawn from Genoa upon a merchant at 
Rotterdam, payable to a merchant at Paris and endorsed by him to my 
merchant. This he assured me would be punctually paid, and so it was, to a 
day; the rest I had in other bills of exchange drawn by himself upon other 
merchants in Holland. Having secured my jewels too, as well as I could, he 
sent me away the same evening in a friend's coach, which he had procured 
for me, to St. Germain, and the next morning to Rouen. He also sent a 
servant of his own on horseback with me, who provided everything for me, 
and who carried his orders to the captain of the ship, which lay about 
three miles below Rouen, in the river, and by his directions I went 
immediately on board. The third day after I was on board the ship went 
away, and we were out at sea the next day after that. And thus I took my 
leave of France and got clear of an ugly business, which, had it gone on, 
might have ruined me and sent me back as naked to England as I was a little 
before I left it.
And now Amy and I were at leisure to look upon the mischiefs that we had 
escaped; and had I had any religion, or any sense of a Supreme Power 
managing, directing, and governing in both causes and events in this world, 
such a case as this would have given anybody room to have been very 
thankful to the Power who had not only put such a treasure into my hand, 
but given me such an escape from the ruin that threatened me; but I had 
none of those things about me. I had indeed a grateful sense upon my mind 
of the generous friendship of my deliverer, the Dutch merchant, by whom I 
was so faithfully served, and by whom, as far as relates to second causes, 
I was preserved from destruction.
I say I had a grateful sense upon my mind of his kindness and faithfulness 
to me, and I resolved to show him some testimony of it as soon as I came to 
the end of my rambles, for I was yet but in a state of uncertainty, and 
sometimes that gave me a little uneasiness too. I had paper indeed for my 
money, and he had showed himself very good to me in conveying me away, as 
above. But I had not seen the end of things yet, for unless the bills were 
paid I might still be a great loser by my Dutchman, and he might perhaps 
have contrived all that affair of the Jew to put me into a fright and get 
me to run away, and that as if it were to save my life; that if the bills 
should be refused I was cheated, with a witness, and the like. But these 
were but surmises, and indeed were perfectly without cause, for the honest 
man acted as honest men always do, with an upright and disinterested 
principle, and with a sincerity not often to be found in the world. What 
gain he made by the exchange was just, and was nothing but what was his due 
and was in the way of his business, but otherwise he made no advantage of 
me at all.
When I passed in the ship between Dover and Calais, and saw beloved England 
once more under my view - England, which I counted my native country, being 
the place I was bred up in, though not born there - a strange kind of joy 
possessed my mind, and I had such a longing desire to be there that I would 
have given the master of the ship twenty pistoles to have stood over and 
set me on shore in the Downs. And when he told me he could not do it, that 
is, that he durst not do it if I would have given him a hundred pistoles, I 
secretly wished that a storm would rise that might drive the ship over to 
the coast of England whether they would or not, that I might be set on 
shore anywhere upon English ground.
This wicked wish had not been out of my thoughts above two or three hours, 
but the master steering away to the north, as was his course to do, we lost 
sight of land on that side and only had the Flemish shore in view on our 
right hand, or, as the seamen call it, the starboard side; and then with 
the loss of the sight the wish for landing in England abated, and I 
considered how foolish it was to wish myself out of the way of my business; 
that if I had been on shore in England, I must go back to Holland on 
account of my bills, which were so considerable, and I having no 
correspondence there, that I could not have managed it without going 
myself. But we had not been out of sight of England many hours before the 
weather began to change; the winds whistled and made a noise, and the 
seamen said to one another that it would blow hard at night. It was then 
about two hours before sunset, and we were passed by Dunkirk and I think 
they said we were in sight of Ostend; but then the wind grew high and the 
sea swelled, and all things looked terrible, especially to us that 
understood nothing but just what we saw before us; in short, night came on, 
and very dark it was, the wind freshened and blew harder and harder, and 
about two hours within night it blew a terrible storm.
I was not quite a stranger to the sea, having come from Rochelle to England 
when I was a child, and gone from London by the River Thames to France 
afterward, as I have said. But I began to be alarmed a little with the 
terrible clamour of the men over my head, for I had never been in a storm, 
and so had never seen the like or heard it; and once, offering to look out 
at the door of the steerage, as they called it, it struck me with such 
horror, the darkness, the fierceness of the wind, the dreadful height of 
the waves, and the hurry the Dutch sailors were in, whose language I did 
not understand one word of, neither when they cursed nor when they prayed - 
I say all these things together filled me with terror, and, in short, I 
began to be very much frighted.
When I was come back into the great cabin, there sat Amy, who was very 
seasick, and I had a little before given her a sup of cordial water to help 
her stomach. When Amy saw me come back and sit down without speaking, for 
so I did, she looked two or three times up at me. At last she came running 
to me. 'Dear madam!' says she, 'what is the matter? What makes you look so 
pale? Why, you ain't well; what is the matter?' I said nothing still, but 
held up my hands two or three times. Amy doubled her importunities. Upon 
that I said no more but, 'Step to the steerage door and look out, as I 
did.' So she went away immediately and looked too, as I had bidden her. But 
the poor girl came back again in the greatest amazement and horror that 
ever I saw any poor creature in, wringing her hands and crying out she was 
undone! she was undone! she should be drowned! they were all lost! Thus she 
ran about the cabin like a mad thing, and as perfectly out of her senses as 
any one in such a case could be supposed to be.
I was frighted myself, but when I saw the girl in such a terrible agony it 
brought me a little to myself, and I began to talk to her and put her in a 
little hope. I told her there was many a ship in a storm that was not cast 
away, and I hoped we should not be drowned; that it was true the storm was 
very dreadful, but I did not see that the seamen were so much concerned as 
we were. And so I talked to her as well as I could, though my heart was 
full enough of it as well as Amy's, and death began to stare in my face, 
ay, and something else too, that is to say, conscience, and my mind was 
very much disturbed, but I had nobody to comfort me.
But Amy being in so much worse a condition, that is to say, so much more 
terrified at the storm than I was, I had something to do to comfort her. 
She was, as I have said, like one distracted, and went raving about the 
cabin crying out she was undone! undone! she should be drowned! and the 
like; and at last the ship giving a jerk, by the force, I suppose, of some 
violent wave, it threw poor Amy quite down, for she was weak enough before 
with being seasick; and as it threw her forward the poor girl struck her 
head against the bulkhead, as the seamen call it, of the cabin, and laid 
her as dead as a stone upon the floor, or deck, that is to say, she was so 
to all appearance.
I cried out for help, but it had been all one to have cried out on the top 
of a mountain where nobody had been within five miles of me; for the seamen 
were so engaged and made so much noise, that nobody heard me or came near 
me. I opened the great cabin door and looked into the steerage to cry for 
help, but there, to increase my fright, were two seamen on their knees at 
prayers, and only one man who steered, and he made a groaning noise too, 
which I took to be saying his prayers, but it seems it was answering to 
those above when they called to him to tell him which way to steer.
Here was no help for me or for poor Amy, and there she lay so still and in 
such a condition, that I did not know whether she was dead or alive. In 
this fright I went to her and lifted her a little way up, setting her on 
the deck with her back to the boards of the bulkhead, and I got a little 
bottle out of my pocket and held it to her nose, and rubbed her temples, 
and what else I could do, but still Amy showed no signs of life, till I 
felt for her pulse but could hardly distinguish her to be alive. However, 
after a great while she began to revive, and in about half an hour she came 
to herself, but remembered nothing at first of what had happened to her for 
a good while more.
When she recovered more fully she asked me where she was. I told her she 
was in the ship yet, but God knows how long it might be. 'Why, madam,' says 
she, 'is not the storm over?' 'No, no,' says I, 'Amy.' 'Why, madam,' says 
she, 'it was calm just now' (meaning when she was in the swooning fit 
occasioned by her fall). 'Calm! Amy,' says I, ''tis far from calm; it may 
be it will be calm by and by, when we are all drowned and gone to heaven.'
'Heaven! madam,' says she, 'what makes you talk so? Heaven! I go to heaven! 
No, no, if I am drowned I am damned! Don't you know what a wicked creature 
I have been? I have been a whore to two men, and have lived a wretched 
abominable life of vice and wickedness for fourteen years. Oh, madam, you 
know it, and God knows it; and now I am to die, to be drowned. Oh! what 
will become of me? I am undone for ever! Ay, madam, for ever! to all 
eternity! Oh, I am lost! I am lost! If I am drowned I am lost for ever!'
All these, you will easily suppose, must be so many stabs into the very 
soul of one in my own case. It immediately occurred to me, 'Poor Amy! what 
art thou that I am not? What hast thou been that I have not been? Nay, I am 
guilty of my own sin and thine too.' Then it came to my remembrance that I 
had not only been the same with Amy, but that I had been the devil's 
instrument to make her wicked; that I had stripped her and prostituted her 
to the very man that I had been naught with myself; that she had but 
followed me. I had been her wicked example, and I had led her into all, and 
that as we had sinned together, now we were likely to sink together.
All this repeated itself to my thoughts at that very moment, and every one 
of Amy's cries sounded thus in my ears. 'I am the wicked cause of it all; I 
have been thy ruin, Amy; I have brought thee to this, and now thou art to 
suffer for the sin I have enticed thee to; and if thou art lost for ever, 
what must I be? what must be my portion?'
It is true this difference was between us, that I said all these things 
within myself, and sighed and mourned inwardly; but Amy, as her temper was 
more violent, spoke aloud and cried and called out aloud like one in an 
agony.
I had but small encouragement to give her, and indeed could say but very 
little, but I got her to compose herself a little and not let any of the 
people of the ship understand what she meant or what she said. But even in 
her greatest composure she continued to express herself with the utmost 
dread and terror on account of the wicked life she had lived, and crying 
out she should be damned and the like, which was very terrible to me who 
knew what condition I was in myself.
Upon these serious considerations I was very penitent too for my former 
sins, and cried out, though softly, two or three times, 'Lord, have mercy 
upon me.' To this I added abundance of resolutions of what a life I would 
live if it should please God but to spare my life but this one time; how I 
would live but a single and a virtuous life, and spend a great deal of what 
I had thus wickedly got in acts of charity and doing good.
Under these dreadful apprehensions I looked back on the life I had led with 
the utmost contempt and abhorrence. I blushed, and wondered at myself how I 
could act thus, how I could divest myself of modesty and honour and 
prostitute myself for gain; and I thought if ever it should please God to 
spare me this one time from death, it would not be possible that I should 
be the same creature
again.
Amy went further. She prayed, she resolved, she vowed to lead a new life if 
God would spare her but this time. It now began to be daylight, for the 
storm held all night long, and it was some comfort to see the light of 
another day, which indeed none of us expected; but the sea went mountains 
high, and the noise of the water was as frightful to us as the sight of the 
waves; nor was any land to be seen, nor did the seamen know whereabout they 
were. At last, to our great joy, they made land, which was in England and 
on the coast of Suffolk; and the ship being in the utmost distress, they 
ran for the shore at all hazards, and with great difficulty got into 
Harwich, where they were safe as to the danger of death. But the ship was 
so full of water and so much damaged, that if they had not laid her on 
shore the same day she would have sunk before night, according to the 
opinion of the seamen, and of the workmen on shore too who were hired to 
assist them in stopping their leaks.
Amy was revived as soon as she heard they had espied land, and went out 
upon the deck, but she soon came in again to me. 'Oh, madam,' says she, 
'there's the land indeed to be seen; it looks like a ridge of clouds, and 
may be all a cloud for aught I know, but if it be land 'tis a great way 
off; and the sea is in such a combustion, we shall all perish before we can 
reach it. 'Tis the dreadfullest sight to look at the waves that ever was 
seen; why, they are as high as mountains, we shall certainly be all 
swallowed up for all the land is so near.'
I had conceived some hope that if they saw land we should be delivered, and 
I told her she did not understand things of that nature; that she might be 
sure if they saw land they would go directly towards it, and would make 
into some harbour. But it was, as Amy said, a frightful distance to it. The 
land looked like clouds, and the sea went as high as mountains, so that no 
hope appeared in the seeing the land, but we were in fear of foundering 
before we could reach it. This made Amy so desponding still; but as the 
wind, which blew from the east or that way, drove us furiously towards the 
land, so when about half an hour after I stepped to the steerage door and 
looked out I saw the land much nearer than Amy represented it, so I went in 
and encouraged Amy again, and indeed was encouraged myself.
In about an hour or something more we saw, to our infinite satisfaction, 
the open harbour of Harwich and the vessel standing directly towards it, 
and in a few minutes more the ship was in smooth water, to our 
inexpressible comfort. And thus I had, though against my will and contrary 
to my true interest, what I wished for, to be driven away to England, 
though it was by a storm.
Nor did this incident do either Amy or me much service; for, the danger 
being over, the fears of death vanished with it, ay, and our fear of what 
was beyond death also. Our sense of the life we had lived went off, and 
with our return to life our wicked taste of life returned, and we were both 
the same as before, if not worse. So certain is it that the repentance 
which is brought about by the mere apprehensions of death wears off as 
those apprehensions wear off, and death-bed repentance, or storm 
repentance, which is much the same, is seldom true.
However, I do not tell you that this was all at once neither. The fright we 
had at sea lasted a little while afterwards, at least the impression was 
not quite blown off as soon as the storm; especially poor Amy, as soon as 
she set her foot on shore, she fell flat upon the ground and kissed it, and 
gave God thanks for her deliverance from the sea; and turning to me when 
she got up, 'I hope, madam,' says she, 'you will never go upon the sea 
again.'
I know not what ailed me, not I; but Amy was much more penitent at sea, and 
much more sensible of her deliverance when she landed and was safe, than I 
was. I was in a kind of stupidity, I know not well what to call it. I had a 
mind full of horror in the time of the storm, and saw death before me as 
plainly as Amy, but my thoughts got no vent as Amy's did. I had a silent 
sullen kind of grief which could not break out either in words or tears, 
and which was, therefore, much the worse to bear.
I had a terror upon me for my wicked past life, and firmly believed I was 
going to the bottom, launching into death, where I was to give an account 
of all my past actions. And in this state, and on that account, I looked 
back upon my wickedness with abhorrence, as I have said above. But I had no 
sense of repentance from the true motive of repentance; I saw nothing of 
the corruption of nature, the sin of my life as an offence against God, as 
a thing odious to the holiness of His being, as abusing His mercy and 
despising His goodness. In short, I had no thorough effectual repentance, 
no sight of my sins in their proper shape, no view of a Redeemer or hope in 
Him. I had only such a repentance as a criminal has at the place of 
execution, who is sorry, not that he has committed the crime, as it is a 
crime, but sorry that he is to be hanged for it.
It is true Amy's repentance wore off too as well as mine, but not so soon. 
However, we were both very grave for a time.
As soon as we could get a boat from the town we went on shore, and 
immediately went to a public-house in the town of Harwich, where we were to 
consider seriously what was to be done, and whether we should go up to 
London or stay till the ship was refitted, which they said would be a 
fortnight, and then go for Holland as we intended and as business required.
Reason directed that I should go to Holland, for there I had all my money 
to receive, and there I had persons of good reputation and character to 
apply to, having letters to them from the honest Dutch merchant at Paris; 
and they might perhaps give me a recommendation again to merchants in 
London, and so I should get acquaintance with some people of figure, which 
was what I loved, whereas now I knew not one creature in the whole city of 
London or anywhere else that I could go and make myself known to. Upon 
these considerations I resolved to go to Holland, whatever came of it.
But Amy cried and trembled and was ready to fall into fits when I did but 
mention going upon the sea again, and begged of me not to go; or, if I 
would go, that I would leave her behind, though I was to send her a-
begging. The people in the inn laughed at her and jested with her, asked 
her if she had any sins to confess that she was ashamed should be heard of, 
and that she was troubled with an evil conscience; told her if she came to 
sea and to be in a storm, if she had lain with her master she would 
certainly tell her mistress of it; and that it was a common thing for poor 
maids to confess all the young men they had lain with. That there was once 
a poor girl that went over with her mistress, whose husband was a --r in -- 
in the city of London, who confessed in the terror of a storm that she had 
lain with her master and all the apprentices so often, and in such and such 
places, and made the poor mistress, when she returned to London, fly at her 
husband and make such a stir as was indeed the ruin of the whole family. 
Amy could bear all that well enough, for though she had indeed lain with 
her master, it was with her mistress's knowledge and consent, and, which 
was worse, was her mistress's own doing. I record it to the reproach of my 
own vice, and to expose the excesses of such wickedness as they deserve to 
be exposed.
I thought Amy's fear would have been over by that time the ship would be 
gotten ready, but I found the girl was rather worse and worse; and when I 
came to the point that we must go on board or lose the passage, Amy was so 
terrified that she fell into fits, so the ship went away without us.
But my going being absolutely necessary, as above, I was obliged to go in 
the packet-boat some time after and leave Amy behind at Harwich, but with 
directions to go to London and stay there, to receive letters and orders 
from me what to do. Now I was become, from a lady of pleasure, a woman of 
business, and of great business, too, I assure you.
I got me a servant at Harwich, to go over with me, who had been at 
Rotterdam, knew the place and spoke the language, which was a great help to 
me, and away I went. I had a very quick passage and pleasant weather, and, 
coming to Rotterdam, soon found out the merchant to whom I was recommended, 
who received me with extraordinary respect; and first he acknowledged the 
accepted bill for 4000 pistoles, which he afterwards paid punctually. Other 
bills that I had also payable at Amsterdam he procured to be received for 
me, and whereas one of the bills for 1200 crowns was protested at 
Amsterdam, he paid it me himself, for the honour of the endorser, as he 
called it, which was my friend the merchant at Paris.
There I entered into a negotiation, by his means, for my jewels, and he 
brought me several jewellers to look on them, and particularly one to value 
them and to tell me what every particular was worth. This was a man who had 
great skill in jewels but did not trade at that time, and he was desired by 
the gentleman that I was with to see that I might not be imposed upon.
All this work took me up near half a year, and by managing my business thus 
myself and having large sums to do with, I became as expert in it as any 
she-merchant of them all. I had credit in the bank for a large sum of 
money, and bills and notes for much more.
After I had been here about three months my maid Amy writes me word that 
she had received a letter from her friend, as she called him - that, by the 
way, was the Prince's gentleman, that had been Amy's extraordinary friend 
indeed, for Amy owned to me he had lain with her a hundred times; that is 
to say, as often as he pleased, and perhaps in the eight years which that 
affair lasted it might be a great deal oftener. This was what she called 
her friend, whom she corresponded with upon this particular subject, and 
among other things sent her this particular news that my extraordinary 
friend, my real husband who rode in the Gendarmes, was dead, that he was 
killed in a rencounter, as they call it, or accidental scuffle among the 
troopers; and so the jade congratulated me upon my being now a real free 
woman. 'And now, madam,' says she at the end of her letter, 'you have 
nothing to do but to come hither and set up a coach and a good equipage, 
and if beauty and a good fortune won't make you a duchess, nothing will.' 
But I had not fixed my measures yet. I had no inclination to be a wife 
again; I had had such bad luck with my first husband, I hated the thoughts 
of it. I found that a wife is treated with indifference, a mistress with a 
strong passion; a wife is looked upon as but an upper servant, a mistress 
is a sovereign; a wife must give up all she has, have every reserve she 
makes for herself be thought hard of, and be upbraided with her very pin-
money, whereas a mistress makes the saying true, that what a man has is 
hers, and what she has is her own; the wife bears a thousand insults and is 
forced to sit still and bear it or part and he undone, a mistress insulted 
helps herself immediately and takes another. These were my wicked arguments 
for whoring, for I never set against them the difference another way, I may 
say, every other way; how that, first, a wife appears boldly and honourably 
with her husband, lives at home and possesses his house, his servants, his 
equipages, and has a right to them all and to call them her own, entertains 
his friends, owns his children, and has the return of duty and affection 
from them, as they are here her own, and claims upon his estate, by the 
custom of England, if he dies and leaves her a widow.
The whore skulks about in lodgings, is visited in the dark, disowned upon 
all occasions before God and man, is maintained indeed for a time, but is 
certainly condemned to be abandoned at last, and left to the miseries of 
fate and her own just disaster. If she has any children her endeavour is to 
get rid of them and not maintain them, and if she lives she is certain to 
see them all hate her and be ashamed of her. While the vice rages and the 
man is in the devil's hand, she has him, and while she has him she makes a 
prey of him; but if he happen to fall sick, if any disaster befall him, the 
cause of all lies upon her, he is sure to lay all his misfortunes at her 
door; and if once he comes to repentance or makes one step towards a 
reformation, he begins with her, leaves her, uses her as she deserves, 
hates her, abhors her, and sees her no more. And that with this never-
failing addition, namely, that the more sincere and unfeigned his 
repentance is, the more earnestly he looks up, and the more effectually he 
looks in, the more his aversion to her increases, and he curses her from 
the bottom of his soul; nay, it must be from a kind of excess of charity if 
he so much as wishes God may forgive her.
The opposite circumstances of a wife and whore are such and so many, and I 
have since seen the difference with such eyes, as I could dwell upon the 
subject a great while, but my business is history. I had a long sense of 
folly yet to run over; perhaps the moral of all my story may bring me back 
again to this part, and if it does I shall speak of it fully.
While I continued in Holland I received several letters from my friend (so 
I had good reason to call him) the merchant in Paris, in which he gave me a 
further account of the conduct of that rogue the Jew, and how he acted 
after I was gone; how impatient he was while the said merchant kept him in 
suspense, expecting me to come again, and how he raged when he found I came 
no more.
It seems, after he found I did not come, he found out by his unwearied 
inquiry where I had lived, and that I had been kept as a mistress by some 
great person, but he could never learn by whom, except that he learnt the 
colour of his livery. In pursuit of this enquiry he guessed at the right 
person, but could not make it out or offer any positive proof of it; but he 
found out the Prince's gentleman, and talked so saucily to him of it that 
the gentleman treated him, as the French call it, au coup de baton; that is 
to say, caned him very severely, as he deserved. And that not satisfying 
him or curing his insolence, he was met late one night upon the Pont Neuf 
in Paris by two men, who, muffling him up in a great cloak, carried him 
into a more private place and cut off both his ears, telling him it was for 
talking impudently of his superiors, adding that he should take care to 
govern his tongue better and behave with more manners, or the next time 
they would cut his tongue out of his head.
This put a check to his sauciness that way, but he comes back to the 
merchant and threatened to begin a process against him for corresponding 
with me and being accessory to the murder of the jeweller, etc.
The merchant found by his discourse that he supposed I was protected by the 
said Prince de --, nay, the rogue said he was sure I was in his lodgings at 
Versailles - for he never had so much as the least intimation of the way I 
was really gone - but that I was there he was certain, and certain that the 
merchant was privy to it. The merchant bade him defiance. However, he gave 
him a great deal of trouble and put him to a great charge, and had like to 
have brought him in for a party to my escape; in which case he would have 
been obliged to have produced me, and that in the penalty of some capital 
sum of money.
But the merchant was too many for him another way; for he brought an 
information against him for a cheat, wherein laying down the whole fact how 
he intended falsely to accuse the widow of the jeweller for the supposed 
murder of her husband, that he did it purely to get the jewels from her, 
and that he offered to bring him (the merchant) in, to be confederate with 
him and to share the jewels between them; proving also his design to get 
the jewels into his hands and then to have dropped the prosecution upon 
condition of my quitting the jewels to him. Upon this charge he got him 
laid by the heels; so he was sent to the Conciergerie, that is to say, to 
Bridewell, and the merchant cleared. He got out of jail in a little while, 
though not without the help of money, and continued teasing the merchant a 
long while; and at last threatening to assassinate and murder him, so the 
merchant, who having buried his wife about two months before was now a 
single man, and not knowing what such a villain might do, thought fit to 
quit Paris, and came away to Holland also.
It is most certain that, speaking of originals, I was the source and spring 
of all that trouble and vexation to this honest gentleman; and as it was 
afterwards in my power to have made him full satisfaction and did not, I 
cannot say but I added ingratitude to all the rest of my follies. But of 
that I shall give a fuller account presently.
I was surprised one morning when, being at the merchant's house whom he had 
recommended me to in Rotterdam, and being busy in his counting-house 
managing my bills and preparing to write a letter to him to Paris, I heard 
a noise of horses at the door; which is not very common in a city where 
everybody passes by water; but he had, it seems, ferried over the Maas from 
Willemstad, and so came to the very door. And I, looking towards the door 
upon hearing the horses, saw a gentleman alight and come in at the gate. I 
knew nothing and expected nothing, to be sure, of the person, but, as I 
say, was surprised, and indeed more than ordinarily surprised, when coming 
nearer to me I saw it was my merchant of Paris, my benefactor, and indeed 
my deliverer.
I confess it was an agreeable surprise to me, and I was exceeding glad to 
see him who was so honourable and so kind to me, and who indeed had saved 
my life. As soon as he saw me he ran to me, took me in his arms and kissed 
me with a freedom that he never offered to take with me before. 'Dear Madam 
--,' says he, 'I am glad to see you safe in this country; if you had stayed 
two days longer in Paris you had been undone.' I was so glad to see him 
that I could not speak for a good while, and I burst out into tears without 
speaking a word for a minute; but I recovered that disorder and said, 'The 
more, sir, is my obligation to you that saved my life '; and added, 'I am 
glad to see you here, that I may consider how to balance an account in 
which I am so much your debtor.'
'You and I will adjust that matter easily,' says he, 'now we are so near 
together. Pray where do you lodge?' says he.
'In a very honest good house,' said I, 'where that gentleman, your friend, 
recommended me,' pointing to the merchant in whose house we then were.
'And where you may lodge too, sir,' says the gentleman, 'if it suits with 
your business and your other conveniency.'
'With all my heart,' says he. 'Then, madam,' adds he, turning to me, 'I 
shall be near you, and have time to tell you a story, which will be very 
long and yet many ways very pleasant to you, how troublesome that devilish 
fellow the Jew has been to me on your account, and what a hellish snare he 
had laid for you if he could have found you.'
'I shall have leisure too, sir,' said I, 'to tell you all my adventures 
since that; which have not been a few, I assure you.'
In short, he took up his lodgings in the same house where I lodged, and the 
room he lay in opened as he was wishing it would, just opposite to my 
lodging-room; so we could almost call out of bed to one another, and I was 
not at all shy of him on that score, for I believed him perfectly honest, 
and so indeed he was; and if he had not, that article was at present no 
part of my concern.
It was not till two or three days, and after his first hurries of business 
were over, that we began to enter into the history of our affairs on every 
side, but when we began it took up all our conversation for almost a 
fortnight. First I gave him a particular account of everything that 
happened material upon my voyage, and how we were driven into Harwich by a 
very terrible storm; how I had left my woman behind me, so frighted with 
the danger she had been in that she durst not venture to set her foot into 
a ship again any more; and that I had not come myself if the bills I had of 
him had not been payable in Holland, but that money, he might see, would 
make a woman go anywhere.
He seemed to laugh at all our womanish fears upon the occasion of the 
storm, telling me it was nothing but what was very ordinary in those seas, 
but that they had harbours on every coast, so near that they were seldom in 
danger of being lost indeed. 'For,' says he, 'if they cannot fetch one 
coast, they can always stand away for another, and run afore it,' as he 
called it, 'for one side or other.' But when I came to tell him what a 
crazy ship it was, and how, even when they got into Harwich and into smooth 
water, they were fain to run the ship on shore or she would have sunk in 
the very harbour. And when I told him that when I looked out at the cabin 
door I saw the Dutchmen, one upon his knees here and another there, at 
their prayers, then indeed he acknowledged I had reason to be alarmed. But 
smiling, he added, 'But you, madam,' says he, 'are so good a lady, and so 
pious, you would but have gone to heaven a little the sooner, the 
difference had not been much to you.'
I confess when he said this it made all the blood turn in my veins, and I 
thought I should have fainted. 'Poor gentleman!' thought I, 'you know 
little of me; what would I give to be really what you really think me to 
be!' He perceived the disorder, but said nothing till I spoke; when, 
shaking my head, 'Oh, sir!' said I, 'death in any shape has some terror in 
it, but in the frightful figure of a storm at sea and a sinking ship it 
comes with a double, a treble, and indeed an inexpressible horror, and if I 
were that saint you think me to be, which, God knows, I am not, 'tis still 
very dismal; I desire to die in a calm if I can.' He said a great many good 
things, and very prettily ordered his discourse between serious reflection 
and compliment; but I had too much guilt to relish it as it was meant, so I 
turned it off to something else and talked of the necessity I had on me to 
come to Holland, but I wished myself safe on shore in England again.
He told me he was glad I had such an obligation upon me to come over into 
Holland, however, but hinted that he was so interested in my welfare, and 
besides had such further designs upon me, that if I had not so happily been 
found in Holland, he was resolved to have gone to England to see me, and 
that it was one of the principal reasons of his leaving Paris.
I told him I was extremely obliged to him for so far interesting himself in 
my affairs, but that I had been so far his debtor before, that I knew not 
how anything could increase the debt; for I owed my life to him already, 
and I could not be in debt for anything more valuable than that
He answered in the most obliging manner possible that he would put it in my 
power to pay that debt, and all the obligations besides that ever he had or 
should be able to lay upon me.
I began to understand him now, and to see plainly that he resolved to make 
love to me. But I would by no means seem to take the hint, and besides I 
knew that he had a wife with him in Paris, and I had, just then at least, 
no gust to any more intriguing. However, he surprised me into a sudden 
notice of the thing a little while after by saying something in his 
discourse that he did, as he said, in his wife's days. I started at that 
word. 'What mean you by that, sir?' said I. 'Have you not a wife at Paris?' 
'No, madam, indeed,' said she, 'my wife died the beginning of September 
last '; which, it seems, was but a little after I came away.
We lived in the same house all this while, and as we lodged not far off of 
one another, opportunities were not wanting of as near an acquaintance as 
we might desire; nor have such opportunities the least agency in vicious 
minds to bring to pass even what they might not intend at first.
However, though he courted so much at a distance, yet his pretensions were 
very honourable; and as I had before found him a most disinterested friend 
and perfectly honest in his dealings, even when I trusted him with all I 
had, so now I found him strictly virtuous; till I made him otherwise 
myself, even almost whether he would or no, as you shall hear.
It was not long after our former discourse when he repeated what he had 
insinuated before, namely, that he had yet a design to lay before me, 
which, if I would agree to his proposals, would more than balance all 
accounts between us. I told him I could not reasonably deny him anything, 
and except one thing, which I hoped and believed he would not think of, I 
should think myself very ungrateful if I did not do everything for him that 
lay in my power.
He told me what he should desire of me would be fully in my power to grant, 
or else he should be very unfriendly to offer it, and still all this while 
he declined making the proposal, as he called it, and so for that time we 
ended our discourse, turning it off to other things. So that, in short, I 
began to think he might have met with some disaster in his business, and 
might have come away from Paris in some discredit, or had had some blow on 
his affairs in general. And as really I had kindness enough to have parted 
with a good sum to have helped him, and was in gratitude bound to have done 
so, he having so effectually saved to me all I had, so I resolved to make 
him the offer the first time I had an opportunity, which two or three days 
after offered itself, very much to my satisfaction.
He had told me at large, though on several occasions, the treatment he had 
met with from the Jew, and what expense he had put him to; how at length he 
had cast him, as above, and had recovered good damages of him, but that the 
rogue was unable to make him any considerable reparation. He had told me 
also how the Prince de --'s gentleman had resented his treatment of his 
master, and how he had caused him to be used upon the Pont Neuf, etc., as I 
have mentioned above, which I laughed at most heartily.
'It is a pity,' said I, 'that I should sit here and make that gentleman no 
amends. If you would direct me, sir,' said I, 'how to do it, I would make 
him a handsome present, and acknowledge the justice he had done to me as 
well as to the Prince his master.' He said he would do what I directed in 
it, so I told him I would send him 500 crowns. 'That's too much,' said she, 
'for you are but half interested in the usage of the Jew; it was on his 
master's account he corrected him, not on yours.' Well, however, we were 
obliged to do nothing in it, for neither of us knew how to direct a letter 
to him nor to direct anybody to him; so I told him I would leave it till I 
came to England, for that my woman Amy corresponded with him and that he 
had made love to her.
'Well, but, sir,' said I, 'as in requital for his generous concern of me I 
am careful to think of him; it is but just that what expense you have been 
obliged to be at, which was all on my account, should be repaid you; and 
therefore,' said I, 'let me see--' And there I paused, and began to reckon 
up what I had observed from his own discourse it had cost him in the 
several disputes and hearings which he had with that dog of a Jew, and I 
cast them up at something above 2130 crowns; so I pulled out some bills 
which I had upon a merchant in Amsterdam and a particular account in bank, 
and was looking on them in order to give them to him.
When he, seeing evidently what I was going about, interrupted me with some 
warmth, and told me he would have nothing of me on that account, and 
desired I would not pull out my bills and papers on that score; that he had 
not told me the story on that account or with any such view; that it had 
been his misfortune first to bring that ugly rogue to me, which though it 
was with a good design, yet he would punish himself with the expense he had 
been at for his being so unlucky to me; that I could not think so hard of 
him as to suppose he would take money of me, a widow, for serving me and 
doing acts of kindness to me in a strange country, and in distress too. But 
he said he would repeat what he had said before that he kept me for a 
deeper reckoning, and that, as he had told me, he would put me into a 
posture to even all that favour, as I called it, at once, so we should talk 
it over another time and balance all together.
Now I expected it would come out, but still he put it off as before, from 
whence I concluded it could not be a matter of love, for that those things 
are not usually delayed in such a manner, and therefore it must be a matter 
of money. Upon which thought I broke the silence and told him that as he 
knew I had, by obligation, more kindness for him than to deny any favour to 
him that I could grant, and that he seemed backward to mention his case, I 
begged leave of him to give me leave to ask him whether anything lay upon 
his mind with respect to his business and effects in the world; that if it 
did, he knew what I had in the world as well as I did, and that if he 
wanted money I would let him have any sum for his occasion as far as five 
or six thousand pistoles, and he should pay me as his own affairs would 
permit; and that if he never paid me, I would assure him that I would never 
give him any trouble for it.
He rose up with ceremony, and gave me thanks in terms that sufficiently 
told me he had been bred among people more polite and more courteous than 
is esteemed the ordinary usage of the Dutch; and after his compliment was 
over he came nearer to me, and told me that he was obliged to assure me, 
though with repeated acknowledgments of my kind offer, that he was not in 
any want of money; that he had met with no uneasiness in any of his 
affairs, no, not of any kind whatever, except that of the loss of his wife 
and one of his children, which indeed had troubled him much; but that this 
was no part of what he had to offer me, and by granting which I should 
balance all obligations. But that, in short, it was that seeing Providence 
had (as it were for that purpose) taken his wife from him, I would make up 
the loss to him; and with that he held me fast in his arms and, kissing me, 
would not give me leave to say no, and hardly to breathe.
At length having got room to speak, I told him that, as I had said before, 
I could deny him but one thing in the world; I was very sorry he should 
propose that thing only that I could not grant.
I could not but smile, however, to myself that he should make so many 
circles and roundabout motions to come at a discourse which had no such 
rarity at the bottom of it, if he had known all. But there was another 
reason why I resolved not to have him, when, at the same time, if he had 
courted me in a manner less honest or virtuous, I believe I should not have 
denied him. But I shall come to that part presently.
He was, as I have said, long a-bringing it out, but when he had brought it 
out he pursued it with such importunities as would admit of no denial, at 
least he intended they should not; but I resisted them obstinately, and yet 
with expressions of the utmost kindness and respect for him that could be 
imagined, often telling him there was nothing else in the world that I 
could deny him, and showing him all the respect and upon all occasions 
treating him with intimacy and freedom as if he had been my brother.
He tried all the ways imaginable to bring his design to pass, but I was 
inflexible. At last he thought of a way which, he flattered himself, would 
not fail; nor would he have been mistaken perhaps in any other woman in the 
world but me. This was to try if he could take me at an advantage and get 
to bed to me, and then, as was most rational to think, I should willingly 
enough marry him afterwards.
We were so intimate together that nothing but man and wife could, or at 
least ought to be, more; but still our freedoms kept within the bounds of 
modesty and decency. But one evening, above all the rest, we were very 
merry, and I fancied he pushed the mirth to watch for his advantage, and I 
resolved that I would, at least, feign to be as merry as he, and that, in 
short, if he offered anything he should have his will easily enough.
About one o'clock in the morning, for so long we sat up together, I said, 
'Come, 'tis one o'clock, I must go to bed.' 'Well,' says he, 'I'll go with 
you.' 'No, no,' says I, 'go to your own chamber.' He said he would go to 
bed with me. 'Nay,' says I, 'if you will, I don't know what to say; if I 
can't help it, you must.' However, I got from him, left him and went into 
my chamber, but did not shut the door; and as he could easily see that I 
was undressing myself, he steps to his own room, which was but on the same 
floor, and in a few minutes undresses himself also and returns to my door 
in his gown and slippers.
I thought he had been gone indeed, and so that he had been in jest; and, by 
the way, thought either he had no mind to the thing or that he never 
intended it; so I shut my door, that is, latched it, for I seldom locked or 
bolted it, and went to bed. I had not been in bed a minute but he comes in 
his gown to the door and opens it a little way, but not enough to come in 
or look in, and says softly, 'What, are you really gone to bed?' 'Yes, 
yes,' says I, 'get you gone.' 'No indeed,' says he, 'I shall not begone, 
you gave me leave before to come to bed, and you shan't say get you gone 
now.' So he comes into my room, and then turns about and fastens the door, 
and immediately comes to the bedside to me. I pretended to scold and 
struggle, and bid him begone with more warmth than before, but it was all 
one. He had not a rag of clothes on but his gown and slippers and shirt, so 
he throws off his gown and throws open the bed and came in at once.
I made a seeming resistance, but it was no more indeed; for, as above, I 
resolved from the beginning he should lie with me if he would, and for the 
rest, I left it to come after.
Well, he lay with me that night and the two next, and very merry we were 
all the three days between; but the third night he began to be a little 
more grave. 'Now, my dear,' says he, 'though I have pushed this matter 
further than ever I intended, or than I believe you expected from me, who 
never made any pretences to you but what were very honest, yet to heal it 
all up and let you see how sincerely I meant at first and how honest I will 
ever be to you, I am ready to marry you still, and desire you to let it be 
done tomorrow morning; and I will give you the same fair conditions of 
marriage as I would have done before.'
This, it must be owned, was a testimony that he was very honest and that he 
loved me sincerely, but I construed it quite another way, namely, that he 
aimed at the money. But how surprised did he look, and how was he 
confounded, when he found me receive his proposal with coldness and 
indifference and still tell him that it was the only thing I could not 
grant.
He was astonished. 'What, not take me now!' says he, 'when I have been abed 
with you!' I answered coldly, though respectfully still, 'It is true, to my 
shame be it spoken,' says I, 'that you have taken me by surprise and have 
had your will of me, but I hope you will not take it ill that I cannot 
consent to marry, for all that; if I am with child,' said I, 'care must be 
taken to manage that as you shall direct. I hope you won't expose me for my 
having exposed myself to you, but I cannot go any further.' And at that 
point I stood, and would hear of no matrimony by any means.
Now because this may seem a little odd, I shall state the matter clearly as 
I understood it myself. I knew that while I was a mistress, it is customary 
for the person kept to receive from them that keep; but if I should be a 
wife, all I had then was given up to the husband, and I was thenceforth to 
be under his authority only; and as I had money enough, and needed not fear 
being what they call a cast-off mistress, so I had no need to give him 
twenty thousand pounds to marry me, which had been buying my lodging too 
dear a great deal.
Thus his project of coming to bed to me was a bite upon himself, while he 
intended it for a bite upon me, and he was no nearer his aim of marrying me 
than he was before. All his arguments he could urge upon the subject of 
matrimony were at an end, for I positively declined marrying him; and as he 
had refused the thousand pistoles which I had offered him in compensation 
for his expenses and loss at Paris with the Jew, and had done it upon the 
hopes he had of marrying me, so when he found his way difficult still he 
was amazed, and, I had some reason to believe, repented that he had refused 
the money.
But thus it is when men run into wicked measures to bring their designs 
about. I, that was infinitely obliged to him before, began to talk to him 
as if I had balanced accounts with him now, and that the favour of lying 
with a whore was equal, not to the thousand pistoles only, but to all the 
debt I owed him for saving my life and all my effects.
But he drew himself into it, and though it was a dear bargain, yet it was a 
bargain of his own making; he could not say I had tricked him into it. But 
as he projected and drew me in to lie with him, depending that it was a 
sure game in order to a marriage, so I granted him the favour, as he called 
it, to balance the account of favours received from him and keep the 
thousand pistoles with a good grace.
He was extremely disappointed in this article and knew not how to manage 
for a great while, and, as I dare say, if he had not expected to have made 
it an earnest for marrying me, he would never have attempted me the other 
way; so, I believed, if it had not been for the money which he knew I had, 
he would never have desired to marry me after he had lain with me. For 
where is the man that cares to marry a whore, though of his own making? And 
as I knew him to be no fool, so I did him no wrong when I supposed that, 
but for the money, he would not have had any thoughts of me that way, 
especially after my yielding as I had done; in which it is to be remembered 
that I made no capitulation for marrying him when I yielded to him, but let 
him do just what he pleased, without any previous bargain.
Well, hitherto we went upon guesses at one another's designs; but as he 
continued to importune me to marry, though he had lain with me and still 
did lie with me as often as he pleased, and I continued to refuse to marry 
him, though I let him lie with me whenever he desired it - I say, as these 
two circumstances made up our conversation, it could not continue long thus 
but we must come to an explanation.
One morning in the middle of our unlawful freedoms, that is to say, when we 
were in bed together, he sighed and told me he desired my leave to ask me 
one question, and that I would give him an answer to it with the same 
ingenuous freedom and honesty that I had used to treat him with. I told him 
I would. Why, then, his question was, why I would not marry him seeing I 
allowed him all the freedoms of a husband. 'Or,' says he, 'my dear, since 
you have been so kind as to take me to your bed, why will you not make me 
your own and take me for good and all, that we may enjoy ourselves without 
any reproach to one another?'
I told him that as I confessed it was the only thing I could not comply 
with him in, so it was the only thing in all my actions that I could not 
give him a reason for; that it was true I had let him come to bed to me, 
which was supposed to be the greatest favour a woman could grant, but it 
was evident, and he might see it, that as I was sensible of the obligation 
I was under to him for saving me from the worst circumstance it was 
possible for me to be brought to, I could deny him nothing; and if I had 
had any greater favour to yield him I should have done it, that of 
matrimony only excepted, and he could not but see that I loved him to an 
extraordinary degree, in every part of my behaviour to him; but that as to 
marrying, which was giving up my liberty, it was what once he knew I had 
done, and he had seen how it had hurried me up and down in the world and 
what it had exposed me to; that I had an aversion to it, and desired he 
would not insist upon it; he might easily see I had no aversion to him, and 
that if I was with child by him, he should see a testimony of my kindness 
to the father, for that I would settle all I had in the world upon the 
child.
He was mute a good while. At last says he, 'Come, my dear, you are the 
first woman in the world that ever lay with a man and then refused to marry 
him, and therefore there must be some other reason for your refusal; and I 
have therefore one other request, and that is, if I guess at the true 
reason and remove the objection, will you then yield to me?' I told him if 
he removed the objection I must needs comply, for I should certainly do 
everything that I had no objection against.
'Why then, my dear, it must be that either you are already engaged and 
married to some other man, or you are not willing to dispose of your money 
to me, and expect to advance yourself higher with your fortune. Now if it 
be the first of these, my mouth will be stopped, and I have no more to say; 
but if it be the last, I am prepared effectually to remove the objection 
and answer all you can say on that subject.'
I took him up short at the first of these, telling him he must have base 
thoughts of me indeed to think that I could yield to him in such a manner 
as I had done, and continue it with so much freedom as he found I did, if I 
had a husband or were engaged to any other man; and that he might depend 
upon it, that was not my case, nor any part of my case.
'Why then,' said she, 'as to the other, I have an offer to make to you that 
shall take off all the objection, viz. that I will not touch one pistole of 
your estate more than shall be with your own voluntary consent, neither now 
nor at any other time, but you shall settle it as you please, for your 
life, and upon whom you shall please after your death.' That I should see 
he was able to maintain me without it, and that it was not for that that he 
followed me from Paris.
I was indeed surprised at that part of his offer, and he might easily 
perceive it. It was not only what I did not expect, but it was what I knew 
not what answer to make to. He had indeed removed my principal objection, 
nay, all my objections, and it was not possible for me to give any answer; 
for if upon so generous an offer I should agree with him, I then did as 
good as confess that it was upon the account of my money that I refused 
him, and that though I could give up my virtue and expose myself, yet I 
would not give up my money, which, though it was true, yet was really too 
gross for me to acknowledge, and I could not pretend to marry him upon that 
principle neither. Then as to having him, and make over all my estate out 
of his hands, so as not to give him the management of what I had, I thought 
it would be not only a little gothic and inhuman, but would be always a 
foundation of unkindness between us and render us suspected one to another. 
So that, upon the whole, I was obliged to give a new turn to it and talk 
upon a kind of an elevated strain which really was not in my thoughts at 
first at all; for I own, as above, the divesting myself of my estate and 
putting my money out of my hand was the sum of the matter that made me 
refuse to marry. But, I say, I gave it a new turn upon this occasion, as 
follows:
I told him I had perhaps differing notions of matrimony from what the 
received custom had given us of it; that I thought a woman was a free agent 
as well as a man, and was born free, and, could she manage herself 
suitably, might enjoy that liberty to as much purpose as the men do; that 
the laws of matrimony were indeed otherwise, and mankind at this time acted 
quite upon other principles; and those such, that a woman gave herself 
entirely away from herself in marriage, and capitulated only to be at best 
but an upper servant, and from the time she took the man she was no better 
or worse than the servant among the Israelites who had his ears bored, that 
is, nailed to the doorpost, who by that act gave himself up to be a servant 
during life.
That the very nature of the marriage contract was, in short, nothing but 
giving up liberty, estate, authority, and everything to the man, and the 
woman was indeed a mere woman ever after, that is to say, a slave.
He replied that though in some respects it was as I had said, yet I ought 
to consider that as an equivalent to this the man had all the care of 
things devolved upon him; that the weight of business lay upon his 
shoulders, and as he had the trust, so he had the toil of life upon him, 
his was the labour, his the anxiety of living; that the woman had nothing 
to do but to eat the fat and drink the sweet, to sit still and look round 
her, be waited on and made much of, be served and loved and made easy, 
especially if the husband acted as became him; and that, in general, the 
labour of the man was appointed to make the woman live quiet and 
unconcerned in the world; that they had the name of subjection without the 
thing, and if in inferior families they had the drudgery of the house and 
care of the provisions upon them, yet they had indeed much the easier part. 
For, in general, the women had only the care of managing, that is, spending 
what their husbands get; and that a woman had the name of subjection 
indeed, but that they generally commanded not the men only, but all they 
had, managed all for themselves, and where the man did his duty the woman's 
life was all ease and tranquillity, and that she had nothing to do but to 
be easy and to make all that were about her both easy and merry.
I returned that while a woman was single she was a masculine in her politic 
capacity; that she had then the full command of what she had and the full 
direction of what she did; that she was a man in her separated capacity, to 
all intents and purposes that a man could be so to himself; that she was 
controlled by none because accountable to none, and was in subjection to 
none; so I sung these two lines of Mr. --'s:

Oh!'tis pleasant to be free,
The sweetest miss is liberty.

I added that whoever the woman was that had an estate and would give it up 
to be the slave of a great man, that woman was a fool, and must be fit for 
nothing but a beggar; that it was my opinion a woman was as fit to govern 
and enjoy her own estate without a man as a man was without a woman, and 
that if she had a mind to gratify herself as to sexes, she might entertain 
a man as a man does a mistress; that while she was thus single she was her 
own, and if she gave away that power she merited to be as miserable as it 
was possible that any creature could be.
All he could say could not answer the force of this as to argument; only 
this, that the other way was the ordinary method that the world was guided 
by; that he had reason to expect I should be content with that which all 
the world was contented with; that he was of the opinion that a sincere 
affection between a man and his wife answered all the objections that I had 
made about the being a slave, a servant, and the like; and where there was 
a mutual love there could be no bondage, but that there was but one 
interest, one aim, one design, and all conspired to make both very happy.
'Ay,' said I, 'that is the thing I complain of. The pretence of affection 
takes from a woman everything that can be called herself; she is to have no 
interest, no aim, no view, but all is the interest, aim, and view of the 
husband. She is to be the passive creature you spoke of,' said I; 'she is 
to lead a life of perfect indolence, and living by faith (not in God, but) 
in her husband, she sinks or swims as he is either fool or wise man, 
unhappy or prosperous, and in the middle of what she thinks is her 
happiness and prosperity she is engulfed in misery and beggary which she 
had not the least notice, knowledge, or suspicion of. How often have I seen 
a woman living in all the splendour that a plentiful fortune ought to allow 
her: with her coaches and equipages, her family and rich furniture, her 
attendants and friends, her visitors and good company, all about her today, 
tomorrow surprised with disaster, turned out of all by a commission of 
bankrupt, stripped to the clothes on her back; her jointure, suppose she 
had it, is sacrificed to the creditors so long as her husband lived, and 
she turned into the street and left to live on the charity of her friends, 
if she has any, or follow the monarch her husband into the Mint, and live 
there on the wreck of his fortunes till he is forced to run away from her, 
even there; and then she sees her children starve, herself miserable, 
breaks her heart, and cries herself to death. This,' says I, 'is the state 
of many a lady that has had ten thousand pounds to her portion.
He did not know how feelingly I spoke this and what extremities I had gone 
through of this kind; how near I was to the very last article above, viz. 
crying myself to death, and how I really starved for almost two years 
together.
But he shook his head and said, where had I lived, and what dreadful 
families had I lived among that had frighted me into such terrible 
apprehensions of things? That these things indeed might happen where men 
ran into hazardous things in trade, and without prudence or due 
consideration launched their fortunes in a degree beyond their strength, 
grasping at adventures beyond their stocks, and the like; but that, as he 
was stated in the world, if I would embark with him, he had a fortune equal 
with mine; that together we should have no occasion of engaging in business 
any more, but that in any part of the world where I had a mind to live, 
whether England, France, Holland, or where I would, we might settle and 
live as happily as the world could make any one live; that if I desired the 
management of our estate when put together, if I would not trust him with 
mine, he would trust me with his; that we would be upon one bottom, and I 
should steer. 'Ay,' says I, 'you'll allow me to steer, that is, hold the 
helm, but you'll conn the ship, as they call it; that is, as at sea, a boy 
serves to stand at the helm, but he that gives him the orders is pilot.'
He laughed at my simile. 'No,' says he, 'you shall be pilot, then, you 
shall conn the ship.' 'Ay,' says I, 'as long as you please, but you can 
take the helm out of my hand when you please and bid me go spin. It is not 
you,' says I, 'that I suspect, but the law of matrimony puts the power into 
your hands, bids you do it, commands you to command, and binds me, 
forsooth, to obey. You, that are now upon even terms with me, and I with 
you,' says I, 'are the next hour set up upon the throne, and the humble 
wife placed at your footstool; all the rest, all that you call oneness of 
interest, mutual affection, and the like, is courtesy and kindness, then, 
and a woman is indeed infinitely obliged where she meets with it, but can't 
help herself where it fails.'
Well, he did not give it over yet, but came to the serious part, and there 
he thought he should be too many for me. He first hinted that marriage was 
decreed by Heaven, that it was the fixed state of life which God had 
appointed for man's felicity and for establishing a legal posterity, that 
there could be no legal claim of estates by inheritance but by children 
born in wedlock, that all the rest was sunk under scandal and illegitimacy; 
and very well he talked upon that subject indeed.
But it would not do; I took him short there. 'Look you, sir,' said I, 'you 
have an advantage of me there indeed, in my particular case, but it would 
not be generous to make use of it. I readily grant that it were better for 
me to have married you than to admit you to the liberty I have given you, 
but as I could not reconcile my judgment to marriage for the reasons above, 
and had kindness enough for you and obligation too much on me to resist 
you, I suffered your rudeness and gave up my virtue. But I have two things 
before me to heal up that breach of honour without that desperate one of 
marriage, and those are, repentance for what is past, and putting an end to 
it for time to come.'
He seemed to be concerned to think that I should take him in that manner. 
He assured me that I misunderstood him; that he had more manners, as well 
as more kindness for me, and more justice than to reproach me with what he 
had been the aggressor in and had surprised me into; that what he spoke 
referred to my words above; that the woman, if she thought fit, might 
entertain a man as the man did a mistress; and that I seemed to mention 
that way of living as justifiable, and setting it as a lawful thing and in 
the place of matrimony.
Well, we strained some compliments upon those points not worth repeating, 
and I added I supposed when he got to bed to me he thought himself sure of 
me; and indeed in the ordinary course of things, after he had lain with me, 
he ought to think so; but that, upon the same foot of argument which I had 
discoursed with him upon, it was just the contrary, and when a woman had 
been weak enough to yield up the last point before wedlock it would be 
adding one weakness to another to take the man afterwards, to pin down the 
shame of it upon herself all the days of her life, and bind herself to live 
all her time with the only man that could upbraid her with it; that in 
yielding at first she must be a fool, but to take the man is to be sure to 
be called fool; that to resist a man is to act with courage and vigour and 
to cast off the reproach which, in the course of things, drops out of 
knowledge and dies. The man goes one way and the woman another, as fate and 
the circumstances of living direct, and if they keep one another's counsel 
the folly is heard no more of. 'But to take the man,' says I, 'is the most 
preposterous thing in nature, and (saving your presence) is to befoul 
oneself and live always in the smell of it. No, no,' added I, 'after a man 
has lain with me as a mistress he ought never to lie with me as a wife; 
that's not only preserving the crime in memory, but it is recording it in 
the family. If the woman marries the man afterwards she bears the reproach 
of it to the last hour; if her husband is not a man of a hundred thousand 
he some time or other upbraids her with it; if he has children they fail 
not one way or other to hear of it; if the children are virtuous they do 
their mother the justice to hate her for it, if they are wicked they give 
her the mortification of doing the like, and giving her for the example. On 
the other hand, if the man and the woman part, there is an end of the 
crime, and an end of the clamour. Time wears out the memory of it, or a 
woman may remove but a few streets and she soon outlives it and hears no 
more of it.
He was confounded at this discourse and told me he could not say but I was 
right in the main, that as to that part relating to managing estates, it 
was arguing a la cavalier; it was in some sense right if the women were 
able to carry it on so, but that in general the sex were not capable of it, 
their heads were not turned for it, and they had better choose a person 
capable and honest, that knew how to do them justice as women as well as to 
love them, and that then the trouble was all taken off their hands.
I told him it was a dear way of purchasing their ease, for very often when 
the trouble was taken off their hands, so was their money too, and that I 
thought it was far safer for the sex not to be afraid of the trouble, but 
to be really afraid of their money; that if nobody was trusted, nobody 
would be deceived, and the staff in their own hands was the best security 
in the world.
He replied that I had started a new thing in the world; that however I 
might support it by subtle reasoning, yet it was a way of arguing that was 
contrary to the general practice, and that he confessed he was much 
disappointed in it; that had he known I would have made such a use of it he 
would never have attempted what he did, which he had no wicked design in, 
resolving to make me reparation, and that he was very sorry he had been so 
unhappy; that he was very sure he should never upbraid me with it 
hereafter, and had so good an opinion of me as to believe I did not suspect 
him; but seeing I was positive in refusing him, notwithstanding what had 
passed, he had nothing to do but to secure me from reproach by going back 
again to Paris, that so, according to my own way of arguing, it might die 
out of memory, and I might never meet with it again to my disadvantage.
I was not pleased with this part at all, for I had no mind to let him go 
neither, and yet I had no mind to give him such hold of me as he would have 
had; and thus I was in a kind of suspense, irresolute, and doubtful what 
course to take.
I was in the house with him, as I have observed, and I saw evidently that 
he was preparing to go back to Paris, and particularly I found he was 
remitting money to Paris, which was, as I understood afterwards, to pay for 
some wines which he had given order to have bought for him at Troyes in 
Champagne, and I knew not what course to take; and besides that, I was very 
loath to part with him. I found also that I was with child by him, which 
was what I had not yet told him of, and sometimes I thought not to tell him 
of it at all; but I was in a strange place, and had no acquaintance, though 
I had a great deal of substance, which indeed, having no friends there, was 
the more dangerous to me.
This obliged me to take him one morning, when I saw him, as I thought, a 
little anxious about his going and irresolute. Says I to him, 'I fancy you 
can hardly find in your heart to leave me now.' 'The more unkind is it in 
you,' said she, 'severely unkind, to refuse a man that knows not how to 
part with you.'
'I am so far from being unkind to you,' said I 'that I will go all over the 
world with you, if you desire me, except to Paris, where you know I can't 
go.'
'It is a pity so much love,' said she, 'on both sides should ever 
separate.'
'Why then,' said I, 'do you go away from me?' Because, said he, you won't 
take me.'
'But if I won't take you,' said I, 'you may take me anywhere but to Paris.'
He was very loath to go anywhere, he said, without me, but he must go to 
Paris or to the East Indies.
I told him I did not use to court, but I durst venture myself to the East 
Indies with him if there was a necessity of his going.
He told me, God be thanked, he was in no necessity of going anywhere, but 
that he had a tempting invitation to go to the Indies.
I answered I would say nothing to that, but that I desired he would go 
anywhere but to Paris, because there he knew I must not go.
He said he had no remedy but to go where I could not go, for he could not 
bear to see me if he must not have me.
I told him that was the unkindest thing he could say of me, and that I 
ought to take it very ill, seeing I knew how very well to oblige him to 
stay without yielding to what he knew I could not yield to.
This amazed him, and he told me I was pleased to be mysterious, but that he 
was sure it was in nobody's power to hinder him going if he resolved upon 
it, except me, who had influence enough upon him to make him do anything.
Yes, I told him, I could hinder him, because I knew he could no more do an 
unkind thing by me than he could do an unjust one; and to put him out of 
his pain, I told him I was with child.
He came to me and, taking me in his arms and kissing me a thousand times 
almost, said, why would I be so unkind not to tell him that before?
I told him 'twas hard that, to have him stay, I should be forced do as 
criminals do to avoid the gallows, plead my belly, and that I thought I had 
given him testimonies enough of an affection equal to that of a wife; if I 
had not only lain with him, been with child by him, shown myself unwilling 
to part with him but offered to go to the East Indies with him, and except 
one thing that I could not grant, what could he ask more?
He stood mute a good while, but afterwards told me he had a great deal more 
to say if I could assure him that I would not take ill whatever freedom he 
might use with me in his discourse.
I told him he might use any freedom in words with me, for a woman who had 
given leave to such other freedoms as I had done, had left herself no room 
to take anything ill, let it be what it would.
'Why then,' he said, 'I hope you believe, madam, I was born a Christian, 
and that I have some sense of sacred things upon my mind. When I first 
broke in upon my own virtue and assaulted yours, when I surprised and, as 
it were, forced you to that which neither you intended nor I designed but a 
few hours before, it was upon a presumption that you would certainly marry 
me, if once I could go that length with you, and it was with an honest 
resolution to make you my wife.
'But I have been surprised with such a denial that no woman in such 
circumstances ever gave to a man, for certainly it was never known that any 
woman refused to marry a man that had first lain with her, much less a man 
that had gotten her with child. But you go upon different notions from all 
the world, and though you reason upon it so strongly that a man knows 
hardly what to answer, yet I must own there is something in it shocking to 
nature, and something very unkind to yourself. But above all, it is unkind 
to the child that is yet unborn, who, if we marry, will come into the world 
with advantage enough, but, if not, is ruined before it is born, must bear 
the eternal reproach of what it is not guilty of, must be branded from its 
cradle with a mark of infamy, be loaded with the crimes and follies of its 
parents, and suffer for sins that it never committed. This I take to be 
very hard and indeed cruel to the poor infant not yet born, whom you cannot 
think of with any patience, if you have the common affection of a mother, 
and not do that for it which should at once place it on a level with the 
rest of the world, and not leave it to curse its parents for what also we 
ought to be ashamed of. I cannot, therefore,' says he, 'but beg and entreat 
you, as you are a Christian and a mother, not to let the innocent lamb you 
go with be ruined before it is born, and leave it to curse and reproach us 
hereafter for what may be so easily avoided.
'Then, dear madam,' said he with a world of tenderness (and I thought I saw 
tears in his eyes), 'allow me to repeat it, that I am a Christian, and 
consequently I do not allow what I have rashly, and without due 
consideration, done - I say I do not approve of it as lawful; and therefore 
though I did, with a view I have mentioned, one unjustifiable action, I 
cannot say that I could satisfy myself to live in a continual practice of 
what in judgment we must both condemn. And though I love you above all the 
women in the world, and have done enough to convince you of it by resolving 
to marry you after what has passed between us, and by offering to quit all 
pretensions to any part of your estate, so that I should, as it were, take 
a wife after I had lain with her, and without a farthing portion, which, as 
my circumstances are, I need not do - I say, notwithstanding my affection 
to you, which is inexpressible, yet I cannot give up soul as well as body, 
the interest of this world, and the hopes of another; and you cannot call 
this my disrespect to you.'
If ever any man in the world was truly valuable for the strictest honesty 
of intention, this was the man, and if ever woman in her senses rejected a 
man of merit on so trivial and frivolous a pretence, I was the woman; but 
surely it was the most preposterous thing that ever woman did.
He would have taken me as a wife, but would not entertain me as a whore. 
Was ever woman angry with any gentleman on that head? And was ever woman so 
stupid to choose to be a whore where she might have been an honest wife? 
But infatuations are next to being possessed of the devil. I was 
inflexible, and pretended to argue upon the point of a woman's liberty, as 
before, but he took me short, and with more warmth than he had yet used 
with me, though with the utmost respect, replied, 'Dear madam, you argue 
for liberty at the same time that you restrain yourself from that liberty 
which God and Nature has directed you to take, and, to supply the 
deficiency, propose a vicious liberty which is neither honourable nor 
religious. Will you propose liberty at the expense of modesty?'
I returned that he mistook me; I did not propose it, I only said that those 
that could not be content without concerning the sexes in that affair might 
do so indeed, might entertain a man as men do a mistress if they thought 
fit; but he did not hear me say I would do so, and though by what had 
passed he might well censure me in that part, yet he should find, for the 
future, that I should freely converse with him without any inclination that 
way.
He told me he could not promise that for himself, and thought he ought not 
to trust himself with the opportunity; for that, as he had failed already, 
he was loath to lead himself into the temptation of offending again, and 
that this was the true reason of his resolving to go back to Paris; not 
that he could willingly leave me, and would be very far from wanting my 
invitation, but if he could not stay upon terms that became him, either as 
an honest man or a Christian, what could he do? And he hoped, he said, I 
could not blame him that he was unwilling anything that was to call him 
father should upbraid him with leaving him in the world to be called 
bastard; adding that he was astonished to think how I could satisfy myself 
to be so cruel to an innocent infant not yet born; professed he could 
neither bear the thoughts of it, much less bear to see it, and hoped I 
would not take it ill that he could not stay to see me delivered, for that 
very reason.
I saw he spoke this with a disturbed mind and that it was with some 
difficulty that he restrained his passion, so I declined any further 
discourse upon it, only said I hoped he would consider of it. 'Oh, madam!' 
says he, 'do not bid me consider, 'tis for you to consider.' And with that 
he went out of the room in a strange kind of confusion, as was easy to be 
seen in his countenance.
If I had not been one of the foolishest, as well as wickedest creatures 
upon earth, I could never have acted thus. I had one of the honestest, 
completest gentlemen upon earth at my hand; he had in one sense saved my 
life, but he had saved that life from ruin in a most remarkable manner. He 
loved me even to distraction, and had come from Paris to Rotterdam on 
purpose to seek me; he had offered me marriage even after I was with child 
by him, and had offered to quit all his pretensions to my estate, and give 
it up to my own management, having a plentiful estate of his own. Here I 
might have settled myself out of the reach even of disaster itself; his 
estate and mine would have purchased even then above two thousand pounds a 
year, and I might have lived like a queen, nay, far more happy than a 
queen; and which was above all, I had now an opportunity to have quitted a 
life of crime and debauchery which I had been given up to for several 
years, and to have sat down quiet in plenty and honour, and to have set 
myself apart to the great work which I have since seen so much necessity of 
and occasion for: I mean that of repentance.
But my measure of wickedness was not yet full. I continued obstinate 
against matrimony, and yet I could not bear the thoughts of his going away 
neither. As to the child, I was not very anxious about it; I told him I 
would promise him that it should never come to him to upbraid him with its 
being illegitimate; that if it was a boy I would breed it up like the son 
of a gentleman and use it well for his sake. And after a little more such 
talk as this, and seeing him resolved to go, I retired, but could not help 
letting him see the tears run down my cheeks. He came to me and kissed me, 
entreated me, conjured me by the kindness he had shown me in my distress; 
by the justice he had done me in my bills and money affairs; by the respect 
which made him refuse a thousand pistoles from me for his expenses with 
that traitor the Jew; by the pledge of our misfortunes, so he called it, 
which I carried with me; and by all that the sincerest affection could 
propose to do, that I would not drive him away.
But it would not do. I was stupid and senseless, deaf to all his 
importunities, and continued so to the last; so we parted, only desiring me 
to promise that I would write him word when I was delivered, and how he 
might give me an answer. And this I engaged my word I would do; and upon 
his desiring to be informed which way I intended to dispose of myself, I 
told him I resolved to go directly to England and to London, where I 
proposed to lie in; but since he resolved to leave me, I told him I 
supposed it would be of no consequence to him what became of me.
He lay in his lodgings that night but went away early in the morning, 
leaving me a letter in which he repeated all he had said; recommended the 
care of the child, and desired of me that as he had remitted to me the 
offer of a thousand pistoles which I would have given him for the 
recompense of his charges and trouble with the Jew, and had given it me 
back, so he desired I would allow him to oblige me to set apart that 
thousand pistoles, with its improvement, for the child and for its 
education; earnestly pressing me to secure that little portion for the 
abandoned orphan when I should think fit, as he was sure I would, to throw 
away the rest upon something as worthless as my sincere friend at Paris. He 
concluded with moving me to reflect with the same regret as he did on our 
follies we had committed together, asked me forgiveness for being the 
aggressor in the fact, and forgave me everything, he said, but the cruelty 
of refusing him, which he owned he could not forgive me so heartily as he 
should do, because he was satisfied it was an injury to myself, would be an 
introduction to my ruin, and that I would seriously repent of it. He 
foretold some fatal things which he said he was well assured I should fall 
into, and that at last I would be ruined by a bad husband; bid me be the 
more wary, that I might render him a false prophet, but to remember that if 
ever I came into distress I had a fast friend at Paris, who would not 
upbraid me with the unkind things past, but would be always ready to return 
me good for evil.
This letter stunned me. I could not think it possible for any one that had 
not dealt with the devil to write such a letter, for he spoke of some 
particular things which afterwards were to befall me with such an assurance 
that it frighted me beforehand; and when those things did come to pass I 
was persuaded he had some more than human knowledge. In a word, his advices 
to me to repent were very affectionate, his warnings of evil to happen to 
me were very kind, and his promises of assistance if I wanted him were so 
generous that I have seldom seen the like; and though I did not at first 
set much by that part, because I looked upon them as what might not happen 
and as what was improbable to happen at that time, yet all the rest of his 
letter was so moving that it left me very melancholy, and I cried four and 
twenty hours after, almost without ceasing, about it. And yet, even all 
this while, whatever it was that bewitched me, I had not one serious wish 
that I had taken him. I wished heartily indeed that I could have kept him 
with me, but I had a mortal aversion to marrying him, or indeed anybody 
else, but formed a thousand wild notions in my head that I was yet gay 
enough and young and handsome enough to please a man of quality, and that I 
would try my fortune at London, come of it what would.
Thus blinded by my own vanity, I threw away the only opportunity I then had 
to have effectually settled my fortunes, and secured them for this world; 
and I am a memorial to all that shall read my story, a standing monument of 
the madness and distraction which pride and infatuations from hell run us 
into; how ill our passions guide us, and how dangerously we act when we 
follow the dictates of an ambitious mind.
I was rich, beautiful and agreeable, and not yet old. I had known something 
of the influence I had had upon the fancies of men, even of the highest 
rank; I never forgot that the Prince de -- had said with an ecstasy that I 
was the finest woman in France. I knew I could make a figure at London, and 
how well I could grace that figure. I was not at a loss how to behave; and 
having already been adored by princes, I thought of nothing less than of 
being mistress to the King himself. But I go back to my immediate 
circumstances at that time.
I got over the absence of my honest merchant but slowly at first. It was 
with infinite regret that I let him go at all, and when I read the letter 
he left I was quite confounded. As soon as he was out of call and 
irrecoverable, I would have given half I had in the world for him back 
again; my notions of things changed in an instant, and I called myself a 
thousand fools for casting myself upon a life of scandal and hazard, when 
after the shipwreck of virtue, honour, and principle, and sailing at the 
utmost risk in the stormy seas of crime and abominable levity, I had a safe 
harbour presented and no heart to cast anchor in it.
His predictions terrified me; his promises of kindness if I came to 
distress melted me into tears, but frighted me with the apprehensions of 
ever coming into such distress, and filled my head with a thousand 
anxieties and thoughts, how it should be possible for me, who had now such 
a fortune, to sink again into misery.
Then the dreadful scene of my life, when I was left with my five children, 
etc., as I have related, represented itself again to me, and I sat 
considering what measures I might take to bring myself to such a state of 
desolation again, and how I should act to avoid it.
But these things wore off gradually. As to my friend the merchant, he was 
gone, and gone irrecoverably, for I durst not follow him to Paris, for the 
reasons mentioned above. Again, I was afraid to write to him to return lest 
he should have refused, as I verily believed he would. So I sat and cried 
intolerably for some days, nay, I may say, for some weeks; but I say it 
wore off gradually, and as I had a great deal of business for managing my 
effects, the hurry of that particular part served to divert my thoughts, 
and in part to wear out the impressions which had been made upon my mind.
I had sold my jewels, all but the fine diamond ring which my gentleman the 
jeweller used to wear, and this at proper times I wore myself, as also the 
diamond necklace which the Prince had given me, and a pair of extraordinary 
earrings, worth about 600 pistoles; the other, which was a fine casket, he 
left with me at his going to Versailles, and a small case with some rubies 
and emeralds, etc. - I say I sold them at The Hague for 7600 pistoles. I 
had received all the bills which the merchant had helped me to at Paris, 
and with the money I brought with me they made up 13,900 pistoles more; so 
that I had in ready money, and in account in the bank at Amsterdam, above 
21,000 pistoles, besides jewels; and how to get this treasure to England 
was my next care.
The business I had had now with a great many people for receiving such 
large sums and selling jewels of such considerable value gave me 
opportunity to know and converse with several of the best merchants of the 
place, so that I wanted no direction now how to get my money remitted to 
England. Applying therefore to several merchants, that I might neither risk 
it all on the credit of one merchant nor suffer any single man to know the 
quantity of money I had - I say, applying myself to several merchants, I 
got bills of exchange payable in London for all my money. The first bills I 
took with me, the second bills I left in trust (in case of any disaster at 
sea) in the hands of the first merchant, him to whom I was recommended by 
my friend from Paris.
Having thus spent nine months in Holland, refused the best offer ever woman 
in my circumstances had, parted unkindly and indeed barbarously with the 
best friend and honestest man in the world, got all my money in my pocket 
and a bastard in my belly, I took shipping at the Briel, in the packet-
boat, and arrived safe at Harwich, where my woman Amy was come, by my 
direction, to meet me
I would willingly have given ten thousand pounds of my money to have been 
rid of the burthen I had in my belly, as above; but it could not be, so I 
was obliged to bear with that part and get rid of it by the ordinary method 
of patience and a hard travail.
I was above the contemptible usage that women in my circumstances 
oftentimes meet with. I had considered all that beforehand; and having sent 
Amy beforehand and remitted her money to do it, she had taken me a very 
handsome house in -- Street near Charing Cross, had hired me two maids and 
a footman, whom she had put in a good livery, and having hired a glass 
coach and four horses she came with them and the manservant to Harwich to 
meet me, and had been there near a week before I came. So I had nothing to 
do but to go away to London to my own house, where I arrived in very good 
health, and where I passed for a French lady by the title of --.
My first business was to get all my bills accepted, which, to cut the story 
short, was all both accepted and currently paid; and I then resolved to 
take me a country lodging somewhere near the town to be incognito till I 
was brought to bed, which, appearing in such a figure and having such an 
equipage, I easily managed without anybody's offering the usual insults of 
parish enquiries. I did not appear in my new house for some time, and 
afterwards I thought fit, for particular reasons, to quit that house and 
not come to it at all, but take handsome large apartments in the Pall Mall, 
in a house out of which was a private door into the King's garden, by the 
permission of the chief gardener, who had lived in the house.
I had now all my effects secured; but my money being my great concern at 
that time, I found it a difficulty how to dispose of it so as to bring me 
in an annual interest. However, in some time I got a substantial safe 
mortgage for £14,000 by the assistance of the famous Sir Robert Clayton, 
for which I had an estate of £1800 a year bound to me, and had £700 per 
annum interest for it.
This with some other securities made me a very handsome estate of above 
£1000 a year, enough, one would think, to keep any woman in England from 
being a whore.
I lay in at --, about four miles from London, and brought a fine boy into 
the world, and, according to my promise, sent an account of it to my friend 
at Paris, the father of it, and in the letter told him how sorry I was for 
his going away, and did as good as intimate that if he would come once more 
to see me I should use him better than I had done. He gave me a very kind 
and obliging answer, but took not the least notice of what I had said of 
his coming over, so I found my interest lost there for ever. He gave me joy 
of the child and hinted that he hoped I would make good what he had begged 
for the poor infant, as I had promised; and I sent him word again that I 
would fulfil his order to a tittle; and such a fool, and so weak I was in 
this last letter, notwithstanding what I have said of his not taking notice 
of my invitation as to ask his pardon almost for the usage I gave him at 
Rotterdam, and stooped so low as to expostulate with him for not taking 
notice of my inviting him to come to me again as I had done; and which was 
still more, went so far as to make a second sort of an offer to him, 
telling him almost in plain words that if he would come over now I would 
have him. But he never gave me the least reply to it at all, which was as 
absolute a denial to me as he was ever able to give. So I sat down, I 
cannot say contented, but vexed heartily that I had made the offer at all; 
for he had, as I may say, his full revenge of me, in scorning to answer, 
and to let me twice ask that of him which he with so much importunity 
begged of me before.
I was now up again, and soon came to my city lodgings in the Pall Mall, and 
here I began to make a figure suitable to my estate, which was very great; 
and I shall give you an account of my equipage in a few words, and of 
myself too.
I paid £60 a year for my new apartments, for I took them by the year; but 
then, they were handsome lodgings indeed, and very richly furnished. I kept 
my own servants to clean and look after them, found my own kitchen-ware and 
firing. My equipage was handsome, but not very great; I had a coach, a 
coachman, a footman, my woman Amy, whom I now dressed like a gentlewoman 
and made her my companion, and three maids. And thus I lived for a time. I 
dressed to the height of every mode, went extremely rich in clothes, and as 
for jewels, I wanted none. I gave a very good livery laced with silver, and 
as rich as anybody below the nobility could be seen with. And thus I 
appeared, leaving the world to guess who or what I was, without offering to 
put myself forward.
I walked sometimes in the Mall with my woman Amy, but I kept no company and 
made no acquaintances, only made as gay a show as I was able to do, and 
that upon all occasions. I found, however, the world was not altogether so 
unconcerned about me as I seemed to be about them; and first, I understood 
that the neighbours began to be mighty inquisitive about me, as who I was 
and what my circumstances were.
Amy was the only person who could answer their curiosity or give any 
account of me, and she, a tattling woman and a true gossip, took care to do 
that with all the art that she was mistress of. She let them know that I 
was the widow of a person of quality in France, that I was very rich, that 
I came over hither to look after an estate that fell to me by some of my 
relations who died here, that I was worth £40,000 all in my own hands, and 
the like.
This was all wrong in Amy, and in me too, though we did not see it at 
first, for this recommended me indeed to those sort of gentlemen they call 
fortune hunters, and who always besieged ladies, as they called it, on 
purpose to take them prisoners, as I called it; that is to say, to marry 
the women and have the spending of their money. But if I was wrong in 
refusing the honourable proposals of the Dutch merchant, who offered me the 
disposal of my whole estate and had as much of his own to maintain me with, 
I was right now in refusing those offers which came generally from 
gentlemen of good families and good estates, but who, living to the extent 
of them, were always needy and necessitous, and wanted a sum of money to 
make themselves easy, as they call it - that is to say, to pay off 
incumbrances, sisters' portions, and the like - and then the woman is 
prisoner for life and may live as they please to give her leave. This life 
I had seen into clearly enough, and therefore I was not to be caught that 
way. However, as I said, the reputation of my money brought several of 
those sort of gentry about me, and they found means, by one stratagem or 
other, to get access to my ladyship; but, in short, I answered them all 
well enough, that I lived single and was happy, that as I had no occasion 
to change my condition for an estate, so I did not see that by the best 
offer that any of them could make me, I could mend my fortune; that I might 
be honoured with titles indeed, and in time rank on public occasions with 
the peeresses - I mention that because one that offered at me was the 
eldest son of a peer - but that I was as well without the title as long as 
I had the estate; and while I had £2000 a year of my own, I was happier 
than I could be in being prisoner of state to a nobleman, for I took the 
ladies of that rank to be little better.
As I have mentioned Sir Robert Clayton, with whom I had the good fortune to 
become acquainted on account of the mortgage which he helped me to, it is 
necessary to take notice that I had much advantage in my ordinary affairs 
by his advice, and therefore I call it my good fortune. For as he paid me 
so considerable an annual income as £700 a year, so I am to acknowledge 
myself much a debtor, not only to the justice of his dealings with me, but 
to the prudence and conduct which he guided me to, by his advice, for the 
management of my estate; and as he found I was not inclined to marry, he 
frequently took occasion to hint how soon I might raise my fortune to a 
prodigious height, if I would but order my family economy so far within my 
revenue as to lay up every year something to add to the capital.
I was convinced of the truth of what he said, and agreed to the advantages 
of it. You are to take it as you go that Sir Robert supposed by my own 
discourse, and especially by my woman Amy, that I had £2000 a year income. 
He judged, as he said, by my way of living, that I could not spend above 
£1000; and so, he added, I might prudently lay by £1000 every year to add 
to the capital, and by adding every year the additional interest or income 
of the money to the capital, he proved to me that in ten years I should 
double the £1000 per annum that I laid by. And he drew me out a table, as 
he called it, of the increase, for me to judge by; and by which, he said, 
if the gentlemen of England would but act so, every family of them would 
increase their fortunes to a great degree, just as merchants do by trade; 
whereas now, says Sir Robert, by the humour of living up to the extent of 
their fortunes, and rather beyond, the gentlemen, says he, ay, and the 
nobility too, are, almost all of them, borrowers, and all in necessitous 
circumstances.
As Sir Robert frequently visited me and was (if I may say so from his own 
mouth) very well pleased with my way of conversing with him, for he knew 
nothing nor so much as guessed at what I had been - I say, as he came often 
to see me, so he always entertained me with this scheme of frugality. And 
one time he brought another paper, wherein he showed me much to the same 
purpose as the former, to what degree I should increase my estate if I 
would come into his method of contracting my expenses; and by this scheme 
of his, it appeared, that laying up £1000 a year, and every year adding the 
interest to it, I should in twelve years' time have in bank £21,058; after 
which, I might lay up £2000 a year.
I objected that I was a young woman, that I had been used to live 
plentifully and with a good appearance, and that I knew not how to be a 
miser.
He told me that if I thought I had enough, it was well, but if I desired to 
have more, this was the way; that in another twelve years I should be too 
rich, so that I should not know what to do with it.
'Ay, sir,' says I, 'you are contriving how to make me a rich old woman, but 
that won't answer my end; I had rather have £20,000 now than £60,000 when I 
am fifty years old.'
'Then, madam,' says he, 'I suppose your honour has no children?'
'None, Sir Robert,' said I, 'but what are provided for '; so I left him in 
the dark as much as I found him. However, I considered his scheme very 
well, though I said no more to him at that time, and I resolved, though I 
would make a very good figure I say I resolved to abate a little of my 
expense and draw in, live closer, and save something, if not so much as he 
proposed to me. It was near the end of the year that Sir Robert made this 
proposal to me, and when the year was up I went to his house in the city, 
and there I told him I came to thank him for his scheme of frugality, that 
I had been studying much upon it, and though I had not been able to mortify 
myself so much as to lay up £1000 a year, yet as I had not come to him for 
my interest half-yearly, as was usual, I was now come to let him know that 
I had resolved to lay up that £700 a year and never use a penny of it, 
desiring him to help me to put it out to advantage.
Sir Robert, a man thoroughly versed in arts of improving money, but 
thoroughly honest, said to me, 'Madam, I am glad you approve of the method 
that I proposed to you, but you have begun wrong. You should have come for 
your interest at the half-year, and then you had had the money to put out; 
now you have lost half a year's interest of £350, which is £9,' for I had 
but 5 per cent. on the mortgage.
'Well, well, sir,' says I, 'can you put this out for me now?'
'Let it lie, madam,' says he, 'till the next year, and then I'll put out 
your £1400 together, and in the meantime I'll pay you interest for the 
£700.' So he gave me his bill for the money, which he told me should be no 
less than 6 per cent - Sir Robert Clayton's bill was what nobody would 
refuse  - so I thanked him and let it lie, and next year I did the same, 
and the third year Sir Robert got me a good mortgage for £2200 at 6 per 
cent. interest. So I had £132 a year added to my income, which was a very 
satisfying article.
But I return to my history. As I have said, I found that my measures were 
all wrong; the posture I set up in exposed me to innumerable visitors of 
the kind I have mentioned above. I was cried up for a vast fortune, and one 
that Sir Robert Clayton managed for; and Sir Robert Clayton was courted for 
me as much as I was for myself. But I had given Sir Robert his cue. I had 
told him my opinion of matrimony in just the same terms as I had done my 
merchant, and he came into it presently. He owned that my observation was 
just, and that if I valued my liberty, as I knew my fortune and that it was 
in my own hands, I was to blame if I gave it away to any one.
But Sir Robert knew nothing of my design, that I aimed at being a kept 
mistress and to have a handsome maintenance, and that I was still for 
getting money, and laying it up too, as much as he could desire me, only by 
a worse way.
However, Sir Robert came seriously to me one day and told me he had an 
offer of matrimony to make to me that was beyond all that he had heard had 
offered themselves, and this was a merchant. Sir Robert and I agreed 
exactly in our notions of a merchant. Sir Robert said, and I found it to be 
true, that a true-bred merchant is the best gentleman in the nation; that 
in knowledge, in manners, in judgment of things, the merchant outdid many 
of the nobility; that having once mastered the world and being above the 
demand of business, though no real estate, they were then superior to most 
gentlemen even in estate; that a merchant in flush business and a capital 
stock is able to spend more money than a gentleman of £5000 a year estate; 
that while a merchant spent, he only spent what he got, and not that, and 
that he laid up great sums every year.
That an estate is a pond, but that a trade was a spring; that if the first 
is once mortgaged it seldom gets clear, but embarrasses the person for 
ever; but the merchant had his estate continually flowing; and upon this he 
named me merchants who lived in more real splendour and spent more money 
than most of the noblemen in England could singly expend, and that they 
still grew immensely rich.
He went on to tell me that even the tradesmen in London, speaking of the 
better sort of trades, could spend more money in their families and yet 
give better fortunes to their children than, generally speaking, the gentry 
of England from £1000 a year downward could do, and yet grow rich too.
The upshot of all this was to recommend to me rather the bestowing my 
fortune upon some eminent merchant who lived already in the first figure of 
a merchant, and who, not being in want or scarcity of money, but having a 
flourishing business and a flowing cash, would at the first word settle all 
my fortune on myself and children and maintain me like a queen.
This was certainly right, and had I taken his advice I had been really 
happy; but my heart was bent upon an independency of fortune, and I told 
him I knew no state of matrimony but what was at best a state of 
inferiority, if not of bondage; that I had no notion of it, that I lived a 
life of absolute liberty now, was free as I was born, and, having a 
plentiful fortune, I did not understand what coherence the words Honour and 
Obey had with the liberty of a free woman; that I knew no reason the men 
had to engross the whole liberty of the race and make the women, 
notwithstanding any disparity of fortune, be subject to the laws of 
marriage of their own making; that it was my misfortune to be a woman, but 
I was resolved it should not be made worse by the sex, and seeing liberty 
seemed to be the men's property, I would be a man-woman; for as I was born 
free, I would die so.
Sir Robert smiled, and told me I talked a kind of amazonian language; that 
he found few women of my mind, or that if they were, they wanted resolution 
to go on with it; that notwithstanding all my notions, which he could not 
but say had once some weight in them, yet he understood I had broken in 
upon them and had been married. I answered I had so, but he did not hear me 
say that I had any encouragement from what was past to make a second 
venture; that I was got well out of the toil, and if I came in again I 
should have nobody to blame but myself.
Sir Robert laughed heartily at me but gave over offering any more 
arguments, only told me he had pointed me out for some of the best 
merchants in London, but since I forbade him, he would give me no 
disturbance of that kind. He applauded my way of managing my money, and 
told me I should soon be monstrous rich; but he neither knew nor mistrusted 
that with all this wealth I was yet a whore, and was not averse to adding 
to my estate at the further expense of my virtue.
But to go on with my story as to my way of living. I found, as above, that 
my living as I did would not answer; that it only brought the fortune-
hunters and bites about me, as I have said before, to make a prey of me and 
my money; and, in short, I was harassed with lovers, beaux, and fops of 
quality in abundance. But it would not do; I aimed at other things, and was 
possessed with so vain an opinion of my own beauty, that nothing less than 
the King himself was in my eye; and this vanity was raised by some words 
let fall by a person I conversed with, who was perhaps likely enough to 
have brought such a thing to pass had it been sooner, but that game began 
to be pretty well over at Court. However, the having mentioned such a 
thing, it seems, a little too publicly, it brought abundance of people 
about me, upon a wicked account too.
And now I began to act in a new sphere. The Court was exceeding gay and 
fine, though fuller of men than of women, the Queen not affecting to be 
very much in public. On the other hand, it is no slander upon the courtiers 
to say they were as wicked as anybody in reason could desire them. The King 
had several mistresses, who were prodigious fine, and there was a glorious 
show on that side indeed. If the Sovereign gave himself a loose, it could 
not be expected the rest of the Court should be all saints; so far was it 
from that, though I would not make it worse than it was, that a woman that 
had anything agreeable in her appearance could never want followers.
I soon found myself thronged with admirers, and I received visits from some 
persons of very great figure, who always introduced themselves by the help 
of an old lady or two who were now become my intimates; and one of them, I 
understood afterwards, was set to work on purpose to get into my favour, in 
order to introduce what followed.
The conversation we had was generally courtly but civil. At length some 
gentlemen proposed to play, and made what they called a party. This, it 
seems, was a contrivance of one of my female hangers-on, for, as I said, I 
had two of them, who thought this was the way to introduce people as often 
as she pleased, and so indeed it was. They played high and stayed late, but 
begged my pardon, only asked leave to make an appointment for the next 
night. I was as gay and as well pleased as any of them, and one night told 
one of the gentlemen, my Lord --, that seeing they were doing me the honour 
of diverting themselves at my apartment, and desired to be there sometimes, 
I did not keep a gaming table, but I would give them a little ball the next 
day if they pleased, which they accepted very willingly.
Accordingly in the evening the gentlemen began to come, where I let them 
see that I understood very well what such things meant. I had a large 
dining-room in my apartments, with five other rooms on the same floor, all 
which I made drawing-rooms for the occasion, having all the beds taken down 
for the day. In three of these I had tables placed, covered with wine and 
sweetmeats; the fourth had a green table for play, and the fifth was my own 
room, where I sat and where I received all the company that came to pay 
their compliments to me. I was dressed, you may be sure, to all the 
advantage possible, and had all the jewels on that I was mistress of. My 
Lord --, to whom I had made the invitation, sent me a set of fine music 
from the playhouse, and the ladies danced and we began to be very merry, 
when about eleven o'clock I had notice given me that there were some 
gentlemen coming in masquerade.
I seemed a little surprised and began to apprehend some disturbance, when 
my Lord --, perceiving it, spoke to me to be easy, for that there was a 
party of the Guards at the door which should be ready to prevent any 
rudeness; and another gentleman gave me a hint as if the King was among the 
masks. I coloured as red as blood itself could make a face look, and 
expressed a great surprise. However, there was no going back, so I kept my 
station in my drawing-room, but with the folding-doors wide open.
A while after the masks came in and began with a dance a la comique, 
performing wonderfully indeed. While they were dancing I withdrew, and left 
a lady to answer for me that I would return immediately. In less than half 
an hour I returned, dressed in the habit of a Turkish princess, the habit I 
got at Leghorn when my foreign Prince bought me a Turkish slave, as I have 
said - the Maltese man-of-war had, it seems, taken a Turkish vessel going 
from Constantinople to Alexandria, in which were some ladies bound for 
Grand Cairo in Egypt, and as the ladies were made slaves, so their fine 
clothes were thus exposed - and with this Turkish slave I bought the rich 
clothes too. The dress was extraordinary fine indeed, I had bought it as a 
curiosity, having never seen the like; the robe was a fine Persian or 
Indian damask, the ground white and the flowers blue and gold, and the 
train held five yards; the dress under it was a vest of the same, 
embroidered with gold, and set with some pearls in the work and some 
turquoise stones; to the vest was a girdle five or six inches wide, after 
the Turkish mode, and on both ends where it joined or hooked was set with 
diamonds for eight inches either way, only they were not true diamonds, but 
nobody knew that but myself.
The turban or head-dress had a pinnacle on the top, but not above five 
inches, with a piece of loose sarcenet hanging from it, and on the front, 
just over the forehead, was a good jewel, which I had added to it.
This habit, as above, cost me about sixty pistoles in Italy, but cost much 
more in the country from whence it came; and little did I think when I 
bought it that I should put it to such a use as this, though I had dressed 
myself in it many times by the help of my little Turk, and afterwards 
between Amy and I, only to see how I looked in it. I had sent her up before 
to get it ready, and when I came up I had nothing to do but slip it on, and 
was down in my drawing-room in a little more than a quarter of an hour. 
When I came there the room was full of company, but I ordered the folding-
doors to be shut for a minute or two, till I had received the compliments 
of the ladies that were in the room, and had given them a full view of my 
dress.
But my Lord --, who happened to be in the room, slipped out at another door 
and brought back with him one of the masks, a tall well-shaped person, but 
who had no name, being all masked, nor would it have been allowed to ask 
any person's name on such an occasion. The person spoke in French to me 
that it was the finest dress he had ever seen, and asked me if he should 
have the honour to dance with me. I bowed, as giving my consent, but said 
as I had been a Mohammedan I could not dance after the manner of this 
country; I supposed their music would not play a la moresque. He answered 
merrily I had a Christian's face, and he 'd venture it that I could dance 
like a Christian, adding that so much beauty could not be Mohammedan. 
Immediately the folding-doors were flung open, and he led me into the room. 
The company were under the greatest surprise imaginable, the very music 
stopped awhile to gaze; for the dress was indeed exceedingly surprising, 
perfectly new, very agreeable, and wonderful rich.
The gentleman, whoever he was, for I never knew, led me only a courant, and 
then asked me if I had a mind to dance an antic, that is to say, whether I 
would dance the antic as they had danced in masquerade, or anything by 
myself. I told him anything else rather, if he pleased; so we danced only 
two French dances, and he led me to the drawing-room door, when he retired 
to the rest of the masks. When he left me at the drawing-room door I did 
not go in, as he thought I would have done, but turned about and showed 
myself to the whole room, and, calling my woman to me, gave her some 
directions to the music, by which the company presently understood that I 
would give them a dance by myself. Immediately all the house rose up and 
paid me a kind of a compliment by removing back every way to make me room, 
for the place was exceeding full. The music did not at first hit the tune 
that I directed, which was a French tune, so I was forced to send my woman 
to them again, standing all this while at my drawing-room door; but as soon 
as my woman spoke to them again they played it right, and I, to let them 
see it was so, stepped forward to the middle of the room Then they began it 
again, and I danced by myself a figure which I learnt in France when the 
Prince de -- desired I would dance for his diversion. It was indeed a very 
fine figure, invented by a famous master at Paris, for a lady or a 
gentleman to dance single, but being perfectly new it pleased the company 
exceedingly, and they all thought it had been Turkish; nay, one gentleman 
had the folly to expose himself so much as to say, and I think swore too, 
that he had seen it danced at Constantinople; which was ridiculous enough.
At the finishing the dance the company clapped and almost shouted; and one 
of the gentlemen cried out, Roxana! Roxana! by, with an oath, upon which 
foolish accident I had the name of Roxana presently fixed upon me all over 
the Court end of town as effectually as if I had been christened Roxana. I 
had, it seems, the felicity of pleasing everybody that night to an extreme, 
and my ball, but especially my dress, was the chat of the town for that 
week, and so the name Roxana was the toast at and about the Court; no other 
health was to be named with it.
Now things began to work as I would have them, and I began to be very 
popular as much as I could desire. The ball held till (as well as I was 
pleased with the show) I was sick of the night; the gentlemen masked went 
off about three o'clock in the morning, the other gentlemen sat down to 
play; the music held it out, and some of the ladies were dancing at six in 
the morning.
But I was mighty eager to know who it was danced with me. Some of the lords 
went so far as to tell me I was very much honoured in my company. One of 
them spoke so broad as almost to say it was the King, but I was convinced 
afterwards it was not; and another replied if he had been His Majesty he 
should have thought it no dishonour to lead up a Roxana. But to this hour I 
never knew positively who it was, and by his behaviour I thought he was too 
young, His Majesty being at that time in an age that might be discovered 
from a young person even in his dancing.
Be that as it would, I had 500 guineas sent me the next morning, and the 
messenger was ordered to tell me that the persons who sent it desired a 
ball again at my lodgings on the next Tuesday, but that they would have my 
leave to give the entertainment themselves. I was mighty well pleased with 
this, to be sure, but very inquisitive to know who the money came from; but 
the messenger was silent as death as to that point, and, bowing always at 
my enquiries, begged me to ask no questions which he could not give an 
obliging answer to.
I forgot to mention that the gentlemen that played gave a hundred guineas 
to the box, as they called it, and at the end of their play they asked my 
gentlewoman of the bedchamber, as they called her (Mrs. Amy, forsooth), and 
gave it her, and gave twenty guineas more among the servants.
These magnificent doings equally both pleased and surprised me, and I 
hardly knew where I was; but especially that notion of the King being the 
person that danced with me puffed me up to that degree, that I not only did 
not know anybody else, but indeed was very far from knowing myself.
I had now the next Tuesday to provide for the like company, but, alas! it 
was all taken out of my hand. Three gentlemen, who yet were, it seems, but 
servants, came on the Saturday, and bringing sufficient testimonies that 
they were right, for one was the same who brought the 500 guineas - I say 
three of them came and brought bottles of all sorts of wines and hampers of 
sweetmeats to such a quantity, it appeared they designed to hold the trade 
on more than once, and that they would furnish everything to a profusion.
However, as I found a deficiency in two things, I made provision of about 
twelve dozen of fine damask napkins, with table-cloths of the same, 
sufficient to cover all the tables, with three tablecloths upon every 
table, and sideboards in proportion. Also, I bought a handsome quantity of 
plate, necessary to have served all the sideboards, but the gentlemen would 
not suffer any of it to be used, telling me they had brought fine china 
dishes and plates for the whole service, and that in such public places 
they could not be answerable for the plate; so it was set all up in a large 
glass cupboard in the room I sat in, where it made a very good show indeed.
On Tuesday there came such an appearance of gentlemen and ladies that my 
apartments were by no means able to receive them, and those who in 
particular appeared as principals gave order below to let no more company 
come up. The street was full of coaches with coronets, and fine glass 
chairs; and, in short, it was impossible to receive the company. I kept my 
little room, as before, and the dancers filled the great room; all the 
drawing-rooms also were filled, and three rooms below-stairs which were not 
mine.
It was very well that there was a strong party of the Guards brought to 
keep the door, for without that there had been such a promiscuous crowd, 
and some of them scandalous too, that we should have been all disorder and 
confusion; but the three head servants managed all that, and had a word to 
admit all the company by.
It was uncertain to me, and is to this day, who it was that danced with me 
the Wednesday before, when the ball was my own; but that the King was at 
this assembly was out of question with me, by circumstances that I suppose 
I could not be deceived in, and particularly that there were five persons 
who were not masked, three of them had blue garters, and they appeared not 
to me till I came out to dance.
This meeting was managed just as the first, though with much more 
magnificence because of the company. I placed myself (exceedingly rich in 
clothes and Jewels) in the middle of my little room, as before, and made my 
compliments to all the company as they passed me, as I did before; but my 
Lord --, who had spoken openly to me the first night, came to me and, 
unmasking, told me the company had ordered him to tell me they hoped they 
should see me in the dress I had appeared in the first day, which had been 
so acceptable that it had been the occasion of this new meeting. 'And, 
madam,' says he, 'there are some in this assembly whom it is worth your 
while to oblige.'
I bowed to my Lord -- and immediately withdrew. While I was above, a-
dressing in my new habit, two ladies, perfectly unknown to me, were 
conveyed into my apartment below, by the order of a noble person who, with 
his family, had been in Persia; and here indeed I thought I should have 
been outdone, or perhaps balked.
One of these ladies was dressed most exquisitely fine indeed, in the habit 
of a virgin lady of quality of Georgia, and the other in the same habit of 
Armenia, with each of them a woman slave to attend them.
The ladies had their petticoats short to their ankles, but pleated all 
round, and before them short aprons, but of the finest point that could be 
seen; their gowns were made with long antique sleeves hanging down behind, 
and a train let down; they had no jewels, but their heads and breasts were 
dressed up with flowers, and they both came in veiled.
Their slaves were bareheaded, but their long black hair was braided in 
locks hanging down behind to their waists, and tied up with ribbons; they 
were dressed exceedingly rich, and were as beautiful as their mistresses, 
for none of them had any masks on. They waited in my room till I came down, 
and all paid their respects to me after the Persian manner, and sat down on 
a safra, that is to say, almost cross-legged on a couch made up of cushions 
laid on the ground.
This was admirably fine, and I was indeed startled at it. They made their 
compliments to me in French and I replied in the same language. When the 
doors were opened they walked into the dancing-room, and danced such a 
dance as indeed nobody there had ever seen, and to an instrument like a 
guitar with a small low-sounding trumpet, which indeed was very fine, and 
which my Lord -- had provided.
They danced three times all alone, for nobody indeed could dance with them. 
The novelty pleased truly, but yet there was something wild and bizarre in 
it, because they really acted to the life the barbarous country whence they 
came; but as mine had the French behaviour under the Mohammedan dress, it 
was every way as new, and pleased much better indeed.
As soon as they had shown their Georgian and Armenian shapes, and danced, 
as I have said, three times, they withdrew, paid their compliments to me 
(for I was Queen of the day), and went off to undress.
Some gentlemen then danced with ladies all in masks, and when they stopped 
nobody rose up to dance, but all called out, Roxana! Roxana! In the 
interval my Lord -- had brought another masked person into my room, whom I 
knew not, only that I could discern it was not the same person that led me 
out before. This noble person (for I afterwards understood it was the Duke 
of --) after a short compliment led me out into the middle of the room.
I was dressed in the same vest and girdle as before, but the robe had a 
mantle over it, which is usual in the Turkish habit, and it was of crimson 
and green, the green brocaded with gold; and my Tyhiaai, or head-dress, 
varied a little from that I had before, as it stood higher and had some 
jewels about the rising part, which made it look like a turban crowned.
I had no mask, neither did I paint, and yet I had the day of all the ladies 
that appeared at the ball, I mean of those that appeared with faces on; as 
for those masked, nothing could be said of them, no doubt there might be 
many finer than I was. It must be confessed that the habit was infinitely 
advantageous to me, and everybody looked at me with a kind of pleasure, 
which gave me great advantage too.
After I had danced with that noble person I did not offer to dance by 
myself, as I had before; but they all called out Roxana! again, and two of 
the gentlemen came into the drawing-room to entreat me to give them the 
Turkish dance, which I yielded to readily; so I came out and danced just as 
at first.
While I was dancing I perceived five persons standing all together, and 
among them one only with his hat on; it was an immediate hint to me who it 
was, and had at first almost put me into some disorder; but I went on, 
received the applause of the house, as before, and retired into my own 
room. When I was there the five gentlemen came across the room to my side, 
and coming in, followed by a throng of great persons, the person with his 
hat on said, 'Madam Roxana, you perform to admiration.' I was prepared, and 
offered to kneel to kiss his hand, but he declined it and saluted me, and 
so, passing back again through the great room, went away.
I do not say here who this was, but I say I came afterwards to know 
something more plainly. I would have withdrawn and disrobed, being somewhat 
too thin in that dress, unlaced and open-breasted as if I had been in my 
shift, but it could not be, and I was obliged to dance afterwards with six 
or eight gentlemen, most, if not all of them, of the first rank; and I was 
told afterwards that one of them was the D -- of M --th.
About two or three o'clock in the morning the company began to decrease, 
the number of women especially dropped away home, some and some at a time, 
and the gentlemen retired downstairs, where they unmasked and went to play.
Amy waited at the room where they played, sat up all night to attend them; 
and in the morning, when they broke up, they swept the box into her lap, 
when she counted out to me sixty-two guineas and a half; and the other 
servants got very well too. Amy came to me when they were all gone. 'Law, 
madam!' says Amy with a long gaping cry, 'what shall I do with all this 
money?' And indeed the poor creature was half mad with joy.
I was now in my element. I was as much talked of as anybody could desire, 
and I did not doubt but some thing or other would come of it, but the 
report of my being so rich rather was a balk to my view than anything else; 
for the gentlemen, that would perhaps have been troublesome enough 
otherwise, seemed to be kept off, for Roxana was too high for them.
There is a scene which came in here which I must cover from human eyes or 
ears. For three years and about a month Roxana lived retired, having been 
obliged to make an excursion in a manner and with a person which duty and 
private vows oblige her not to reveal, at least not yet.
At the end of this time I appeared again, but I must add that as I had in 
this time of retreat made hay, etc., so I did not come abroad again with 
the same lustre or shine with so much advantage as before; for as some 
people had got at least a suspicion of where I had been and who had had me 
all the while, it began to be public that Roxana was, in short, a mere 
Roxana, neither better nor worse, and not that woman of honour and virtue 
that was at first supposed.
You are now to suppose me about seven years come to town, and that I had 
not only suffered the old revenue, which I hinted was managed by Sir Robert 
Clayton, to grow, as was mentioned before, but I had laid up an incredible 
wealth, the time considered. And had I yet had the least thought of 
reforming, I had all the opportunity to do it with advantage that ever 
woman had, for the common vice of all whores, I mean money, was out of the 
question, nay, even avarice itself seemed to be glutted; for, including 
what I had saved in reserving the interest of £14,000, which, as above, I 
had left to grow, and including some very good presents I had made to me in 
mere compliment upon these shining masquerading meetings, which I held up 
for about two years, and what I made of three years of the most glorious 
retreat, as I call it, that ever woman had, I had fully doubled my first 
substance, and had near £5000 in money which I kept at home, besides 
abundance of plate and jewels which I had either given me or had bought to 
set myself out for public days.
In a word, I had now £35,000 estate, and as I found ways to live without 
wasting either principal or interest, I laid up £2000 every year at least, 
out of the mere interest, adding it to the principal; and thus I went on.
After the end of what I may call my retreat, and out of which I brought a 
great deal of money, I appeared again, but I seemed like an old piece of 
plate that has been hoarded up some years and comes out tarnished and 
discoloured. So I came out blown and looked like a cast-off mistress, nor 
indeed was I any better, though I was not at all impaired in beauty, except 
that I was a little fatter than I was formerly, and always granting that I 
was four years older.
However, I preserved the youth of my temper, was always bright, pleasant in 
company, and agreeable to everybody, or else everybody flattered me; and in 
this condition I came abroad to the world again; and though I was not so 
popular as before, and indeed did not seek it, because I knew it could not 
be, yet I was far from being without company, and that of the greatest 
quality, of subjects I mean, who frequently visited me, and sometimes we 
had meetings for mirth and play at my apartments, where I failed not to 
divert them in the most agreeable manner possible.
Nor could any of them make the least particular application to me from the 
notion they had of my excessive wealth, which, as they thought, placed me 
above the meanness of a maintenance, and so left no room to come easily 
about me.
But at last I was very handsomely attacked by a person of honour, and 
(which recommended him particularly to me) a person of a very great estate. 
He made a long introduction to me upon the subject of my wealth. 'Ignorant 
creature,' said I to myself, 'considering him as a lord; was there ever 
woman in the world that could stoop to the baseness of being a whore and 
was above taking the reward of her vice? No, no, depend upon it, if your 
lordship obtains anything of me you must pay for it; and the notion of my 
being so rich serves only to make it cost you the dearer, seeing you cannot 
offer a small matter to a woman of £2000 a year estate.'
After he had harangued upon that subject a good while, and had assured me 
he had no design upon me, that he did not come to make a prize of me, or to 
pick my pocket - which, by the way, I was in no fear of, for I took too 
much care of my money to part with any of it that way - he then turned his 
discourse to the subject of love, a point so ridiculous to me without the 
main thing, I mean the money, that I had no patience to hear him make so 
long a story of it.
I received him civilly, and let him see I could bear to hear a wicked 
proposal without being affronted, and yet I was not to be brought into it 
too easily. He visited me a long while and, in short, courted me as closely 
and assiduously as if he had been wooing me to matrimony. He made me 
several valuable presents, which I suffered myself to be prevailed with to 
accept, but not without great difficulty.
Gradually I suffered also his other importunities, and when he made a 
proposal of a compliment or appointment to me for a settlement, he said 
that though I was rich, yet there was not the less due from him to 
acknowledge the favours he received, and that if I was to be his I should 
not live at my own expense, cost what it would. I told him I was far from 
being extravagant, and yet I did not live at the expense of less than £500 
a year out of my own pocket; that, however, I was not covetous of settled 
allowances, for I looked upon that as a kind of golden chain, something 
like matrimony; that though I knew how to be true to a man of honour, as I 
knew his lordship to be, yet I had a kind of aversion to the bonds, and 
though I was not so rich as the world talked me up to be, yet I was not so 
poor as to bind myself to hardships for a pension.
He told me he expected to make my life perfectly easy, and intended it so; 
that he knew of no bondage there could be in a private engagement between 
us; that the bonds of honour, he knew, I would be tied by, and think them 
no burthen; and for other obligations, he scorned to expect anything from 
me but what he knew as a woman of honour I could grant; then as to 
maintenance, he told me he would soon show me that he valued me infinitely 
above £500 a year; and upon this foot we began.
I seemed kinder to him after this discourse, and as time and private 
conversation made us very intimate, we began to come nearer to the main 
article, namely, the £500 a year. He offered that at first word, and to 
acknowledge it as an infinite favour to have it be accepted of; and I, that 
thought it was too much by all the money, suffered myself to be mastered or 
prevailed with to yield, even on but a bare engagement upon parole.
When he had obtained his end that way, I told him my mind. 'Now you see, my 
Lord,' said I, 'how weakly I have acted, namely, to yield to you without 
any capitulation, or anything secured to me but that which you may cease to 
allow when you please; if I am the less valued for such a confidence, I 
shall be injured in a manner that I will endeavour not to deserve.'
He told me that he would make it evident to me that he did not seek me by 
way of bargain, as such things were often done; that as I had treated him 
with a generous confidence, so I should find I was in the hands of a man of 
honour, and one that knew how to value the obligation. And upon this he 
pulled out a goldsmith's bill for £300, which, putting it into my hand, he 
said he gave me as a pledge that I should not be a loser by my not having 
made a bargain with him.
This was engaging indeed, and gave me a good idea of our future 
correspondence; and in short, as I could not refrain treating him with more 
kindness than I had done before, so one thing begetting another, I gave him 
several testimonies that I was entirely his own, by inclination as well as 
by the common obligation of a mistress; and this pleased him exceedingly.
Soon after this private engagement I began to consider whether it were not 
more suitable to the manner of life I now led, to be a little less public, 
and as I told my Lord it would rid me of the importunities of others, and 
of continual visits from a sort of people whom he knew of, and who, by the 
way, having now got the notion of me which I really deserved, began to talk 
of the old game, love and gallantry, and to offer at what was rude enough; 
things as nauseous to me now as if I had been married and as virtuous as 
other people. The visits of these people began indeed to be uneasy to me, 
and particularly as they were always very tedious and impertinent; nor 
could my Lord -- be pleased with them at all if they had gone on. It would 
be diverting to set down here in what manner I repulsed these sort of 
people; how in some I resented it as an affront, and told them that I was 
sorry they should oblige me to vindicate myself from the scandal of such 
suggestions by telling them that I could see them no more, and by desiring 
them not to give themselves the trouble of visiting me, who, though I was 
not unwilling to be uncivil, yet thought myself obliged never to receive 
any visit from any gentleman after he had made such proposals as those to 
me - but these things would be too tedious to bring in here. It was on this 
account I proposed to his lordship my taking new lodgings for privacy; 
besides, I considered that as I might live very handsomely and yet not so 
publicly, so I need not spend so much money, by a great deal, and if I made 
£500 a year of this generous person, it was more than I had any occasion to 
spend, by a great deal.
My Lord came readily into this proposal and went further than I expected, 
for he found out a lodging for me in a very handsome house where yet he was 
not known - I suppose he had employed somebody to find it out for him - and 
where he had a convenient way to come into the garden, by a door that 
opened into the park, a thing very rarely allowed in those times.
By this key he could come in at what time of night or day he pleased, and 
as we had also a little door in the lower part of the house, which was 
always left upon a lock, and his was the master-key, so if it was twelve, 
one, or two o'clock at night he could come directly into my bedchamber. 
N.B. - I was not afraid I should be found a-bed with anybody else, for, in 
a word, I conversed with nobody at all.
It happened pleasantly enough one night; his lordship had stayed late, and 
I, not expecting him that night, had taken Amy to bed with me, and when my 
Lord came into the chamber we were both fast asleep; I think it was near 
three o'clock when he came in, and a little merry, but not at all fuddled 
or what they call in drink, and he came at once into the room.
Amy was frighted out of her wits and cried out. I said calmly, 'Indeed, my 
Lord, I did not expect you tonight, and we have been a little frighted 
tonight with fire.' 'Oh!' says he, 'I see you have got a bedfellow with 
you.' I began to make an apology. 'No, no,' says my Lord, 'you need no 
excuse, 'tis not a man-bedfellow I see.' But then, talking merrily enough, 
he caught his words back. 'But hark ye,' says he, 'now I think on 't, how 
shall I be satisfied it is not a man-bedfellow?' 'Oh,' says I, 'I dare say 
your lordship is satisfied 'tis poor Amy.' 'Yes,' says he, ''tis Mrs. Amy, 
but how do I know what Amy is? It may be Mr. Amy for aught I know; I hope 
you'll give me leave to be satisfied.' I told him, yes, by all means I 
would have his lordship satisfied, but I supposed he knew who she was.
Well, he fell foul of poor Amy, and indeed I thought once he would have 
carried the jest on before my face, as was once done in a like case. But 
his lordship was not so hot neither but he would know whether Amy was Mr. 
Amy or Mrs. Amy, and so I suppose he did; and then being satisfied in that 
doubtful case, he walked to the further end of the room and went into a 
little closet and sat down.
In the meantime Amy and I got up, and I bid her run and make the bed in 
another chamber for my Lord, and I gave her sheets to put into it, which 
she did immediately, and I put my Lord to bed there and, when I had done at 
his desire, went to bed to him. I was backward at first to come to bed to 
him, and made my excuse, because I had been in bed with Amy and had not 
shifted me, but he was past those niceties at that time, and as long as he 
was sure it was Mrs. Amy and not Mr. Amy he was very well satisfied, and so 
the jest passed over; but Amy appeared no more all that night or the next 
day, and when she did, my Lord was so merry with her upon his 
eclaircissement, as he called it, that Amy did not know what to do with 
herself.
Not that Amy was such a nice lady in the main if she had been fairly dealt 
with, as has appeared in the former part of this work, but now she was 
surprised and a little hurried, that she scarce knew where she was, and 
besides she was, as to his lordship, as nice a lady as any in the world, 
and, for anything he knew of her, she appeared as such; the rest was to us 
only that knew of it.
I held this wicked scene of life out eight years, reckoning from my first 
coming to England, and though my Lord found no fault, yet I found without 
much examining that any one who looked in my face might see I was above 
twenty years old, and yet, without flattering myself, I carried my age, 
which was above fifty, very well too.
I may venture to say that no woman ever lived a life like me, of six and 
twenty years of wickedness, without the least signals of remorse, without 
any signs of repentance, or without so much as a wish to put an end to it. 
I had so long habituated myself to a life of vice, that really it appeared 
to be no vice to me, I went on smooth and pleasant. I wallowed in wealth, 
and it flowed in upon me at such a rate, having taken the frugal measures 
that the good knight directed, so that I had at the end of the eight years 
£2800 coming in yearly, of which I did not spend one penny, being 
maintained by my allowance from my Lord --, and more than maintained, by 
above £200 per annum; for though he did not contract for £500 a year, as I 
made dumb signs to have it be, yet he gave me money so often, and that in 
such large parcels, that I had seldom so little as £700 to £800 a year of 
him, one year with another.
I must go back here, after telling openly the wicked things I did, to 
mention something which, however, had the face of doing good. I remembered 
that when I went from England, which was fifteen years before, I had left 
five little children, turned out, as it were, to the wide world, and to the 
charity of their father's relations. The eldest was not six years old, for 
we had not been married full seven years when their father went away.
After my coming to England I was greatly desirous to hear how things stood 
with them, and whether they were all alive or not, and in what manner they 
had been maintained; and yet I resolved not to discover myself to them in 
the least, or to let any of the people that had the breeding of them up 
know that there was such a body left in the world as their mother.
Amy was the only body I could trust with such a commission, and I sent her 
into Spitalfields to the old aunt, and to the poor woman that was so 
instrumental in disposing the relations to take some care of the children, 
but they were both gone, dead and buried some years. The next enquiry she 
made was at the house where she carried the poor children and turned them 
in at the door. When she came there she found the house inhabited by other 
people, so that she could make little or nothing of her enquiries, and came 
back with an answer that was indeed no answer to me, for it gave me no 
satisfaction at all. I sent her back to enquire in the neighbourhood what 
was become of the family that lived in that house, and if they were 
removed, where they lived and what circumstances they were in, and withal, 
if she could, what became of the poor children, and how they lived and 
where, how they had been treated, and the like.
She brought me back word upon this second going that she heard as to the 
family, that the husband, who though but uncle-in-law to the children had 
yet been kindest to them, was dead, and that the widow was left but in mean 
circumstances, that is to say, she did not want, but that she was not so 
well in the world as she was thought to be when her husband was alive.
That as to the poor children, two of them, it seems, had been kept by her, 
that is to say, by her husband while he lived, for that it was against her 
will, that we all knew; but the honest neighbours pitied the poor children, 
they said, heartily; for that their aunt used them barbarously and made 
them little better than servants in the house, to wait upon her and her 
children, and scarce allowed them clothes fit to wear.
These were, it seems, my eldest and third, which were daughters; the second 
was a son, the fourth a daughter, and the youngest a son.
To finish the melancholy part of this history of my two unhappy girls, she 
brought me word that as soon as they were able to go out and get any work, 
they went from her; and some said she had turned them out of doors, but it 
seems she had not done so, but she used them so cruelly that they left her, 
and one of them went to service to a neighbour's a little way off, who knew 
her, an honest, substantial weaver's wife, to whom she was chambermaid, and 
in a little time she took her sister out of the bridewell of her aunt's 
house and got her a place too.
This was all melancholy and dull. I sent her then to the weaver's house, 
where the eldest had lived, but found that her mistress being dead, she was 
gone, and nobody knew there whither she went; only that they heard she had 
lived with a great lady at the other end of the town, but they did not know 
who that lady was.
These enquiries took us up three or four weeks, and I was not one jot the 
better for it, for I could hear nothing to my satisfaction. I sent her next 
to find out the honest man who, as in the beginning of my story I observed, 
made them be entertained, and caused the youngest to be fetched from the 
town where we lived, and where the parish officers had taken care of him. 
This gentleman was still alive; and there she heard that my youngest 
daughter and eldest son were dead also, but that my youngest son was alive 
and was at that time about seventeen years old, and that he was put out 
apprentice by the kindness and charity of his uncle, but to a mean trade, 
and at which he was obliged to work very hard.
Amy was so curious in this part that she went immediately to see him, and 
found him all dirty and hard at work. She had no remembrance at all of the 
youth, for she had not seen him since he was about two years old, and it 
was evident he could have no knowledge of her.
However, she talked with him and found him a good, sensible, mannerly 
youth; that he knew little of the story of his father or mother, and had no 
view of anything but to work hard for his living; and she did not think fit 
to put any great things into his head, lest it should take him off his 
business and perhaps make him turn giddy-headed and be good for nothing; 
but she went and found out that kind man his benefactor who had put him 
out, and finding him a plain, well-meaning, honest, and kind-hearted man, 
she opened her tale to him the easier. She made a long story, how she had a 
prodigious kindness for the child because she had the same for his father 
and mother; told him that she was the servant-maid that brought all of them 
to their aunt's door and ran away and left them; that their poor mother 
wanted bread, and what came of her after, she would have been glad to know. 
She added that her circumstances had happened to mend in the world, and 
that as she was in condition, so she was disposed to show some kindness to 
the children if she could find them out.
He received her with all the civility that so kind a proposal demanded, 
gave her an account of what he had done for the child; how he had 
maintained him, fed and clothed him, put him to school, and at last put him 
out to a trade. She said he had indeed been a father to the child. 'But, 
sir,' says she, ''tis a very laborious, hard-working trade, and he is but a 
thin weak boy.' 'That's true,' says he, 'but the boy chose the trade, and I 
assure you I gave £20 with him, and am to find him clothes all his 
apprenticeship. And as to its being a hard trade,' says he, 'that's the 
fate of his circumstances, poor boy; I could not well do better for him.'
'Well, sir, as you did all for him in charity,' says she, 'it was exceeding 
well; but as my resolution is to do something for him, I desire you will if 
possible take him away again from that place where he works so hard, for I 
cannot bear to see the child work so very hard for his bread, and I will do 
something for him that shall make him live without such hard labour.'
He smiled at that. 'I can indeed,' says he, 'take him away, but then I must 
lose my £20 that I gave with him.'
'Well, sir,' said Amy, 'I'll enable you to lose that £20 immediately '; and 
so she puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out her purse.
He began to be a little amazed at her and looked her hard in the face, and 
that so very much that she took notice of it and said, 'Sir, I fancy by 
your looking at me you think you know me, but I am assured you do not, for 
I never saw your face before; I think you have done enough for the child, 
and that you ought to be acknowledged as a father to him, but you ought not 
to lose by your kindness to him, more than the kindness of bringing him up 
obliges you to; and therefore there's the £20,' added she, 'and pray let 
him be fetched away.'
'Well, madam,' says he, 'I will thank you for the boy, as well as for 
myself, but will you please to tell me what I must do with him.'
'Sir,' says Amy, 'as you have been so kind to keep him so many years, I beg 
you will take him home again one year more, and I'll bring you £100 more, 
which I will desire you to lay out in schooling and clothes for him, and to 
pay you for his board; perhaps I may put him in a condition to return your 
kindness.'
He looked pleased, but surprised very much, and enquired of Amy, but with 
very great respect, what he should go to school to learn, and what trade 
she would please to put him out to.
Amy said he should put him to learn a little Latin, and then merchants' 
accounts, and to write a good hand, for she would have him be put to a 
Turkey merchant.
'Madam,' says he, 'I am glad for his sake to hear you talk so, but do you 
know that a Turkey merchant will not take him under four or five hundred 
pounds?'
'Yes, sir,' says Amy, 'I know it very well.'
'And,' says he, 'that it will require as many thousands to set him up?'
'Yes, sir,' says Amy, 'I know that very well too '; and resolving to talk 
very big, she added, 'I have no children of my own and I resolve to make 
him my heir, and if ten thousand pounds be required to set him up, he shall 
not want it; I was but his mother's servant when he was born, and I mourned 
heartily for the disaster of the family, and I always said if ever I was 
worth anything in the world I would take the child for my own, and I'll be 
as good as my word now, though I did not then foresee that it would be with 
me as it has been since.' And so Amy told him a long story, how she was 
troubled for me, and what she would give to hear whether I was dead or 
alive, and what circumstances I was in; that if she could but find me, if I 
was ever so poor, she would take care of me and make a gentlewoman of me 
again.
He told her, that as to the child's mother, she had been reduced to the 
last extremity, and was obliged (as he supposed she knew) to send the 
children all among her husband's friends; and if it had not been for him, 
they had all been sent to the parish, but that he obliged the other 
relations to share the charge among them; that he had taken two, whereof he 
had lost the eldest, who died of the smallpox, but that he had been as 
careful of this as of his own, and had made very little difference in their 
breeding up; only that when he came to put him out, he thought it was best 
for the boy to put him to a trade which he might set up in without a stock, 
for otherwise his time would be lost; and that as to his mother, he had 
never been able to hear one word of her, no, not though he had made the 
utmost enquiry after her; that there went a report that she had drowned 
herself, but that he could never meet with anybody that could give him a 
certain account of it.
Amy counterfeited a cry for her poor mistress, told him she would give 
anything in the world to see her if she was alive, and a great deal more 
suchlike talk they had about that; then they returned to speak of the boy.
He enquired of her why she did not seek after the child before, that he 
might have been brought up from a younger age suitable to what she designed 
to do for him.
She told him she had been out of England, and was but newly returned from 
the East Indies. That she had been out of England, and was but newly 
returned, was true, but the latter was false, and was put in to blind him 
and provide against further enquiries, for it was not a strange thing for 
young women to go away poor to the East Indies and come home vastly rich. 
So she went on with directions about him, and both agreed in this, that the 
boy should by no means be told what was intended for him, but only that he 
should be taken home again to his uncle's, that his uncle thought the trade 
too hard for him, and the like.
About three days after this Amy goes again, and carried him the hundred 
pounds she promised him; but then Amy made quite another figure than she 
did before, for she went in my coach with two footmen after her, and 
dressed very fine also, with jewels and a gold watch; and there was indeed 
no great difficulty to make Amy look like a lady, for she was a very 
handsome, well-shaped woman, and genteel enough; the coachman and servants 
were particularly ordered to show her the same respect as they would to me, 
and to call her Madam Collins if they were asked any questions about her.
When the gentleman saw what a figure she made, it added to the former 
surprise, and he entertained her in the most respectful manner possible, 
congratulated her advancement in fortune, and particularly rejoiced that it 
should fall to the poor child's lot to be so provided for contrary to all 
expectation.
Well, Amy talked big, but very free and familiar, told them she had no 
pride in her good fortune (and that was true enough, for, to give Amy her 
due, she was far from it, and was as good-humoured a creature as ever 
lived), that she was the same as ever, and that she always loved this boy 
and was resolved to do something extraordinary for him.
Then she pulled out her money and paid him down £120, which, she said, she 
paid him that he might be sure he should be no loser by taking him home 
again, and that she would come and see him again and talk further about 
things with him, that so all might be settled for him in such a manner, as 
the accidents, such as mortality or anything else, should make no 
alteration to the child's prejudice.
At this meeting the uncle brought his wife out, a good, motherly, comely, 
grave woman, who spoke very tenderly of the youth and, as it appeared, had 
been very good to him, though she had several children of her own. After a 
long discourse she put in a word of her own. 'Madam,' says she, 'I am 
heartily glad of the good intentions you have for this poor orphan, and I 
rejoice sincerely in it for his sake, but, madam, you know, I suppose, that 
there are two sisters alive too, may we not speak a word for them? Poor 
girls,' says she, 'they have not been so kindly used as he has, and are 
turned out to the wide world.'
'Where are they, madam?' says Amy.
'Poor creatures,' says the gentlewoman, 'they are out at service, nobody 
knows where but themselves; their case is very hard.'
'Well, madam,' says Amy, 'though, if I could find them, I would assist 
them, yet my concern is for my boy, as I call him, and I will put him into 
a condition to take care of his sisters.'
'But, madam,' says the good, compassionate creature, 'he may not be so 
charitable perhaps by his own inclination, for brothers are not fathers; 
and they have been cruelly used already, poor girls; we have often relieved 
them, both with victuals and clothes too, even while they were pretended to 
be kept by their barbarous aunt.'
'Well, madam,' says Amy, 'what can I do for them? They are gone, it seems, 
and cannot be heard of. When I see them, 'tis time enough.'
She pressed Amy then to oblige their brother, out of the plentiful fortune 
he was like to have, to do something for his sisters when he should be 
able.
Amy spoke coldly of that still, but said she would consider of it, and so 
they parted for that time. They had several meetings after this, for Amy 
went to see her adopted son, and ordered his schooling, clothes, and other 
things, but enjoined them not to tell the young man anything but that they 
thought the trade he was at too hard for him, and they would keep him at 
home a little longer and give him some schooling to fit him for better 
business; and Amy appeared to him as she did before, only as one that had 
known his mother and had some kindness for him.
Thus this matter passed on for near a twelvemonth, when it happened that 
one of my maidservants having asked Amy leave, for Amy was mistress of the 
servants, and took and put out such as she pleased - I say, having asked 
leave to go into the city to see her friends, came home crying bitterly, 
and in a most grievous agony she was, and continued so several days, till 
Amy perceiving the excess, and that the maid would certainly cry herself 
sick, she took an opportunity with her and examined her about it.
The maid told her a long story, that she had been to see her brother, the 
only brother she had in the world, and that she knew he was put out 
apprentice to a --, but there had come a lady in a coach to his uncle --, 
who had brought him up, and made him take him home again; and so the wench 
ran on with the whole story, just as 'tis told above, till she came to that 
part that belonged to herself. 'And there,' says she, 'I had not let them 
know where I lived, and the lady would have taken me, and they say would 
have provided for me too as she has done for my brother, but nobody could 
tell where to find me, and so I have lost it all and all the hopes of being 
anything but a poor servant all my days '; and then the girl fell a-crying 
again.
Amy said, 'What's all this story? Who could this lady be? It must be some 
trick sure?' No, she said, it was not a trick, for she had made them take 
her brother home from apprentice, and bought him new clothes, and put him 
to have more learning; and the gentlewoman said she would make him her 
heir.
'Her heir!' says Amy; 'what does that amount to; it may be she had nothing 
to leave him, she might make anybody her heir.'
'No, no,' says the girl, 'she came in a fine coach and horses, and I don't 
know how many footmen to attend her, and brought a great bag of gold and 
gave it to my uncle --, he that brought up my brother, to buy him clothes 
and to pay for his schooling and board.'
'He that brought up your brother!' says Amy. 'Why, did not he bring you up 
too as well as your brother? Pray, who brought you up then?'
Here the poor girl told a melancholy story, how an aunt had brought up her 
and her sister, and how barbarously she had used them, as we have heard.
By this time Amy had her head full enough, and her heart too, and did not 
know how to hold it or what to do, for she was satisfied that this was no 
other than my own daughter; for she told her all the history of her father 
and mother, and how she was carried by their maid to her aunt's door, just 
as is related in the beginning of my story.
Amy did not tell me this story for a great while, nor did she well know 
what course to take in it, but as she had authority to manage everything in 
the family, she took occasion some time after, without letting me know 
anything of it, to find some fault with the maid and turn her away.
Her reasons were good, though at first I was not pleased when I heard of 
it, but I was convinced afterwards that she was in the right; for if she 
had told me of it I should have been in great perplexity between the 
difficulty of concealing myself from my own child and the inconvenience of 
having my way of living be known among my first husband's relations, and 
even to my husband himself; for as to his being dead at Paris, Amy, seeing 
me resolved against marrying any more, had told me that she had formed that 
story only to make me easy when I was in Holland, if anything should offer 
to my liking.
However, I was too tender a mother still, notwithstanding what I had done, 
to let this poor girl go about the world drudging, as it were, for bread, 
and slaving at the fire and in the kitchen as a cook-maid. Besides, it came 
into my head that she might perhaps marry some poor devil of a footman or a 
coachman, or some such thing, and be undone that way; or, which was worse, 
be drawn into lie with some of that coarse cursed kind and be with child, 
and be utterly ruined that way; and in the midst of all my prosperity this 
gave me great uneasiness.
As to sending Amy to her, there was no doing that now, for as she had been 
servant in the house, she knew Amy as well as Amy knew me; and no doubt, 
though I was much out of her sight, yet she might have had the curiosity to 
have peeped at me, and seen me enough to know me again if I had discovered 
myself to her; so that, in short, there was nothing to be done that way.
However, Amy, a diligent, indefatigable creature, found out another woman 
and gave her her errand, and sent her to the honest man's house in 
Spitalfields, whither she supposed the girl would go after she was out of 
her place, and bade her talk with her and tell her at a distance that as 
something had been done for her brother, so something would be done for her 
too; and that she should not be discouraged, she carried her £20 to buy her 
clothes, and bade her not to go to service any more but think of other 
things; that she should take a lodging in some good family, and that she 
should soon hear further.
The girl was overjoyed with this news, you may be sure, and at first a 
little too much elevated with it, and dressed herself very handsomely 
indeed, and, as soon as she had done so, came and paid a visit to Madam Amy 
to let her see how fine she was. Amy congratulated her and wished it might 
be all as she expected, but admonished her not to be elevated with it too 
much; told her humility was the best ornament of a gentlewoman, and a great 
deal of good advice she gave her, but discovered nothing.
All this was acted in the first years of my setting up my new figure here 
in town, and while the masks and balls were in agitation; and Amy carried 
on the affair of setting out my son into the world, which we were assisted 
in by the sage advice of my faithful counsellor, Sir Robert Clayton, who 
procured us a master for him, by whom he was afterwards sent abroad to 
Italy, as you shall hear in its place; and Amy managed my daughter too, 
very well, though by a third hand.
My amour with my Lord -- began now to draw to an end, and indeed, 
notwithstanding his money, it had lasted so long that I was much more sick 
of his lordship than he could be of me. He grew old and fretful and 
captious, and I must add, which made the vice itself begin to grow 
surfeiting and nauseous to me, he grew worse and wickeder the older he 
grew, and that to such degree as is not fit to write of, and made me so 
weary of him that upon one of his capricious humours, which he often took 
occasion to trouble me with, I took occasion to be much less complaisant to 
him than I used to be; and as I knew him to be hasty, I first took care to 
put him into a little passion and then to resent it, and this brought us to 
words, in which I told him I thought he grew sick of me; and he answered, 
in a heat, that truly so he was. I answered that I found his lordship was 
endeavouring to make me sick too, that I had met with several such rubs 
from him of late, and that he did not use me as he used to do, and I begged 
his lordship he would make himself easy. This I spoke with an air of 
coldness and indifference such as I knew he could not bear; but I did not 
downright quarrel with him and tell him I was sick of him too, and desire 
him to quit me, for I knew that would come of itself; besides, I had 
received a great deal of handsome usage from him, and I was loath to have 
the breach be on my side, that he might not be able to say I was 
ungrateful.
But he put the occasion into my hands, for he came no more to me for two 
months; indeed, I expected a fit of absence, for such I had had several 
times before, but not for above a fortnight or three weeks at most. But 
after I had stayed a month, which was longer than ever he kept away yet, I 
took a new method with him, for I was resolved now it should be in my power 
to continue or not as I thought fit. At the end of a month, therefore, I 
removed and took lodgings at Kensington Gravel Pits, and that part next to 
the road to Acton, and left nobody in my lodgings but Amy and a footman, 
with proper instructions how to behave when his lordship being come to 
himself should think fit to come again, which I knew he would.
About the end of two months, he came in the dusk of the evening as usual. 
The footman answered him, and told him his lady was not at home, but there 
was Mrs. Amy above; so he did not order her to be called down, but went 
upstairs into the dining-room, and Mrs. Amy came to him. He asked where I 
was. 'My Lord,' said she, 'my mistress has been removed a good while from 
hence, and lives at Kensington.' 'Ay, Mrs. Amy! how come you to be here, 
then?' 'My Lord,' said she, 'we are here till the quarter-day, because the 
goods are not removed, and to give answers if any comes to ask for my 
lady.' 'Well, and what answer are you to give me?' 'Indeed, my Lord,' says 
Amy, 'I have no particular answer to your lordship but to tell you and 
everybody else where my lady lives, that they may not think she's run 
away.' 'No, Mrs. Amy,' says he, 'I don't think she's run away, but indeed I 
can't go after her so far as that.' Amy said nothing to that, but made a 
curtsy, and said she believed I would be there again for a week or two in a 
little time. 'How little time, Mrs. Amy?' says my Lord. 'She comes next 
Tuesday,' says Amy. 'Very well,' says my Lord, 'I'll call and see her then 
'; and so he went away.
Accordingly I came on the Tuesday and stayed a fortnight, but he came not; 
so I went back to Kensington, and after that I had very few of his 
lordship's visits, which I was very glad of, and in a little time after was 
more glad of it than I was at first, and upon a far better account too.
For now I began not to be sick of his lordship only, but really I began to 
be sick of the vice; and as I had good leisure now to divert and enjoy 
myself in the world as much as it was possible for any woman to do that 
ever lived in it, so I found that my judgment began to prevail upon me to 
fix my delight upon nobler objects than I had formerly done, and the very 
beginning of this brought some just reflections upon me relating to things 
past and to the former manner of my living. And though there was not the 
least hint in all this from what may be called religion or conscience, and 
far from anything of repentance or anything that was akin to it, especially 
at first, yet the sense of things and the knowledge I had of the world, and 
the vast variety of scenes that I had acted my part in, began to work upon 
my senses, and it came so very strong upon my mind one morning when I had 
been lying awake some time in my bed, as if somebody had asked me the 
question, what was I a whore for now? It occurred naturally upon this 
enquiry that at first I yielded to the importunity of my circumstances, the 
misery of which the devil dismally aggravated, to draw me to comply; for I 
confess I had strong natural aversions to the crime at first, partly owing 
to a virtuous education, and partly to a sense of religion; but the devil, 
and that greater devil of poverty, prevailed, and the person who laid siege 
to me did it in such an obliging, and I may almost say, irresistible 
manner, all still managed by the evil spirit - for I must be allowed to 
believe that he had a share in all such things, if not the whole management 
of them - but I say it was carried on by that person in such an 
irresistible manner, that (as I said when I related the fact) there was no 
withstanding it. These circumstances I say the devil managed, not only to 
bring me to comply, but he continued them as arguments to fortify my mind 
against all reflection, and to keep me in that horrid course I had engaged 
in, as if it were honest and lawful.
But not to dwell upon that now. This was a pretence, and here was something 
to be said, though I acknowledge it ought not to have been sufficient to me 
at all, but I say to leave that, all this was out of doors; the devil 
himself could not form one argument or put one reason into my head now that 
could serve for an answer, no, not so much as a pretended answer to this 
question, why I should be a whore now.
It had for a while been a little kind of excuse to me that I was engaged 
with this wicked old lord, and that I could not in honour forsake him; but 
how foolish and absurd did it look to repeat the word honour on so vile an 
occasion. As if a woman should prostitute her honour in point of honour - 
horrid inconsistency. Honour called upon me to detest the crime and the man 
too, and to have resisted all the attacks which from the beginning had been 
made upon my virtue; and honour, had it been consulted, would have 
preserved me honest from the beginning:

For honesty and honour are the same.

This, however, shows us with what faint excuses and with what trifles we 
pretend to satisfy ourselves and suppress the attempts of conscience in the 
pursuit of agreeable crime, and in the possessing those pleasures which we 
are loath to part with.
But this objection would now serve no longer, for my lord had, in some 
sort, broken his engagements (I won't call it honour again) with me, and 
had so far slighted me as fairly to justify my entire quitting of him now; 
and so, as the objection was fully answered, the question remained still 
unanswered, why am I a whore now? Nor indeed had I anything to say for 
myself, even to myself. I could not without blushing, as wicked as I was, 
answer that I loved it for the sake of the vice, and that I delighted in 
being a whore as such - I say I could not say this even to myself, and all 
alone, nor indeed would it have been true. I was never able in justice and 
with truth to say I was so wicked as that, but as necessity first debauched 
me and poverty made me a whore at the beginning, so excess of avarice for 
getting money and excess of vanity continued me in the crime, not being 
able to resist the flatteries of great persons; being called the finest 
woman in France, being caressed by a Prince, and afterwards, I had pride 
enough to expect and folly enough to believe, though indeed without ground, 
by a great monarch. These were my baits, these the chains by which the 
devil held me bound, and by which I was indeed too fast held for any 
reasoning that I was then mistress of to deliver me from.
But this was all over now. Avarice could have no pretence, I was out of the 
reach of all that Fate could be supposed to do to reduce me; now I was so 
far from poor or the danger of it that I had £50,000 in my pocket at least 
- nay, I had the income of £50,000, for I had £2500 a year coming in upon 
very good land security, besides £3000 or £4000 in money which I kept by me 
for ordinary occasions, and besides jewels and plate and goods which were 
worth near £5600 more. These put together, when I ruminated on it all in my 
thoughts, as you may be sure I did often, added weight still to the 
question, as above, and it sounded continually in my head, what's next? 
what am I a whore for now?
It is true this was, as I say, seldom out of my thoughts, but yet it made 
no impressions upon me of that kind which might be expected from a 
reflection of so important a nature, and which had so much of substance and 
seriousness in it.
But, however, it was not without some little consequences, even at that 
time, and which gave a little turn to my way of living at first, as you 
shall hear in its place.
But one particular thing intervened besides this, which gave me some 
uneasiness at this time, and made way for other things that followed. I 
have mentioned in several little digressions the concern I had upon me for 
my children, and in what manner I had directed that affair. I must go on a 
little with that part in order to bring the subsequent parts of my story 
together.
My boy, the only son I had left that I had a legal right to call son, was, 
as I have said, rescued from the unhappy circumstances of being apprentice 
to a mechanic, and was brought up upon a new foot; but though this was 
infinitely to his advantage, yet it put him back near three years in his 
coming into the world, for he had been near a year at the drudgery he was 
first put to, and it took up two years more to form him for what he had 
hopes given him he should hereafter be, so that he was full nineteen years 
old, or rather twenty years, before he came to be put out as I intended; at 
the end of which time I put him to a very flourishing Italian merchant, and 
he again sent him to Messina in the island of Sicily. And a little before 
the juncture I am now speaking of, I had letters from him, that is to say, 
Mrs. Amy had letters from him, intimating that he was out of his time, and 
that he had an opportunity to be taken into an English house there, on very 
good terms, if his support from hence might answer what he was bid to hope 
for; and so begged that what would be done for him might be so ordered that 
he might have it for his present advancement, referring for the particulars 
to his master, the merchant in London whom he had been put apprentice to 
here, who, to cut the story short, gave such a satisfactory account of it, 
and of my young man, to my steady and faithful counsellor, Sir Robert 
Clayton, that I made no scruple to pay £4000, which was £1000 more than he 
demanded, or rather proposed, that he might have encouragement to enter 
into the world better than he expected.
His master remitted the money very faithfully to him, and, finding by Sir 
Robert Clayton that the young gentleman, for so he called him, was well 
supported, wrote such letters on his account as gave him a credit at 
Messina equal in value to the money itself.
I could not digest it very well that I should all this while conceal myself 
thus from my own child, and make all this favour due, in his opinion, to a 
stranger, and yet I could not find in my heart to let my son know what a 
mother he had and what a life she lived, when at the same time that he must 
think himself infinitely obliged to me, he must be obliged, if he was a man 
of virtue, to hate his mother and abhor the way of living by which all the 
bounty he enjoyed was raised.
This is the reason of mentioning this part of my son's story, which is 
otherwise no ways concerned in my history, but as it put me upon thinking 
how to put an end to that wicked course I was in, that my own child, when 
he should afterwards come to England in a good figure and with the 
appearance of a merchant, should not be ashamed to own me.
But there was another difficulty which lay heavier upon me a great deal, 
and that was my daughter, who, as before, I had relieved by the hands of 
another instrument, which Amy had procured. The girl, as I have mentioned, 
was directed to put herself into a good garb, take lodgings, and entertain 
a maid to wait upon her, and to give herself some breeding, that is to say, 
to learn to dance and fit herself to appear as a gentlewoman, being made to 
hope that she should, some time or other, find that she should be put into 
a condition to support her character and to make herself amends for all her 
former troubles. She was only charged not to be drawn into matrimony till 
she was secured of a fortune that might assist to dispose of herself 
suitable not to what she then was but what she was to be.
The girl was too sensible of her circumstances not to give all possible 
satisfaction of that kind, and indeed she was mistress of too much 
understanding not to see how much she should be obliged to that part for 
her own interest.
It was not long after this, but being well equipped and in everything well 
set out, as she was directed, she came, as I have related above, and paid a 
visit to Mrs. Amy, and to tell her of her good fortune. Amy pretended to be 
much surprised at the alteration, and overjoyed for her sake, and began to 
treat her very well, entertained her handsomely, and, when she would have 
gone away, pretended to ask my leave and sent my coach home with her; and 
in short, learning from her where she lodged, which was in the city, Amy 
promised to return her visit, and did so; and in a word, Amy and Susan (for 
she was my own name) began an intimate acquaintance together.
There was an inexpressible difficulty in the poor girl's way, or else I 
should not have been able to have forborne discovering myself to her, and 
this was her having been a servant in my particular family; and I could by 
no means think of ever letting the children know what a kind of creature 
they owed their being to, or giving them an occasion to upbraid their 
mother with her scandalous life, much less to justify the like practice 
from my example.
Thus it was with me, and thus, no doubt, considering parents always find it 
that their own children are a restraint to them in their worst courses, 
when the sense of a superior Power has not the same influence. But of that 
hereafter.
There happened, however, one good circumstance in the case of this poor 
girl which brought about a discovery sooner than otherwise it would have 
been, and it was thus. After she and Amy had been intimate for some time 
and had exchanged several visits, the girl now grown a woman, talking to 
Amy of the gay things that used to fall out when she was servant in my 
family, spoke of it with a kind of concern that she could not see (me) her 
lady, and at last she adds, ''Twas very strange, madam,' says she to Amy, 
'but though i lived near two years in the house, I never saw my mistress in 
my life, except it was that public night when she danced in the fine 
Turkish habit, and then she was so disguised that I knew nothing of her 
afterwards.'
Amy was glad to hear this; but as she was a cunning girl from the 
beginning, she was not to be bit, and so she laid no stress upon that at 
first, but gave me an account of it; and I must confess it gave me a secret 
joy to think that I was not known to her, and that, by virtue of that only 
accident, I might, when other circumstances made room for it, discover 
myself to her and let her know she had a mother in a condition fit to be 
owned.
It was a dreadful restraint to me before, and this gave me some very sad 
reflections and made way for the great question I have mentioned above; and 
by how much the circumstance was bitter to me, by so much the more 
agreeable it was to understand that the girl had never seen me, and 
consequently did not know me again if she was to be told who I was.
However, the next time she came to visit Amy, I was resolved to put it to a 
trial and to come into the room and let her see me, and to see by that 
whether she knew me or not; but Amy put me by, lest indeed, as there was 
reason enough to question, I should not be able to contain or forbear 
discovering myself to her; so it went off for that
time.
But both these circumstances, and that is the reason of mentioning them, 
brought me to consider of the life I lived, and to resolve to put myself 
into some figure of life in which I might not be scandalous to my own 
family and be afraid to make myself known to my own children, who were my 
own flesh and blood.
There was another daughter I had, which, with all our enquiries, we could 
not hear of, high nor low, for several years after the first. But I return 
to my own story.
Being now in part removed from my old station, I seemed to be in a fair way 
of retiring from my old acquaintances, and consequently from the vile 
abominable trade I had driven so long, so that the door seemed to be, as it 
were, particularly opened to my reformation if I had any mind to it in 
earnest. But for all that, some of my old friends, as I had used to call 
them, enquired me out and came to visit me at Kensington, and that more 
frequently than I wished they would do; but it being once known where I 
was, there was no avoiding it, unless I would have downright refused and 
affronted them, and I was not yet in earnest enough with my resolutions to 
go that length.
The best of it was, my old lewd favourite, whom I now heartily hated, 
entirely dropped me. He came once to visit me, but I caused Amy to deny me 
and say I was gone out. She did it so oddly too, that when his lordship 
went away he said coldly to her, 'Well, well, Mrs. Amy, I find your 
mistress does not desire to be seen; tell her I won't trouble her any 
more,' repeating the words 'any more' two or three times over just at his 
going away.
I reflected a little on it at first, as unkind to him, having had so many 
considerable presents from him; but, as I have said, I was sick of him, and 
that on some accounts which, if I could suffer myself to publish them, 
would fully justify my conduct; but that part of the story will not bear 
telling, so I must leave it and proceed.
I had begun a little, as I have said above, to reflect upon my manner of 
living and to think of putting a new face upon it, and nothing moved me to 
it more than the consideration of my having three children who were now 
grown up, and yet, that while I was in that station of life, I could not 
converse with them or make myself known to them; and this gave me a great 
deal of uneasiness. At last I entered into talk on this part of it with my 
woman Amy.
We lived at Kensington, as I have said, and though I had done with my old 
wicked Lord --, as above, yet I was frequently visited, as I said, by some 
others, so that, in a word, I began to be known in the town, not by my name 
only, but by my character too, which was worse.
It was one morning when Amy was in bed with me, and I had some of my 
dullest thoughts about me, that Amy, hearing me sigh pretty often, asked me 
if I was not well. 'Yes, Amy, I am well enough,' says I, 'but my mind is 
oppressed with heavy thoughts, and has been so a good while '; and then I 
told her how it grieved me that I could not make myself known to my own 
children, or form any acquaintances in the world. 'Why so?' says Amy. 'Why, 
prithee, Amy,' says I, 'what will my children say to themselves, and to one 
another, when they find their mother, however rich she may be, is at best 
but a whore, a common whore? And as for acquaintance, prithee, Amy, what 
sober lady or what family of any character will visit or be acquainted with 
a whore?'
'Why, all that's true, madam,' says Amy, 'but how can it be remedied now?' 
''Tis true, Amy,' said I, 'the thing cannot be remedied now, but the 
scandal of it, I fancy, may be thrown off.'
'Truly,' says Amy, 'I do not see how, unless you will go abroad again and 
live in some other nation where nobody has known us or seen us, so that 
they cannot say they ever saw us before.'
That very thought of Amy's put what follows into my head, and I returned, 
'Why, Amy,' says I, 'is it not possible for me to shift my being from this 
part of the town and go and live in another part of the city, or another 
part of the country, and be as entirely concealed as if I had never been 
known?'
'Yes,' says Amy, 'I believe it might, but then you must put off all your 
equipages and servants, coaches and horses, change your liveries, nay, your 
own clothes, and, if it was possible, your very face.'
'Well,' says I, 'and that's the way, Amy, and that I'll do, and that 
forthwith, for I am not able to live in this manner any longer.' Amy came 
into this with a kind of pleasure particular to herself, that is to say, 
with an eagerness not to be resisted; for Amy was apt to be precipitant in 
her motions, and was for doing it immediately. 'Well,' says I,
Amy, as soon as you will, but what course must we take to do it? We cannot 
put off servants and coach and horses and everything, leave off 
housekeeping, and transform ourselves into a new shape, all in a moment; 
servants must have warning, and the goods must be sold off, and a thousand 
things '; and this began to perplex us, and in particular took us up two or 
three days' consideration.
At last, Amy, who was a clever manager in such cases, came to me with a 
scheme, as she called it. 'I have found it out, madam,' says she; 'I have 
found a scheme how you shall, if you have a mind to it, begin and finish a 
perfect entire change of your figure and circumstances in one day, and 
shall be as much unknown, madam, in twenty-four hours as you would be in so 
many years.'
'Come, Amy,' says I, 'let us hear it, for you please me mightily with the 
thoughts of it.' 'Why, then,' says Amy, 'let me go into the city this 
afternoon, and I'll enquire out some honest, plain, sober family, where I 
will take lodgings for you as for a country gentlewoman that desires to be 
in London for about half a year, and to board yourself and a kinswoman that 
is half a servant, half a companion, meaning myself, and so agree with them 
by the month.
'To this lodging, if I hit upon one to your mind, you may go tomorrow 
morning, in a hackney-coach, with nobody but me, and leave such clothes and 
linen as you think fit, but to be sure the plainest you have; and then you 
are removed at once, you need never so much as set your foot in this house 
again (meaning where we then were) or see anybody belonging to it. In the 
meantime I'll let the servants know that you are going over to Holland upon 
extraordinary business, and will leave off your equipages, and so I'll give 
them warning, or, if they will accept of it, give them a month's wages. 
Then I'll sell off your furniture as well as I can; as to your coach, it is 
but having it new painted and the lining changed, and getting new harness 
and hammercloths, and you may keep it still or dispose of it as you think 
fit. And only take care to let this lodging be in some remote part of the 
town, and you may be as perfectly unknown as if you had never been in 
England in your life.'
This was Amy's scheme, and it pleased me so well that I resolved not only 
to let her go, but was resolved to go with her myself; but Amy put me off 
that, because, she said, she should have occasion to hurry up and down so 
long, that if I was with her it would rather hinder than further her; so I 
waived it.
In a word, Amy went, and was gone five long hours; but when she came back I 
could see by her countenance that her success had been suitable to her 
pains, for she came laughing and gaping. 'Oh, madam!' says she, 'I have 
pleased you to the life '; and with that she tells me how she had fixed 
upon a house in a court in the Minories, that she was directed to it merely 
by accident, that it was a female family, the master of the house being 
gone to New England, and that the woman had four children, kept two maids, 
and lived very handsomely, but wanted company to divert her, and that on 
that very account she had agreed to take boarders.
Amy agreed for a good handsome price, because she was resolved I should be 
used well; so she bargained to give her £35 for the half-year and £50 if we 
took a maid, leaving that to my choice; and that we might be satisfied we 
should meet with nothing very gay; the people were Quakers, and I liked 
them the better.
I was so pleased that I resolved to go with Amy the next day to see the 
lodgings, and to see the woman of the house, and see how I liked them; but 
if I was pleased with the general, I was much more pleased with the 
particular, for the gentlewoman, I must call her so, though she was a 
Quaker, was a most courteous, obliging, mannerly person, perfectly well 
bred, and perfectly well humoured, and, in short, the most agreeable 
conversation that ever I met with; and which was worth all, so grave, and 
yet so pleasant and so merry, that 'tis scarce possible for me to express 
how I was pleased and delighted with her company; and particularly, I was 
so pleased that I would go away no more, so I e'en took up my lodging there 
the very first night.
In the meantime, though it took up Amy almost a month so entirely to put 
off all the appearances of housekeeping, as above, it need take me up no 
time to relate it; 'tis enough to say that Amy quitted all that part of the 
world and came pack and package to me, and here we took up our abode.
I was now in a perfect retreat indeed; remote from the eyes of all that 
ever had seen me, and as much out of the way of being ever seen or heard of 
by any of the gang that used to follow me, as if I had been among the 
mountains in Lancashire; for when did a blue garter or a coach-and-six come 
into a little narrow passage in the Minories or Goodman's Fields? And as 
there was no fear of them, so really I had no desire to see them, or so 
much as to hear from them any more as long as I lived.
I seemed in a little hurry while Amy came and went so every day, at first, 
but when that was over I lived here perfectly retired, and with a most 
pleasant and agreeable lady. I must call her so, for though a Quaker, she 
had a full share of good breeding sufficient to her if she had been a 
duchess; in a word, she was the most agreeable creature in her 
conversation, as I said before, that ever I met with.
I pretended, after I had been there some time, to be extremely in love with 
the dress of the Quakers, and this pleased her so much that she would needs 
dress me up one day in a suit of her own clothes, but my real design was to 
see whether it would pass upon me for a disguise.
Amy was struck with the novelty, though I had not mentioned my design to 
her, and when the Quaker was gone out of the room, says Amy, 'I guess your 
meaning; it is a perfect disguise to you; why, you look quite another body, 
I should not have known you myself. Nay,' says Amy, 'more than that, it 
makes you look ten years younger than you did.'
Nothing could please me better than that, and when Amy repeated it I was so 
fond of it that I asked my Quaker (I won't call her landlady, 'tis indeed 
too coarse a word for her, and she deserved a much better) - I say I asked 
her if she would sell it. I told her I was so fond of it that I would give 
her enough to buy her a better suit. She declined it at first, but I soon 
perceived that it was chiefly in good manners, because I should not 
dishonour myself, as she called it, to put on her old clothes, but if I 
pleased to accept of them, she would give me them for my dressing clothes, 
and go with me and buy a suit for me that might be better worth my wearing.
But as I conversed in a very frank, open manner with her, I bid her do the 
like with me; that I made no scruples of such things, but that if she would 
let me have them, I would satisfy her. So she let me know what they cost, 
and to make her amends I gave her three guineas more than they cost her.
This good (though unhappy) Quaker had the misfortune to have had a bad 
husband, and he was gone beyond-sea; she had a good house and well-
furnished, and had some jointure of her own estate which supported her and 
her children, so that she did not want; but she was not at all above such a 
help as my being there was to her, so she was as glad of me as I was of 
her.
However, as I knew there was no way to fix this new acquaintance like 
making myself a friend to her, I began with making her some handsome 
presents, and the like to her children; and first, opening my bundles one 
day in my chamber, I heard her in another room, and called her in with a 
kind of familiar way; there I showed her some of my fine clothes, and 
having among the rest of my things a piece of very fine new holland which I 
had bought a little before, worth about nine shillings an ell, I pulled it 
out. 'Here, my friend,' says I, 'I will make you a present if you will 
accept of it '; and with that I laid the piece of holland in her lap.
I could see she was surprised, and that she could hardly speak. 'What dost 
thou mean?' says she; 'indeed, I cannot have the face to accept so fine a 
present as this '; adding, ''Tis fit for thy own use, but 'tis above my 
wear indeed.' I thought she had meant she must not wear it so fine because 
she was a Quaker, so I returned, 'Why, do not you Quakers wear fine linen 
neither?' 'Yes,' says she, 'we wear fine linen when we can afford it, but 
this is too good for me.' However, I made her take it, and she was very 
thankful too. But my end was answered another way, for by this I engaged 
her so that as I found her a woman of understanding and of honesty too, I 
might upon any occasion have a confidence in her, which was indeed what I 
very much wanted.
By accustoming myself to converse with her, I had not only learnt to dress 
like a Quaker, but so used myself to 'thee' and 'thou,' that I talked like 
a Quaker too, as readily and naturally as if I had been born among them; 
and, in a word, I passed for a Quaker among all people that did not know 
me. I went but little abroad, but I had been so used to a coach that I knew 
not how well to go without one; besides, I thought it would be a further 
disguise to me, so I told my Quaker friend one day that I thought I lived 
too close, that I wanted air. She proposed taking a hackney-coach sometimes 
or a boat, but I told her I had always had a coach of my own till now and I 
could find in my heart to have one again.
She seemed to think it strange at first, considering how close I lived, but 
had nothing to say when she found that I did not value the expense; so, in 
short, I resolved I would have a coach. When we came to talk of equipages, 
she extolled the having all things plain; I said so too. So I left it to 
her direction, and a coachmaker was sent for, and he provided me a plain 
coach, no gilding or painting, lined with a light-grey cloth, and my 
coachman had a coat of the same, and no lace on his hat.
When all was ready I dressed myself in the dress I bought of her, and said, 
'Come, I'll be a Quaker today, and you and I'll go abroad '; which we did, 
and there was not a Quaker in the town looked less like a counterfeit than 
I did. But all this was my particular plot to be the more completely 
concealed, and that I might depend upon being not known and yet need not be 
confined like a prisoner and be always in fear; so that all the rest was 
grimace.
We lived here very easy and quiet, and yet I cannot say I was so in my 
mind. I was like a fish out of water; I was as gay and as young in my 
disposition as I was at five-and-twenty, and as I had always been courted, 
flattered, and used to love it, so I missed it in my conversation; and this 
put me many times upon looking back upon things past.
I had very few moments in my life which in their reflection afforded me 
anything but regret, but of all the foolish actions I had to look back upon 
in my life, none looked so preposterous and so like distraction, nor left 
so much melancholy on my mind, as my parting with my friend the merchant of 
Paris, and the refusing him upon such honourable and just conditions as he 
had offered; and though on his just (which I called unkind) rejecting my 
invitation to come to him again I had looked on him with some disgust, yet 
now my mind ran upon him continually, and the ridiculous conduct of my 
refusing him, and I could never be satisfied about him. I flattered myself 
that if I could but see him I could vet master him, and that he would 
presently forget all that had passed that might be thought unkind; but as 
there was no room to imagine anything like that to be possible, I threw 
those thoughts off again as much as I could.
However, they continually returned, and I had no rest night or day for 
thinking of him whom I had forgot above eleven years. I told Amy of it, and 
we talked it over sometimes in bed, almost whole nights together. At last 
Amy started a thing of her own head which put it in a way of management, 
though a wild one too. 'You are so uneasy, madam,' says she, 'about this 
Mr. -- the merchant at Paris; come,' says she, 'if you'll give me leave 
I'll go over and see what's become of him.'
'Not for ten thousand pounds,' said I; 'no, nor if you met him in the 
street, not to offer to speak to him on my account.' 'No,' says Amy, 'I 
would not speak to him at all, or if I did, I warrant you it shall not look 
to be upon your account; I'll only enquire after him, and if he is in 
being, you shall hear of him; if not, you shall hear of him still, and that 
may be enough.'
'Why,' says I, 'if you will promise me not to enter into anything relating 
to me with him, nor to begin any discourse at all unless he begins it with 
you, I could almost be persuaded to let you go and try.'
Amy promised me all that I desired, and in a word, to cut the story short, 
I let her go, but tied her up to so many particulars that it was almost 
impossible her going could signify anything; and had she intended to 
observe them she might as well have stayed at home as have gone, for I 
charged her if she came to see him she should not so much as take notice 
that she knew him again, and if he spoke to her she should tell him she was 
come away from me a great many years ago and knew nothing what was become 
of me; that she had been come over to France six years ago, and was married 
there and lived at Calais, or to that purpose.
Amy promised me nothing indeed, for, as she said, it was impossible for her 
to resolve what would be fit to do or not to do till she was there upon the 
spot, and had found out the gentleman or heard of him, but that then, if I 
would trust her as I had always done, she would answer for it that she 
would do nothing but what should be for my interest, and what she would 
hope I should be very well pleased with.
With this general commission, Amy, notwithstanding she had been so frighted 
at the sea, ventured her carcase once more by water, and away she goes to 
France. She had four articles of confidence in charge to enquire after for 
me, and, as I found by her, she had one for herself. I say four for me, 
because though her first and principal errand was to inform herself of my 
Dutch merchant, yet I gave her in charge to enquire, secondly, after my 
husband, whom I left a trooper in the Gendarmes; thirdly, after that rogue 
of a Jew, whose very name I hated, and of whose face I had such a frightful 
idea, that Satan himself could not counterfeit a worse; and lastly, after 
my foreign Prince. And she discharged herself very well of them all, though 
not so successful as I wished.
Amy had a very good passage over the sea, and I had a letter from her from 
Calais in three days after she went from London. When she came to Paris she 
wrote me an account, that as to her first and most important enquiry, which 
was after the Dutch merchant; her account was that he had returned to 
Paris, lived three years there and, quitting that city, went to live at 
Rouen. So away goes Amy for Rouen.
But as she was going to bespeak a place in the coach to Rouen, she meets 
very accidentally in the street with her gentleman, as I called him, that 
is to say, the Prince de --'s gentleman, who had been her favourite, as 
above.
You may be sure there were several other kind things happened between Amy 
and him, as you shall hear afterwards. But the two main things were that 
Amy enquired about his lord, and had a full account of him; of which 
presently; and in the next place, telling him whither she was going, and 
for what. He bade her not go yet, for that he would have a particular 
account of it the next day from a merchant that knew him; and accordingly 
he brought her word the next day that he had been for six years before that 
gone for Holland and that he lived there still.
This, I say, was the first news from Amy for some time - I mean about my 
merchant. In the meantime, Amy, as I have said, enquired about the other 
persons she had in her instructions. As for the Prince, the gentleman told 
her he was gone into Germany, where his estate lay, and that he lived 
there; that he had made great enquiry after me, that he (his gentleman) had 
made all the search he had been able, for me, but that he could not hear of 
me; that he believed if his lord had known I had been in England, he would 
have gone over to me, but that, after long enquiry, he was obliged to give 
it over, but that he verily believed if he could have found me he would 
have married me; and that he was extremely concerned that he could hear 
nothing of me.
I was not at all satisfied with Amy's account but ordered her to go to 
Rouen herself, which she did, and there with much difficulty (the person 
she was directed to being dead) - I say with much difficulty, she came to 
be informed that my merchant had lived there two years or something more; 
but that having met with a very great misfortune, he had gone back to 
Holland, as the French merchant said, where he had stayed two years; but 
with this addition, viz. that he came back again to Rouen and lived in good 
reputation there another year, and afterwards he was gone to England, and 
that he lived in London. But Amy could by no means learn how to write to 
him there, till by great accident an old Dutch skipper who had formerly 
served him, coming to Rouen, Amy was told of it; and he told her that he 
lodged in Laurence Pountney Lane in London, but was to be seen every day 
upon the Exchange, in the French Walk.
This, Amy thought, it was time enough to tell me of when she came over, and 
besides, she did not find this Dutch skipper till she had spent four or 
five months, and been again at Paris and then come back to Rouen for 
further information. But in the meantime she wrote me from Paris, that he 
was not to be found by any means, that he had been gone from Paris seven or 
eight years, that she was told he had lived at Rouen and she was a-going 
thither to enquire, but that she had heard afterwards that he was gone also 
from thence to Holland, so she did not go.
This, I say, was Amy's first account, and I, not satisfied with it, had 
sent her an order to go to Rouen to enquire there also, as above.
While this was negotiating, and I received these accounts from Amy at 
several times, a strange adventure happened to me which I must mention just 
here. I had been abroad to take the air as usual, with my Quaker, as far as 
Epping Forest, and we were driving back towards London, when on the road 
between Bow and Mile End two gentlemen on horseback came riding by, having 
overtaken the coach and passed it, and went forward towards London.
They did not ride apace, though they passed the coach, for we went very 
softly, nor did they look into the coach at all, but rode side by side, 
earnestly talking to one another and inclining their faces sideways a 
little towards one another, he that went nearest the coach with his face 
from it, and he that was furthest from the coach with his face towards it, 
and passing in the very next track to the coach, I could hear them talk 
Dutch very distinctly. But it is impossible to describe the confusion I was 
in when I plainly saw that the farthest of the two, him whose face looked 
towards the coach, was my friend the Dutch merchant of Paris.
If it had been possible to conceal my disorder from my friend the Quaker, I 
would have done it, but I found she was too well acquainted with such 
things not to take the hint. 'Dost thou understand Dutch?' said she. 'Why?' 
said I. 'Why,' says she, ''tis easy to suppose that thou art a little 
concerned at somewhat those men say, I suppose they are talking of thee.' 
'Indeed, my good friend,' said I, 'thou art mistaken this time, for I know 
very well what they are talking of, but 'tis all about ships and trading 
affairs.' 'Well,' says she, 'then one of them is a man friend of thine, or 
somewhat is the case, for though thy tongue will not confess it, thy face 
does.'
I was going to have told a bold lie and said I knew nothing of them, but I 
found it was impossible to conceal it, so I said, 'Indeed, I think I know 
the farthest of them, but I have neither spoken to him nor so much as seen 
him for above eleven years.' 'Well, then,' says she, 'thou hast seen him 
with more than common eyes when thou didst see him, or else seeing him now 
would not be such a surprise to thee.' 'Indeed,' said I, ''tis true I am a 
little surprised at seeing him just now, for I thought he had been in quite 
another part of the world, and I can assure you I never saw him in England 
in my life.' 'Well, then, 'tis the more likely he is come over now on 
purpose to seek thee.' 'No, no,' said I, 'knight-errantry is over, women 
are not so hard to come at that men should not be able to please themselves 
without running from one kingdom to another.' 'Well, well,' says she, 'I 
would have him see thee for all that, as plainly as thou hast seen him.' 
'No, but he shan't,' says I, 'for I am sure he don't know me in this dress, 
and I'll take care he shan't see my face if I can help it '; so I held up 
my fan before my face, and she saw me resolute in that, so she pressed me 
no further.
We had several discourses upon the subject, but still I let her know I was 
resolved he should not know me; but at last I confessed so much, that 
though I would not let him know who I was or where I lived, I did not care 
if I knew where he lived and how I might enquire about him. She took the 
hint immediately, and her servant being behind the coach, she called him to 
the coach side and bade him keep his eye upon that gentleman, and as soon 
as the coach came to the end of Whitechapel he should get down and follow 
him closely, so as to see where he put up his horse, and then to go into 
the inn and enquire, if he could, who he was and where he lived.
The fellow followed diligently to the gate of an inn in Bishopsgate Street, 
and seeing him go in, made no doubt but that he had him fast, but was 
confounded when upon enquiry he found the inn was a thoroughfare into 
another street, and that the two gentlemen had only rode through the inn as 
the way to the street where they were going, and so, in short, came back no 
wiser than he went
My kind Quaker was more vexed at the disappointment, at least apparently 
so, than I was, and asking the fellow if he was sure he knew the gentleman 
again if he saw him, the fellow said he had followed him so close, and took 
so much notice of him in order to do his errand as it ought to be done, 
that he was very sure he should know him again, and that, besides, he was 
sure he should know his horse.
This part was indeed likely enough, and the kind Quaker, without telling me 
anything of the matter, caused her man to place himself just at the corner 
of Whitechapel Church Wall every Saturday in the afternoon, that being the 
day when the citizens chiefly ride abroad to take the air, and there to 
watch all the afternoon and look for him.
It was not till the fifth Saturday that her man came, with a great deal of 
joy, and gave her an account that he had found out the gentleman; that he 
was a Dutchman, but a French merchant; that he came from Rouen, and his 
name was --, and that he lodged at Mr. -- on Laurence Pountney Hill. I was 
surprised, you may be sure, when she came and told me one evening all the 
particulars, except that of having set her man to watch. 'I have found out 
thy Dutch friend,' says she, 'and can tell thee how to find him too.' I 
coloured again as red as fire. 'Then thou hast dealt with the Evil One, 
friend,' said I very gravely. 'No, no,' says she, 'I have no familiar; but 
I tell thee I have found him for thee,' and his name is so-and-so, and he 
lives as above recited.
I was surprised again at this, not being able to imagine how she should 
come to know all this. However, to put me out of pain she told me what she 
had done. 'Well,' said I, 'thou art very kind, but this is not worth thy 
pains; for now I know it, 'tis only to satisfy my curiosity, for I shall 
not send to him upon any account.' 'Be that as thou wilt,' says she; 
'besides,' added she, 'thou art in the right to say so to me, for why 
should I be trusted with it? Though if I were, I assure thee, I should not 
betray thee.' 'That is very kind,' said I, 'and I believe thee; and assure 
thyself, if I do send to him, thou shalt know it, and be trusted with it 
too.'
During this interval of five weeks I suffered a hundred thousand 
perplexities of mind. I was thoroughly convinced I was right as to the 
person, that it was the man; I knew him so well, and saw him so plain, I 
could not be deceived. I drove out again in the coach (on pretence of air), 
almost every day, in hopes of seeing him again, but was never so lucky as 
to see him; and now I had made the discovery, I was as far to seek what 
measures to take as I was before.
To send to him, or speak to him first if I should see him, so as to be 
known to him, that I resolved not to do if I died for it; to watch him 
about his lodging, that was as much below my spirit as the other; so that, 
in a word, I was at a perfect loss how to act or what to do.
At length came Amy's letter with the last account which she had at Rouen 
from the Dutch skipper, which, confirming the other, left me out of doubt 
that this was my man; but still no human invention could bring me to the 
speech of him in such a manner as would suit with my resolutions; for, 
after all, how did I know what his circumstances were? whether married or 
single? And if he had a wife, I know he was so honest a man he would not so 
much as converse with me, or so much as know me, if he met me in the 
street.
In the next place, as he had entirely neglected me, which, in short, is the 
worst way of slighting a woman, and had given no answer to my letters, I 
did not know but he might be the same man still; so I resolved that I could 
do nothing in it unless some fairer opportunity presented which might make 
my way clearer to me, for I was determined he should have no room to put 
any more slights upon me.
In these thoughts I passed away near three months, till at last (being 
impatient) I resolved to send for Amy to come over and tell her how things 
stood, and that I would do nothing till she came. Amy in answer sent me 
word she would come away with all speed, but begged of me that I would 
enter into no engagement with him or anybody till she arrived; but still 
keeping me in the dark as to the thing itself which she had to say, at 
which I was heartily vexed, for many reasons.
But while all these things were transacting, and letters and answers passed 
between Amy and I a little slower than usual, at which I was not so well 
pleased as I used to be with Amy's dispatch - I say in this time the 
following scene opened.
It was one afternoon about four o'clock, my friendly Quaker and I sitting 
in her chamber upstairs, and very cheerful, chatting together (for she was 
the best company in the world), when somebody ringing hastily at the door, 
and no servant just then in the way, she ran down herself to the door; when 
a gentleman appears with a footman attending, and making some apologies 
which she did not thoroughly understand, he speaking but broken English. He 
asked to speak with me by the very same name that I went by in her house; 
which, by the way, was not the name that he had known me by.
She with very civil language, in her way, brought him into a very handsome 
parlour below-stairs, and said she would go and see whether the person who 
lodged in her house owned that name, and he should hear further.
I was a little surprised even before I knew anything of who it was, my mind 
foreboding the thing as it happened (whence that arises, let the 
naturalists explain to us), but I was frighted and ready to die when my 
Quaker came up all gay and crowing. 'There,' says she, 'is the Dutch French 
merchant come to see thee.' I could not speak one word to her nor stir off 
my chair, but sat as motionless as a statue. She talked a thousand pleasant 
things to me, but they made no impression on me. At last she pulled me and 
teased me. 'Come, come,' says she, 'be thyself and rouse up, I must go down 
again to him; what shall I say to him?' 'Say,' said I, 'that you have no 
such body in the house.' 'That I cannot do,' says she, 'because it is not 
the truth; besides, I have owned thou art above. Come, come, go down with 
me.' 'Not for a thousand guineas,' said I. 'Well,' says she, 'I'll go and 
tell him thou wilt come quickly.' So, without giving me time to answer her, 
away she goes.
A million of thoughts circulated in my head while she was gone, and what to 
do I could not tell. I saw no remedy but I must speak with him, but would 
have given £500 to have shunned it; yet, had I shunned it, perhaps then I 
would have given £500 again that I had seen him. Thus fluctuating and 
unconcluding were my thoughts, what I so earnestly desired I declined when 
it offered itself, and what now I pretended to decline was nothing but what 
I had been at the expense Of £40 or £50 to send Amy to France for, and even 
without any view, or indeed any rational expectation, of bringing it to 
pass; and what for half a year before I was so uneasy about, that I could 
not be quiet night or day, till Amy proposed to go over to enquire after 
him. In short, my thoughts were all confused and in the utmost disorder. I 
had once refused and rejected him, and I repented it heartily; then I had 
taken ill his silence, and in my mind rejected him again, but had repented 
that too. Now I had stooped so low as to send after him into France, which 
if he had known, perhaps he had never come after me; and should I reject 
him a third time! On the other hand, he had repented too in his turn 
perhaps, and not knowing how I had acted, either in stooping to send in 
search after him or in the wickeder part of my life, was come over hither 
to seek me again; and I might take him perhaps with the same advantages as 
I might have done before, and would I now be backward to see him! Well, 
while I was in this hurry, my friend the Quaker comes up again, and, 
perceiving the confusion I was in, she runs to her closet and fetched me a 
little pleasant cordial, but I would not taste it. 'Oh,' says she, 'I 
understand thee; be not uneasy, I'll give thee something shall take off all 
the smell of it; if he kisses thee a thousand times he shall be no wiser.' 
I thought with myself, 'Thou art perfectly acquainted with affairs of this 
nature, I think you must govern me now,' so I began to incline to go down 
with her. Upon that I took the cordial, and she gave me a kind of spicy 
preserve after it, whose flavour was so strong, and yet so deliciously 
pleasant, that it would cheat the nicest smelling, and it left not the 
least taint of the cordial on the breath. Well, after this (though with 
some hesitation still) I went down a pair of back-stairs with her and into 
a dining-room, next to the parlour in which he was, but there I halted and 
desired she would let me consider of it a little. 'Well, do so,' says she, 
and left me with more readiness than she did before; 'do consider, and I'll 
come to thee again.'
Though I hung back with an awkwardness that was really unfeigned, yet when 
she so readily left me, I thought it was not so kind, and I began to think 
she should have pressed me still on to it; so foolishly backward are we to 
the thing which of all the world we most desire, mocking ourselves with a 
feigned reluctance when the negative would be death to us. But she was too 
cunning for me, for while I, as it were, blamed her in my mind for not 
carrying me to him, though at the same time I appeared backward to see him, 
on a sudden she unlocks the folding-doors which looked into the next 
parlour, and throwing them open, 'There,' says she, ushering him in, 'is 
the person whom I suppose thou enquireth for '; and the same moment, with a 
kind decency she retired, and that so swift that she would not give us 
leave hardly to know which way she went.
I stood up, but was confounded with a sudden enquiry in my thoughts how I 
should receive him, and with a resolution as swift as lightning, in answer 
to it, said to myself, 'It shall be coldly '; so on a sudden I put on an 
air of stiffness and ceremony, and held it for about two minutes, but it 
was with great difficulty.
He restrained himself too, on the other hand, came towards me gravely, and 
saluted me in form; but it was, it seems, upon his supposing the Quaker was 
behind him, whereas she, as I said, understood things too well, and had 
retired as if she had vanished, that we might have full freedom. For, as 
she said afterwards, she supposed we had seen one another before, though it 
might have been a great while ago.
Whatever stiffness I had put on my behaviour to him, I was surprised in my 
mind and angry at his, and began to wonder what kind of a ceremonious 
meeting it was to be. However, after he perceived the woman was gone, he 
made a kind of a hesitation, looking a little round him. 'Indeed,' said 
she, 'I thought the gentlewoman was not withdrawn,' and with that he took 
me in his arms and kissed me three or four times; but I, that was 
prejudiced to the last degree with the coldness of his first salutes when I 
did not know the cause of it, could not be thoroughly cleared of the 
prejudice though I did know the cause, and thought that even his return and 
taking me in his arms did not seem to have the same ardour with which he 
used to receive me, and this made me behave to him awkwardly, and I know 
not how, for a good while. But this by the way.
He began with a kind of ecstasy upon the subject of his finding me out; how 
it was possible that he should have been four years in England and had used 
all the ways imaginable, and could never so much as have the least 
intimation of me or of any one like me; and that it was now above two years 
that he had despaired of it, and had given over all enquiry; and that now 
he should chop upon me, as it were, unlooked and unsought for.
I could easily have accounted for his not finding me if I had but set down 
the detail of my real retirement, but I gave it a new, and indeed a truly 
hypocritical turn. I told him that any one that knew the manner of life I 
led might account for his not finding me; that the retreat I had taken up 
would have rendered it a hundred thousand to one odds that he ever found me 
at all; that as I had abandoned all conversation, taken up another name, 
lived remote from London, and had not preserved one acquaintance in it, it 
was no wonder he had not met with me; that even my dress would let him see 
that I did not desire to be known by anybody.
Then he asked if I had not received some letters from him. I told him, no, 
he had not thought fit to give me the civility of an answer to the last I 
wrote to him, and he could not suppose I should expect a return after a 
silence in a case where I had laid myself so low and exposed myself in a 
manner I had never been used to; that indeed I had never sent for any 
letters after that to the place where I had ordered his to be directed; and 
that being so justly, as I thought, punished for my weakness, I had nothing 
to do but to repent of being a fool, after I had strictly adhered to a just 
principle before. That, however, as what I did was rather from motions of 
gratitude than from real weakness, however it might be construed by him, I 
had the satisfaction in myself of having fully discharged the debt. I added 
that I had not wanted occasions of all the seeming advancements which the 
pretended felicity of a married life was usually set off with, and might 
have been what I desired not to name; but that, however low I had stooped 
to him, I had maintained the dignity of female liberty against all the 
attacks either of pride or avarice, and that I had been infinitely obliged 
to him for giving me an opportunity to discharge the only obligation that 
endangered me, without subjecting me to the consequence; and that I hoped 
he was satisfied I had paid the debt, by offering myself to be chained, but 
was infinitely debtor to him another way, for letting me remain free.
He was so confounded at this discourse that he knew not what to say, and 
for a good while he stood mute indeed, but, recovering himself a little, he 
said I ran out into a discourse he hoped was over and forgotten, and he did 
not intend to revive it; that he knew I had not had his letters, for that 
when he first came to England he had been at the place to which they were 
directed, and found them all lying there but one, and that the people had 
not known how to deliver them; that he thought to have had a direction 
there how to find me, but had the mortification to be told that they did 
not so much as know who I was; that he was under a great disappointment, 
and that I ought to know, in answer to all my resentments, that he had done 
a long, and (he hoped) a sufficient penance for the slight that I had 
supposed he had put upon me; that it was true (and I could not suppose any 
other) that upon the repulse I had given him in a case so circumstanced as 
his was, and after such earnest entreaties and such offers as he had made 
me, he went away with a mind heartily grieved and full of resentment; that 
he had looked back on the crime he had committed, with some regret, but on 
the cruelty of my treatment of the poor infant I went with at that time, 
with the utmost detestation, and that this made him unable to send an 
agreeable answer to me, for which reason he had sent none at all for some 
time; but that in about six or seven months, those resentments wearing off 
by the return of his affection to me and his concern in the poor child-- 
There he stopped, and indeed tears stood in his eyes, while in a 
parenthesis he only added, and to this minute he did not know whether it 
was dead or alive. He then went on, those resentments wearing off; he sent 
me several letters, I think he said seven or eight, but received no answer; 
that then his business obliging him to go to Holland, he came to England, 
as in his way, but found as above that his letters had not been called for, 
but that he left them at the house after paying the postage of them, and 
then going back to France, he was yet uneasy and could not refrain the 
knight-errantry of coming to England again to seek me, though he knew 
neither where or of whom to enquire for me, being disappointed in all his 
enquiries before. That he had yet taken up his residence here, firmly 
believing that one time or other he should meet me or hear of me, and that 
some kind chance would at last throw him in my way; that he had lived thus 
above four years, and though his hopes were vanished, yet he had not any 
thoughts of removing any more in the world, unless it should be at last, as 
it is with other old men, he might have some inclination to go home to die 
in his own country, but that he had not thought of it yet; that if I would 
consider all these steps I would find some reasons to forget his first 
resentments and to think that penance, as he called it, which he had 
undergone in search of me, an amende honorable in reparation of the affront 
given to the kindness of my letter of invitation, and that we might at last 
make ourselves some satisfaction on both sides for the mortifications past.
I confess I could not hear all this without being moved very much, and yet 
I continued a little stiff and formal too a good while. I told him that 
before I could give him any reply to the rest of his discourse, I ought to 
give him the satisfaction of telling him that his son was alive; and that 
indeed, since I saw him so concerned about it and mention it with such 
affection, I was sorry that I had not found out some way or other to let 
him know it sooner, but that I thought, after his slighting the mother, as 
above, he had summed up his affection to the child, in the letter he had 
wrote to me about providing for it, and that he had, as other fathers often 
do, looked upon it as a birth which, being out of the way, was to be 
forgotten, as its beginning was to be repented of; that in providing 
sufficiently for it, he had done more than all such fathers used to do, and 
might be well satisfied with it.
He answered me that he should have been very glad if I had been so good but 
to have given him the satisfaction of knowing the poor unfortunate creature 
was yet alive, and he would have taken some care of it upon himself, and 
particularly by owning it for a legitimate child, which, where nobody had 
known to the contrary, would have taken off the infamy which would 
otherwise cleave to it, and so the child should not itself have known 
anything of its own disaster; but that he feared it was now too late.
He added that I might see by all his conduct since that, what unhappy 
mistake drew him into the thing at first, and that he would have been very 
far from doing the injury to me or being instrumental to add une miserable 
(that was his word) to the world, if he had not been drawn into it by the 
hopes he had of making me his own; but that, if it was possible to rescue 
the child from the consequences of its unhappy birth, he hoped I would give 
him leave to do it, and he would let me see that he had both means and 
affection still to do it; and that, notwithstanding all the misfortunes 
that had befallen him, nothing that belonged to him, especially by a mother 
he had such a concern for as he had for me, should ever want what he was in 
a condition to do for it.
I could not hear this without being sensibly touched with it. I was ashamed 
that he should show that he had more real affection for the child, though 
he had never seen it in his life, than I that bore it, for indeed I did not 
love the child nor love to see it; and though I had provided for it, yet I 
did it by Amy's hand, and had not seen it above twice in four years, being 
privately resolved that when it grew up, it should not be able to call me 
mother.
However, I told him the child was taken care of, and that he need not be 
anxious about it unless he suspected that I had less affection for it than 
he, that had never seen it in his life; that he knew what I had promised 
him to do for it, namely, to give it the thousand pistoles which I had 
offered him, and which he had declined; that I assured him I had made my 
will, and that I had left it £5000 and the interest of it till he should 
come of age if I died before that time; that I would still be as good as 
that to it, but if he had a mind to take it from me into his government I 
would not be against it, and to satisfy him that I would perform what I 
said, I would cause the child to be delivered to him and the £5000 also for 
its support, depending upon it that he would show himself a father to it, 
by what I saw of his affection to it now.
I had observed that he had hinted two or three times in his discourse his 
having had misfortunes in the world, and I was a little surprised at the 
expression, especially at the repeating it so often, but I took no notice 
of that part yet.
He thanked me for my kindness to the child, with a tenderness which showed 
the sincerity of all he had said before, and which increased the regret 
with which, as I said, I looked back on the little affection I had shown to 
the poor child. He told me he did not desire to take him from me, but so as 
to introduce him into the world as his own, which he could still do, having 
lived absent from his other children (for he had two sons and a daughter, 
which were brought up at Nimeguen in Holland with a sister of his) so long, 
that he might very well send another son of ten years old to be bred up 
with them and suppose his mother to be dead or alive, as he found occasion; 
and that as I had resolved to do so handsomely for the child, he would add 
to it something considerable; though, having had some great disappointments 
(repeating the words), he could not do for it as he would otherwise have 
done.
I then thought myself obliged to take notice of his having so often 
mentioned his having met with disappointments. I told him I was very sorry 
to hear he had met with anything afflicting to him in the world; that I 
would not have anything belonging to me add to his loss or weaken him in 
what he might do for his other children; and that I would not agree to his 
having the child away, though the proposal was infinitely to the child's 
advantage, unless he would promise me that the whole expense should be 
mine, and that if he did not think £5000 enough for the child, I would give 
it more.
We had so much discourse upon this and the old affairs, that it took up all 
our time at his first visit. I was a little importunate with him to tell me 
how he came to find me out, but he put it off for that time, and only 
obtaining my leave to visit me again, he went away; and indeed my heart was 
so full with what he had said already, that I was glad when he went away. 
Sometimes I was full of tenderness and affection for him, and especially 
when he expressed himself so earnestly and passionately about the child; 
other times I was crowded with doubts about his circumstances. Sometimes I 
was terrified with apprehensions lest if I should come into a close 
correspondence with him, he should any way come to hear what kind of life I 
had led at Pall Mall and in other places, and it might make me miserable 
afterwards; from which last thought I concluded that I had better repulse 
him again, than receive him. All these thoughts and many more crowded in so 
fast, I say, upon me, that I wanted to give vent to them and get rid of 
him, and was very glad when he was gone away.
We had several meetings after this, in which still we had so many 
preliminaries to go through, that we scarce ever bordered upon the main 
subject; once indeed he said something of it, and I put it off with a kind 
of a jest. 'Alas!' says I, 'those things are out of the question now; 'tis 
almost two ages since those things were talked between us,' says I; 'you 
see I am grown an old woman since that.' Another time he gave a little push 
at it again, and I laughed again. 'Why, what dost thou talk of?' said I in 
a formal way, 'dost thou not see I am turned Quaker? I cannot speak of 
those things now.' 'Why,' says he, 'the Quakers marry, as well as other 
people, and love one another as well; besides,' says he, 'the Quaker's 
dress does not ill become you '; and so jested with me again, and so it 
went off for a third time. However, I began to be kind to him in process of 
time, as they call it, and we grew very intimate, and if the following 
accident had not unluckily intervened, I had certainly married him, or 
consented to marry him, the very next time he had asked me.
I had long waited for a letter from Amy, who it seems was just at that time 
gone to Rouen the second time, to make her enquiries about him; and I 
received a letter from her at this unhappy juncture which gave me the 
following account of my business:

1. That for my gentleman, whom I had now, as I may say, in my arms, she 
said he had been gone from Paris, as I have hinted, having met with some 
great losses and misfortunes ∑ that he had been in Holland on that very 
account, whither he had also carried his children; that he was after that 
settled for some time at Rouen; that she had been at Rouen, and found there 
(by a mere accident), from a Dutch skipper, that he was in London, had been 
there above three years ∑ that he was to be found upon the Exchange, on the 
French Walk, and that he lodged at Laurence Pountney Lane, and the like.

So Amy said she supposed I might soon find him out, but that she doubted he 
was poor, and not worth looking after. This she did because of the next 
clause, which the jade had most mind to on many accounts.

2. That as to the Prince --, that, as above, he was gone into Germany, 
where his estate lay; that he had quitted the French service, and lived 
retired; that she had seen his gentleman, who remained at Paris to solicit 
his arrears, etc.; that he had given her an account how his lord had 
employed him to enquire for me and find me out, as above, and told her what 
pains he had taken to find me; that he had understood that I was gone to 
England; that he once had orders to go to England to find me; that his lord 
had resolved, if he could have found me, to have called me a countess, and 
so have married me and have carried me into Germany with him; and that his 
commission was still to assure me that the Prince would marry me if I would 
come to him; and that he would send him an account that he had found me, 
and did not doubt but he would have orders to come over to England to 
attend me, in a figure suitable to my quality.

Amy, an ambitious jade, who knew my weakest part, namely, that I loved 
great things and that I loved to be flattered and courted, said abundance 
of kind things upon this occasion which she knew were suitable to me and 
would prompt my vanity, and talked big of the Prince's gentleman having 
orders to come over to me with a procuration to marry me by proxy (as 
princes usually do in like cases), and to furnish me with an equipage and I 
know not how many fine things, but told me withal, that she had not yet let 
him know that she belonged to me still, or that she knew where to find me 
or to write to me, because she was willing to see the bottom of it, and 
whether it was a reality or a gasconade. She had indeed told him that if he 
had any such commission, she would endeavour to find me out, but no more.

3. For the Jew, she assured me that she had not been able to come at a 
certainty what was become of him or in what part of the world he was; but 
that thus much she had learned from good hands, that he had committed a 
crime, in being concerned in a design to rob a rich banker at Paris, and 
that he was fled, and had not been heard of there for above six years.

4. For that of my husband the brewer, she learned that, being commanded 
into the field upon an occasion of some action in Flanders, he was wounded 
at the battle of Mons, and died of his wounds in the hospital of the 
Invalides; so there was an end of my four enquiries which I sent her over 
to make.

This account of the Prince and the return of his affection for me, with all 
the flattering great things which seemed to come along with it, and 
especially as they came gilded and set out by my maid Amy - I say this 
account of the Prince came to me in a very unlucky hour, and in the very 
crisis of my affair.
The merchant and I had entered into close conferences upon the grand 
affair. I had left off talking my platonics, and of my independency and 
being a free woman, as before; and he having cleared up my doubts too, as 
to his circumstances and the misfortunes he had spoken of, I had gone so 
far that we had begun to consider where we should live, and in what figure, 
what equipage, what house, and the like.
I had made some harangues upon the delightful retirement of a country life, 
and how we might enjoy ourselves so effectually without the encumbrances of 
business and the world; but all this was grimace, and purely because I was 
afraid to make any public appearance in the world for fear some impertinent 
person of quality should chop upon again and cry out, Roxana! Roxana! by 
--, with an oath, as had been done before.
My merchant, bred to business and used to converse among men of business, 
could hardly tell how to live without it; at least it appeared he should be 
like a fish out of water, uneasy and dying. But, however, he joined with 
me, only argued that we might live as near London as we could; that he 
might sometimes come to 'Change and hear how the world should go abroad, 
and how it fared with his friends and his children.
I answered that if he chose still to embarrass himself with business, I 
supposed it would be more to his satisfaction to be in his own country, and 
where his family was so well known, and where his children also were.
He smiled at the thoughts of that, and let me know that he should be very 
willing to embrace such an offer, but that he could not expect it of me, to 
whom England was, to be sure, so naturalised now, as that it would be 
carrying me out of my native country, which he would not desire by any 
means, however agreeable it might be to him.
I told him he was mistaken in me; that as I had told him so much of a 
married state being a captivity and the family being a house of bondage, 
that when I married I expected to be but an upper servant, so if I did, 
notwithstanding, submit to it I hoped he should see I knew how to act the 
servant's part and do everything to oblige my master; that if I did not 
resolve to go with him wherever he desired to go, he might depend I would 
never have him. 'And did I not,' said I, 'offer myself to go with you to 
the East Indies?'
All this while this was indeed but a copy of my countenance, for as my 
circumstances would not admit my stay in London, at least not so as to 
appear publicly, I resolved, if I took him, to live remote in the country 
or go out of England with him.
But in an evil hour just now came Amy's letter, in the very middle of all 
these discourses, and the fine things she had said about the Prince began 
to make strange work with me. The notion of being a Princess and going over 
to live where all that had happened here would have been quite sunk out of 
knowledge, as well as out of memory (conscience excepted), was mighty 
taking; the thoughts of being surrounded with domestics, honoured with 
titles, be called Her Highness and live in all the splendour of a Court, 
and, which was still more, in the arms of a man of such rank, and who, I 
knew, loved and valued me - all this, in a word, dazzled my eyes, turned my 
head, and I was as truly crazed and distracted for about a fortnight as 
most of the people in Bedlam, though perhaps not quite so far gone.
When my gentleman came to me the next time I had no notion of him; I wished 
I had never received him at all; in short, I resolved to have no more to 
say to him, so I feigned myself indisposed, and though I did come down to 
him and speak to him a little, yet I let him see that I was so ill that I 
was (as we say) no company, and that it would be kind in him to give me 
leave to quit him for that time.
The next morning he sent a footman to enquire how I did, and I let him know 
I had a violent cold and was very ill with it. Two days after, he came 
again, and I let him see me again, but feigned myself so hoarse that I 
could not speak to be heard, and that it was painful to me but to whisper; 
and, in a word, I held him in this suspense near three weeks.
During this time I had a strange elevation upon my mind, and the Prince, or 
the spirit of him, had such a possession of me that I spent most of this 
time in the realising all the great things of a life with the Prince, to my 
mind; pleasing my fancy with the grandeur I was supposing myself to enjoy, 
and, withal, wickedly studying in what manner to put off this gentleman and 
be rid of him for ever.
I cannot but say that sometimes the baseness of the action struck hard with 
me; the honour and sincerity with which he had always treated me, and, 
above all, the fidelity he had shown me at Paris, and that I owed my life 
to him - I say all these stared in my face, and I frequently argued with 
myself upon the obligation I was under to him, and how base would it be 
now, too, after so many obligations and engagements, to cast him off.
But the title of Highness and of a Princess, and all those fine things as 
they came in, weighed down all this, and the sense of gratitude vanished as 
if it had been a shadow.
At other times I considered the wealth I was mistress of, that I was able 
to live like a princess though not a princess, and that my merchant (for he 
had told me all the affair of his misfortune) was far from being poor, or 
even mean; that together we were able to make up an estate of between three 
and four thousand pounds a year, which was in itself equal to some princes 
abroad. But though this was true, yet the name of Princess and the flutter 
of it, in a word, the pride weighed them down, and all these arguings 
generally ended to the disadvantage of my merchant; so that, in short, I 
resolved to drop him and give him a final answer at his next coming, 
namely, that something had happened in my affairs which had caused me to 
alter my measures unexpectedly; and, in a word, to desire him to trouble 
himself no further.
I think, verily, this rude treatment of him was for some time the effect of 
a violent fermentation in my blood, for the very motion which the steady 
contemplation of my fancied greatness had put my spirits into had thrown me 
into a kind of fever, and I scarce knew what I did.
I have wondered since that it did not make me mad, nor do I now think it 
strange to hear of those who have been quite lunatic with their pride, that 
fancied themselves queens and empresses, and have made their attendants 
serve them upon the knee, given visitors their hands to kiss, and the like; 
for certainly, if pride will not turn the brain, nothing can.
However, the next time my gentleman came I had not courage enough, or not 
ill-nature enough, to treat him in the rude manner I had resolved to do; 
and it was very well I did not, for soon after I had another letter from 
Amy in which was the mortifying news, and indeed surprising to me, that my 
Prince (as I with a secret pleasure had called him) was very much hurt by a 
bruise he had received in hunting (and engaging with) a wild boar, a cruel 
and desperate sport which the noblemen of Germany, it seems, much delight 
in.
This alarmed me indeed, and the more because Amy wrote me word that his 
gentleman was gone away express to him, not without apprehensions that he 
should find his master was dead before his coming home, but that he (the 
gentleman) had promised her that as soon as he arrived he would send back 
the same courier to her with an account of his master's health, and of the 
main affair; and that he had obliged Amy to stay at Paris fourteen days for 
his return, she having promised him before to make it her business to go to 
England and to find me out for his lord if he sent her such orders; and he 
was to send her a bill for fifty pistoles for her journey. So Amy told me 
she waited for the answer.
This was a blow to me several ways; for, first, I was in a state of 
uncertainty as to his person, whether he was alive or dead, and I was not 
unconcerned in that part, I assure you; for I had an inexpressible 
affection remaining for his person, besides the degree to which it was 
revived by the view of a firmer interest in him; but this was not all, for 
in losing him I for ever lost the prospect of all the gaiety and glory that 
had made such an impression upon my imagination.
In this state of uncertainty, I say, by Amy's letter, I was like still to 
remain another fortnight, and had I now continued the resolution of using 
my merchant in the rude manner I once intended, I had made perhaps a sorry 
piece of work of it indeed, and it was very well my heart failed me as it 
did.
However, I treated him with a great many shuffles, and feigned stories to 
keep him off from any closer conferences than we had already had, that I 
might act afterwards as occasion might offer, one way or other. But that 
which mortified me most was that Amy did not write, though the fourteen 
days were expired. At last, to my great surprise, when I was with the 
utmost impatience looking out at the window expecting the postman that 
usually brought the foreign letters - I say I was agreeably surprised to 
see a coach come to the yard gate where we lived, and my woman Amy alight 
out of it and come towards the door, having the coachman bringing several 
bundles after her.
I flew like lightning downstairs to speak to her, but was soon damped with 
her news. 'Is the Prince alive or dead, Amy?' says I. She spoke coldly and 
slightly. 'He is alive, madam,' said she, 'but it is not much matter, I had 
as lieu he had been dead.' So we went upstairs again to my chamber, and 
there we began a serious discourse of the whole matter.
First she told me a long story of his being hurt by a wild boar, and of the 
condition he was reduced to, so that every one expected he should die, the 
anguish of the wound having thrown him into a fever; with abundance of 
circumstances too long to relate here; how he recovered of that extreme 
danger, but continued very weak; how the gentleman had been homme de parole 
and had sent back the courier as punctually as if it had been to the King; 
that he had given a long account of his lord, and of his illness and 
recovery. But the sum of the matter, as to me, was, that as to the lady, 
his lord was turned penitent, was under some vows for his recovery, and 
could not think any more on that affair; and especially, the lady being 
gone, and that it had not been offered to her, so there was no breach of 
honour; but that his lord was sensible of the good offices of Mrs. Amy, and 
had sent her the fifty pistoles for her trouble, as if she had really gone 
the journey.
I was, I confess, hardly able to bear the first surprise of this 
disappointment. Amy saw it, and gapes out (as was her way), 'Lawd, madam! 
never be concerned at it; you see he is gotten among the priests, and I 
suppose they have saucily imposed some penance upon him, and, it may be, 
sent him off an errand barefoot to some Madonna or Nostredame or other, and 
he is off of his amours for the present; I'll warrant you he'll be as 
wicked again as ever he was when he is got thorough well and gets but out 
of their hands again. I hate this out-o'-season repentance; what occasion 
had he in his repentance to be off of taking a good wife?
should have been glad to see you have been a Princess and all that, but if 
it can't be, never afflict yourself, you are rich enough to be a princess 
to yourself; you don't want him, that's the best of it.'
Well, I cried for all that, and was heartily vexed, and that a great while; 
but as Amy was always at my elbow and always jogging it out of my head with 
her mirth and her wit, it wore off again.
Then I told Amy all the story of my merchant, and how he had found me out 
when I was in such a concern to find him; how it was true that he lodged in 
Laurence Pountney Lane, and how I had had all the story of his misfortune 
which she had heard of, in which he had lost above £8000 sterling, and that 
he had told me frankly of it before she had sent me any account of it, or 
at least before I had taken any notice that I had heard of it.
Amy was very joyful at that part. 'Well, madam, then,' says Amy, 'what need 
you value the story of the Prince, and going I know not whither into 
Germany, to lay your bones in another world and learn the devil's language 
called High-Dutch? You are better here, by half,' says Amy. 'Lawd, madam!' 
says she, 'why, are not you as rich as Croesus?'
Well, it was a great while still before I could bring myself off of this 
fancied sovereignty, and I, that was so willing once to be mistress to a 
King, was now ten thousand times more fond of being wife to a Prince.
So fast a hold has pride and ambition upon our minds, that when once it 
gets admission, nothing is so chimerical but under this possession we can 
form ideas of, in our fancy, and realise to our imagination. Nothing can be 
so ridiculous as the simple steps we take in such cases; a man or a woman 
becomes a mere malade imaginaire, and, I believe, may as easily die with 
grief or run mad with joy (as the affair in his fancy appears right or 
wrong), as if all was real and actually under the management of the person.
I had indeed two assistants to deliver me from this snare, and these were, 
first, Amy, who knew my disease, but was able to do nothing as to the 
remedy; the second, the merchant, who really brought the remedy but knew 
nothing of the distemper.
I remember when all these disorders were upon my thoughts, in one of the 
visits my friend the merchant made me, he took notice that he perceived I 
was under some unusual disorder; he believed, he said, that my distemper, 
whatever it was, lay much in my head, and, it being summer weather and very 
hot, proposed to me to go a little way into the air.
I started at his expression. 'What,' says I, 'do you think then that I am 
crazed? You should then propose a madhouse for my cure.' 'No, no,' says he, 
'I do not mean anything like that, I hope the head may be distempered and 
not the brain.' Well, I was too sensible that he was right, for I knew I 
had acted a strange wild kind of part with him, but he insisted upon it, 
and pressed me to go into the country. I took him short again. 'What need 
you,' says I, 'send me out of your way? It is in your power to be less 
troubled with me, and with less inconvenience to us both.'
He took that ill, and told me I used to have a better opinion of his 
sincerity, and desired to know what he had done to forfeit my charity. I 
mention this only to let you see how far I had gone in my measures of 
quitting him, that is to say, how near I was of showing him how base, 
ungrateful, and how vilely I could act. But I found I had carried the jest 
far enough, and that a little matter might have made him sick of me again 
as he was before, so I began by little and little to change my way of 
talking to him, and to come to discourse to the purpose again, as we had 
done before.
A while after this, when we were very merry and talking familiarly 
together, he called me, with an air of particular satisfaction, his 
princess. I coloured at the word, for it indeed touched me to the quick; 
but he knew nothing of the reason of my being touched with it. 'What d' ye 
mean by that?' said I. 'Nay,' says he, 'I mean nothing but that you are a 
princess to me.' 'Well,' says I, 'as to that, I am content; and yet I could 
tell you I might have been a princess if I would have quitted you, and 
believe I could be so still.' 'It is not in my power to make you a 
princess,' says he, 'but I can easily make you a lady here in England, and 
a countess too, if you will go out of it.'
I heard both with a great deal of satisfaction, for my pride remained, 
though it had been balked, and I thought with myself that this proposal 
would make me some amends for the loss of the title that had so tickled my 
imagination another way; and I was impatient to understand what he meant, 
but I would not ask him by any means, so it passed off for that time.
When he was gone I told Amy what he had said, and Amy was as impatient to 
know the manner, how it could be, as I was; but the next time (perfectly 
unexpected to me) he told me that he had accidentally mentioned a thing to 
me last time he was with me, having not the least thought of the thing 
itself; but not knowing but such a thing might be of some weight to me, and 
that it might bring me respect among people where I might appear, he had 
thought since of it, and was resolved to ask me about it.
I made light of it, and told him that as he knew I had chosen a retired 
life, it was of no value to me to be called Lady, or Countess either; but 
that if he intended to drag me, as I might call it, into the world again, 
perhaps it might be agreeable to him; but, besides that, I could not judge 
of the thing, because I did not understand how either of them was to be 
done.
He told me that money purchased titles of honour in almost all parts of the 
world, though money could not give principles of honour, they must come by 
birth and blood; that, however, titles sometimes assist to elevate the soul 
and to infuse generous principles into the mind, and especially where there 
was a good foundation laid in the persons; that he hoped we should neither 
of us misbehave if we came to it, and that as we knew how to wear a title 
without undue elevations, so it might sit as well upon us as on another; 
that as to England, he had nothing to do but to get an Act of 
Naturalisation in his favour, and he knew where to purchase a patent for 
Baronet, that is to say, to have the honour and title transferred to him. 
But if I intended to go abroad with him, he had a nephew, the son of his 
elder brother, who had the title of Count, with the estate annexed, which 
was but small, and that he had frequently offered to make it over to him 
for a thousand pistoles, which was not a great deal of money, and 
considering it was in the family already, he would, upon my being willing, 
purchase it immediately.
I told him I liked the last best, but then I would not let him buy it 
unless he would let me pay the thousand pistoles. 'No, no,' says he, 'I 
refused a thousand pistoles that I had more right to have accepted than 
that, and you shall not be at so much expense now.' 'Yes,' says I, 'you did 
refuse it, and perhaps repented it afterwards.' 'I never complained,' says 
he. 'But I did,' says I, 'and often repented it for you.' 'I do not 
understand you,' says he. 'Why,' says I, 'I repented that I suffered you to 
refuse it.' 'Well, well,' said she, 'we may talk of that hereafter, when 
you shall resolve which part of the world you will make your settled 
residence in.' Here he talked very handsomely to me, and for a good while 
together; how it had been his lot to live all his days out of his native 
country, and to be often shifting and changing the situation of his 
affairs, and that I myself had not always had a fixed abode; but that now, 
as neither of us was very young, he fancied I would be for taking up our 
abode, where, if possible, we might remove no more; that as to his part, he 
was of that opinion entirely, only with this exception, that the choice of 
the place should be mine, for that all places in the world were alike to 
him; only with this single addition, namely, that I was with him.
I heard him with a great deal of pleasure, as well for his being willing to 
give me the choice as for that I resolved to live abroad, for the reason I 
have mentioned already, namely, lest I should at any time be known in 
England, and all that story of Roxana and the balls should come out; as 
also I was not a little tickled with the satisfaction of being still a 
countess, though I could not be a Princess.
I told Amy all this story, for she was still my privy counsellor, but when 
I asked her opinion she made me laugh heartily. 'Now, which of the two 
shall I take, Amy?' said I. 'Shall I be a Lady, that is, a baronet's lady 
in England, or a Countess in Holland?' The ready-witted jade, that knew the 
pride of my temper too almost as well as did myself, answered without the 
least hesitation, 'Both, madam. Which of them!' says she, repeating the 
words, 'why not both of them? and then you will be really a Princess; for 
sure, to be a Lady in English and a Countess in Dutch may make a Princess 
in High-Dutch.' Upon the whole, though Amy was in jest, she put the thought 
into my head, and I resolved that, in short, I would be both of them; which 
I managed as you shall hear.
First, I seemed to resolve that I would live and settle in England, only 
with this condition, namely, that I would not live in London. I pretended 
that it would choke me up, that I wanted breath when I was in London, but 
that anywhere else I would be satisfied; and then I asked him whether any 
seaport town in England would not suit him, because I knew, though he 
seemed to leave off, he would always love to be among business and 
conversing with men of business; and I named several places, either nearest 
for business with France or with Holland, as Dover or Southampton for the 
first, and Ipswich or Yarmouth or Hull for the last; but I took care that 
we would resolve upon nothing Only by this it seemed to be certain that we 
should live in England.
It was time now to bring things to a conclusion, and so in about six weeks' 
time more we settled all our preliminaries; and among the rest he let me 
know that he should have the Bill for his naturalisation passed time 
enough, so that he would be (as he called it) an Englishman before we 
married. That was soon perfected, the parliament being then sitting, and 
several other foreigners joining in the said Bill to save the expense.
It was not above three or four days after, but that, without giving me the 
least notice that he had so much as been about the patent for Baronet, he 
brought' it me in a fine embroidered bag, and, saluting me by the name of 
my Lady (joining his own surname to it), presented it to me with his 
picture set with diamonds, and at the same time gave me a breast jewel 
worth a thousand pistoles, and the next morning we were married. Thus I put 
an end to all the intriguing part of my life, a life full of prosperous 
wickedness; the reflections upon which were so much the more afflicting, as 
the time had been spent in the grossest crimes, which the more I looked 
back upon, the more black and horrid they appeared, effectually drinking up 
all the comfort and satisfaction which I might otherwise have taken in that 
part of life which was still before me.
The first satisfaction, however, that I took in the new condition I was in, 
was in reflecting that at length the life of crime was over, and that I was 
like a passenger coming back from the Indies, who having, after many years' 
fatigues and hurry in business, gotten a good estate with innumerable 
difficulties and hazards, is arrived safe at London with all his effects, 
and has the pleasure of saying he shall never venture upon the seas any 
more.
When we were married we came back immediately to my lodgings (for the 
church was but just by), and we were so privately married that none but Amy 
and my friend the Quaker were acquainted with it. As soon as we came into 
the house he took me in his arms, and kissing me, 'Now you are my own,' 
says he. 'Oh that you had been so good to have done this eleven years ago.' 
'Then,' said I, 'perhaps you would have been tired of me long ago; 'tis 
much better now, for now all our happy days are to come. Besides,' said I, 
'I should not have been half so rich '; but that I said to myself, for 
there was no letting him into the reason of it. 'Oh,' says he, 'I should 
not have been tired of you; but besides having the satisfaction of your 
company, it had saved me that unlucky blow at Paris, which was a dead loss 
to me of above 8000 pistoles, and all the fatigues of so many years' hurry 
and business.' And then he added, 'But I'll make you pay for it all, now I 
have you.' I started a little at the words. 'Ay,' said I, 'do you threaten 
already? Pray what d' ye mean by that?' and began to look a little grave.
'I'll tell you,' says he, 'very plainly what I mean,' and still he held me 
fast in his arms. 'I intend from this time never to trouble myself with any 
more business, so I shall never get one shilling for you more than I have 
already; all that you will lose one way. Next, I intend not to trouble 
myself with any of the care or trouble of managing what either you have for 
me or what I have to add to it, but you shall e'en take it all upon 
yourself as the wives do in Holland; so you will pay for it that way too, 
for all the drudgery shall be yours. Thirdly, I intend to condemn you to 
the constant bondage of my impertinent company, for I shall tie you like a 
pedlar's pack, at my back, I shall scarce ever be from you; for I am sure I 
can take delight in nothing else in this world.' 'Very well,' says I, 'but 
I am pretty heavy; I hope you'll set me down sometimes when you are a-
weary.' 'As for that,' says he, tire me if you can.
This was all jest and allegory, but it was all true in the moral of the 
fable, as you shall hear in its place. We were very merry the rest of the 
day, but without any noise or clutter, for he brought not one of his 
acquaintance or friends, either English or foreigner. The honest Quaker 
provided us a very noble dinner indeed, considering how few we were to eat 
it, and every day that week she did the like, and would at last have it be 
all at her own charge, which I was utterly averse to; first, because I knew 
her circumstances not to be very great, though not very low; and next, 
because she had been so true a friend and so cheerful a comforter to me, 
ay, and counsellor too, in all this affair, that I had resolved to make her 
a present that should be some help to her when all was over.
But to return to the circumstances of our wedding. After being very merry, 
as I have told you, Amy and the Quaker put us to bed, the honest Quaker 
little thinking we had been a-bed together eleven years before; nay, that 
was a secret which, as it happened, Amy herself did not know. Amy grinned 
and made faces as if she had been pleased, but it came out in so many 
words, when he was not by, the sum of her mumbling and muttering was that 
this should have been done ten or a dozen years before, that it would 
signify little now; that was to say, in short, that her mistress was pretty 
near fifty, and too old to have any children. I chid her; the Quaker 
laughed, complimented me upon my not being so old as Amy pretended, that I 
could not be above forty, and might have a houseful of children yet. But 
Amy, and I too, knew better than she how it was; for, in short, I was old 
enough to have done breeding, however I looked; but I made her hold her 
tongue.
In the morning my Quaker landlady came and visited us before we were up, 
and made us eat cakes and drink chocolate in bed, and then left us again 
and bid us take a nap upon it, which I believe we did; in short, she 
treated us so handsomely, and with such an agreeable cheerfulness as well 
as plenty, as made it appear to me that Quakers may, and that this Quaker 
did, understand good manners as well as any other people.
I resisted her offer, however, of treating us for the whole week, and I 
opposed it so long that I saw evidently that she took it ill, and would 
have thought herself slighted if we had not accepted it; so I said no more, 
but let her go on, only told her I would be even with her, and so I was. 
However, for that week she treated us, as she said she would, and did it so 
very fine and with such a profusion of all sorts of good things, that the 
greatest burthen to her was how to dispose of things that were left; for 
she never let anything, how dainty or however large, be so much as seen 
twice among us.
I had some servants indeed which helped her off a little, that is to say, 
two maids, for Amy was now a woman of business, not a servant, and ate 
always with us. I had also a coachman and a boy. My Quaker had a manservant 
too, but had but one maid, but she borrowed two more from some of her 
friends for the occasion, and had a man-cook for dressing the victuals.
She was only at a loss for plate, which she gave me a whisper of, and I 
made Amy fetch a large strong-box which I had lodged in a safe hand, in 
which was all the fine plate which I had provided on a worse occasion, as 
is mentioned before, and I put it into the Quaker's hand, obliging her not 
to use it as mine but as her own, for a reason I shall mention presently.
I was now my Lady --, and I must own I was exceedingly pleased with it; 
'twas so big and so great to hear myself called Her Ladyship, and Your 
Ladyship, and the like, that I was like the Indian king at Virginia, who, 
having a house built for him by the English and a lock put upon the door, 
would sit whole days together with the key in his hand, locking and 
unlocking and double-locking the door, with an unaccountable pleasure at 
the novelty; so I could have sat a whole day together to hear Amy talk to 
me and call me Your Ladyship at every word, but after a while the novelty 
wore off and the pride of it abated, till at last truly I wanted the other 
title as much as I did that of Ladyship before.
We lived this week in all the innocent mirth imaginable, and our good-
humoured Quaker was so pleasant in her way, that it was particularly 
entertaining to us. We had no music at all or dancing, only I now and then 
sung a French song to divert my spouse, who desired it, and the privacy of 
our mirth greatly added to the pleasure of it. I did not make many clothes 
for my wedding, having always a great many rich clothes by me, which, with 
a little altering for the fashion, were perfectly new. The next day he 
pressed me to dress though we had no company. At last, jesting with him, I 
told him I believed I was able to dress me so, in one kind of dress that I 
had by me, that he would not know his wife when he saw her, especially if 
anybody else was by. 'No!' he said, that was impossible; and he longed to 
see that dress. I told him I would dress me in it if he would promise me 
never to desire me to appear in it before company. He promised he would 
not, but wanted to know why too; as husbands, you know, are inquisitive 
creatures, and love to enquire after anything they think is kept from them; 
but I had an answer ready for him. 'Because,' said I, 'it is not a decent 
dress in this country, and would not look modest.' Neither indeed would it, 
for it was but one degree off from appearing in one's shift, but it was the 
usual wear in the country where they were used. He was satisfied with my 
answer, and gave me his promise never to ask me to be seen in it before 
company. I then withdrew, taking only Amy and the Quaker with me; and Amy 
dressed me in my old Turkish habit which I danced in formerly, etc., as 
before. The Quaker was charmed with the dress, and merrily said that if 
such a dress should come to be worn here, she should not know what to do; 
she should be tempted not to dress in the Quakers' way any more.
When all the dress was put on I loaded it with jewels, and in particular I 
placed the large breast 'jewel which he had given me, of a thousand 
pistoles, upon the front of the Tyhiaai, or head-dress, where it made a 
most glorious show indeed; I had my own diamond necklace on, and my hair 
was tout brillant, all glittering with jewels.
His picture set with diamonds I had placed stitched to my vest, just, as 
might be supposed, upon my heart (which is the compliment in such cases 
among the Eastern people), and all being open at the breast, there was no 
room for anything of a jewel there. In this figure, Amy holding the train 
of my robe, I came down to him. He was surprised and perfectly astonished; 
he knew me, to be sure, because I had prepared him and because there was 
nobody else there but the Quaker and Amy, but he by no means knew Amy, for 
she had dressed herself in the habit of a Turkish slave, being the garb of 
my little Turk which I had at Naples, as I have said. She had her neck and 
arms bare, was bareheaded, and her hair braided in a long tassel hanging 
down her back; but the jade could neither hold her countenance nor her 
chattering tongue so as to be concealed long.
Well, he was so charmed with this dress that he would have me sit and dine 
in it, but it was so thin and so open before, and the weather being also 
sharp, that I was afraid of taking cold. However, the fire being enlarged 
and the doors kept shut, I sat to oblige him, and he professed he never saw 
so fine a dress in his life. I afterwards told him that my husband (so he 
called the jeweller that was killed) bought it for me at Leghorn, with a 
young Turkish slave which I parted with at Paris, and that it was by the 
help of that slave that I learnt how to dress in it and how everything was 
to be worn, and many of the Turkish customs also, with some of their 
language. This story agreeing with the fact, only changing the person, was 
very natural, and so it went off with him. But there was good reason why I 
should not receive any company in this dress, that is to say, not in 
England; I need not repeat it, you will hear more of it.
But when I came abroad I frequently put it on, and upon two or three 
occasions danced in it, but always at his request.
We continued at the Quaker's lodgings for above a year; for now making as 
though it was difficult to determine where to settle in England to his 
satisfaction, unless in London, which was not to mine, I pretended to make 
him an offer, that to oblige him I began to incline to go and live abroad 
with him; that I knew nothing could be more agreeable to him, and that as 
to me, every place was alike; that as I had lived abroad without a husband 
so many years, it could be no burthen to me to live abroad again, 
especially with him. Then we fell to straining our courtesies upon one 
another. He told me he was perfectly easy at living in England, and had 
squared all his affairs accordingly; for that, as he had told me he 
intended to give over all business in the world, as well the care of 
managing it as the concern about it, seeing we were both in condition 
neither to want it nor to have it be worth our while, so I might see it was 
his intention, by his getting himself naturalised, and getting the patent 
of Baronet, etc. Well, for all that, I told him I accepted his compliment, 
but I could not but know that his native country, where his children were 
breeding up, must be most agreeable to him, and that if I was of such value 
to him I would be there then to enhance the rate of his satisfaction; that 
wherever he was would be a home to me, and any place in the world would be 
England to me if he was with me. And thus, in short, I brought him to give 
me leave to oblige him with going to live abroad, when in truth I could not 
have been perfectly easy at living in England unless I had kept constantly 
within doors, lest some time or other the dissolute life I had lived here 
should have come to be known, and all those wicked things have been known 
too which I now began to be very much ashamed of.
When we closed up our wedding week, in which our Quaker had been so very 
handsome to us, I told him how much I thought we were obliged to her for 
her generous carriage to us, how she had acted the kindest part through the 
whole, and how faithful a friend she had been to me upon all occasions; and 
then letting him know a little of her family unhappinesses, I proposed that 
I thought I not only ought to be grateful to her, but really to do 
something extraordinary for her towards making her easy in her affairs; and 
I added that I had no hangers-on that should trouble him, that there was 
nobody belonged to me but what was thoroughly provided for, and that if I 
did something for this honest woman that was considerable, it should be the 
last gift I would give to anybody in the world but Amy. And as for her, we 
were not a-going to turn her adrift, but whenever anything offered for her 
we would do as we saw cause; that in the meantime Amy was not poor, that 
she had saved together between seven and eight hundred pounds. By the way, 
I did not tell him how and by what wicked ways she had got it, but that she 
had it; and that was enough to let him know she would never be in want of 
us.
My spouse was exceedingly pleased with my discourse about the Quaker, made 
a kind of a speech to me upon the subject of gratitude, told me it was one 
of the brightest parts of a gentlewoman; that it was so twisted with 
honesty, nay, and even with religion too, that he questioned whether either 
of them could be found where gratitude was not to be found; that in this 
act there was not only gratitude, but charity, and that to make the charity 
still more Christian-like, the object too had real merit to attract it. He 
therefore agreed to the thing with all his heart, only would have had me 
let him pay it out of his effects.
I told him, as for that, I did not design, whatever I had said formerly, 
that we should have two pockets, and that though I had talked to him of 
being a free woman, and an independent, and the like, and he had offered 
and promised that I should keep all my own estate in my own hands, yet, 
that since I had taken him, I would e'en do as other honest wives did, 
where I thought fit to give myself, I should give what I had too; that if I 
reserved anything, it should be only in case of mortality, and that I might 
give it to his children afterwards, as my own gift; and that, in short, if 
he thought fit to join stocks, we would see tomorrow morning what strength 
we could both make up in the world, and, bringing it all together, consider 
before we resolved upon the place of removing, how we should dispose of 
what we had as well as of ourselves. This discourse was too obliging, and 
he too much a man of sense not to receive it as it was meant; he only 
answered, we would do in that as we should both agree, but the thing under 
our present care was to show not gratitude only, but charity and affection 
too, to our kind friend the Quaker; and the first word he spoke of was to 
settle a thousand pounds upon her, for her life, that is to say, sixty 
pounds a year, but in such a manner as not to be in the power of any person 
to reach but herself. This was a great thing, and indeed showed the 
generous principles of my husband, and for that reason I mention it; but I 
thought that a little too much, too, and particularly because I had another 
thing in view for her about the plate. So I told him I thought if he gave 
her a purse with a hundred guineas as a present first, and then made her a 
compliment Of £40 per annum for her life, secured any such way as she 
should desire, it would be very handsome.
He agreed to that, and the same day, in the evening, when we were just 
going to bed, he took my Quaker by the hand, and with a kiss told her that 
we had been very kindly treated by her from the beginning of this affair, 
and his wife before, as she (meaning me) had informed him, and that he 
thought himself bound to let her see that she had obliged friends who knew 
how to be grateful; that for his part of the obligation, he desired she 
would accept of that for an acknowledgment in part only (putting the gold 
into her hand), and that his wife would talk with her about what further he 
had to say to her. And upon that, not giving her time hardly to say 'Thank 
ye,' away he went upstairs into our bedchamber, leaving her confused and 
not knowing what to say.
When he was gone she began to make very handsome and obliging 
representations of her goodwill to us both, but that it was without 
expectation of reward; that I had given her several valuable presents 
before, and so indeed I had; for besides the piece of linen which I had 
given her at first, I had given her a suit of damask table-linen, of the 
linen I bought for my balls, viz. three tablecloths and three dozen of 
napkins; and at another time I gave her a little necklace of gold beads, 
and the like, but that is by the way. But she mentioned them, I say, and 
how she was obliged by me on many other occasions; that she was not in 
condition to show her gratitude any other way, not being able to make a 
suitable return, and that now we took from her all opportunity to balance 
my former friendship, and left her more in debt than she was before. She 
spoke this in a very good kind of a manner, in her own way, but which was 
very agreeable indeed, and had as much apparent sincerity, and I verily 
believe as real, as was possible to be expressed; but I put a stop to it, 
and bid her say no more, but accept of what my spouse had given her, which 
was but in part, as she had heard him say. 'And put it up,' says I, 'and 
come and sit down here, and give me leave to say something else to you on 
the same head which my spouse and I have settled between ourselves in your 
behalf.' 'What dost thee mean?' says she, and blushed and looked surprised, 
but did not stir. She was going to speak again, but I interrupted her and 
told her she should make no more apologies of any kind whatever, for I had 
better things than all this to talk to her of; so I went on, and told her 
that as she had been so friendly and kind to us on every occasion, and that 
her house was the lucky place where we came together, and that she knew I 
was from her own mouth acquainted in part with her circumstances, we were 
resolved she should be the better for us as long as she lived. Then I told 
her what we had resolved to do for her, and that she had nothing more to do 
but to consult with me how it should be effectually secured for her, 
distinct from any of the effects which were her husband's; and that if her 
husband did so supply her that she could live comfortably and not want it 
for bread or other necessaries, she should not make use of it, but lay up 
the income of it and add it every year to the principal, so to increase the 
annual payment, which in time, and perhaps before she might come to want 
it, might double itself; that we were very willing whatever she should so 
lay up should be to herself, and whoever she thought fit after her, but 
that the £40 a year must return to our family after her life, which we both 
wished might be long and happy.
Let no reader wonder at my extraordinary concern for this poor woman, or at 
my giving my bounty to her a place in this account. It is not, I assure 
you, to make a pageantry of my charity, or to value myself upon the 
greatness of my soul, that I should give in so profuse a manner as this, 
which was above my figure if my wealth had been twice as much as it was; 
but there was another spring from whence all flowed, and 'tis on that 
account I speak of it. Was it possible I could think of a poor desolate 
woman with four children, and her husband gone from her, and perhaps good 
for little if he had stayed - I say, was I, that had tasted so deep of the 
sorrows of such a kind of widowhood, able to look on her and think of her 
circumstances, and not be touched in an uncommon manner? No, no, I never 
looked on her and her family, though she was not left so helpless and 
friendless as I had been, without remembering my own condition, when Amy 
was sent out to pawn or sell my pair of stays to buy a breast of mutton and 
a bunch of turnips; nor could I look on her poor children, though not poor 
and perishing like mine, without tears, reflecting on the dreadful 
condition that mine were reduced to when poor Amy sent them all into their 
aunt's in Spitalfields and ran away from them. These were the original 
springs or fountain-head from whence my affectionate thoughts were moved to 
assist this poor woman.
When a poor debtor, having lain long in the Compter, or Ludgate, or the 
King's Bench, for debt, afterwards gets out, rises again in the world, and 
grows rich, such a one is a certain benefactor to the prisoners there, and 
perhaps to every prison he passes by, as long as he lives; for he remembers 
the dark days of his own sorrow; and even those who never had the 
experience of such sorrows to stir up their minds to acts of charity, would 
have the same charitable good disposition, did they as sensibly remember 
what it is that distinguishes them from others by a more favourable and 
merciful Providence.
This I say was, however, the spring of my concern for this honest, 
friendly, and grateful Quaker, and as I had so plentiful a fortune in the 
world, I resolved she should taste the fruit of her kind usage to me, in a 
manner that she could not expect.
All the while I talked to her I saw the disorder of her mind; the sudden 
joy was too much for her, and she coloured, trembled, changed, and at last 
grew pale, and was indeed near fainting, when she hastily rang a little 
bell for her maid, who coming in immediately, she beckoned to her, for 
speak she could not, to fill her a glass of wine, but she had no breath to 
take it in and was almost choked with that which she took in her mouth. I 
saw she was ill and assisted her what I could, and with spirits and things 
to smell too, just kept her from fainting, when she beckoned to her maid to 
withdraw, and immediately burst out in crying, and that relieved her. When 
she recovered herself a little she flew to me, and throwing her arms about 
my neck, 'Oh!' says she, 'thou hast almost killed me.' And there she hung, 
laying her head in my neck for half a quarter of an hour, not able to 
speak, but sobbing like a child that had been whipped.
I was very sorry that I did not stop a little in the middle of my discourse 
and make her drink a glass of wine, before it had put her spirits into such 
a violent motion; but it was too late, and it was ten to one odds but that 
it had killed her.
But she came to herself at last, and began to say some very good things in 
return for my kindness. I would not let her go on, but told her I had more 
to say to her still than all this, but that I would let it alone till 
another time. My meaning was about the box of plate, good part of which I 
gave her, and some I gave to Amy, for I had so much plate, and some so 
large, that I thought if I let my husband see it, he might be apt to wonder 
what occasion I could ever have for so much, and for plate of such a kind 
too; as particularly a great cistern for bottles, which cost a hundred and 
twenty pounds, and some large candlesticks, too big for any ordinary use. 
These I caused Amy to sell; in short, Amy sold above three hundred pounds' 
worth of plate. What I gave the Quaker was worth above sixty pounds, and I 
gave Amy above thirty pounds' worth, and yet I had a great deal left for my 
husband.
Nor did our kindness to the Quaker end with the forty pounds a year, for we 
were always, while we stayed with her, which was above ten months, giving 
her one good thing or another; and, in a word, instead of lodging with her, 
she boarded with us, for I kept the house, and she and all her family ate 
and drank with us, and yet we paid her the rent of the house too; in short, 
I remembered my widowhood, and I made this widow's heart glad many a day 
the more upon that account.
And now my spouse and I began to think of going over to Holland, where I 
had proposed to him to live, and in order to settle all the preliminaries 
of our future manner of living, I began to draw in my effects, so as to 
have them all at command upon whatever occasion we thought fit; after 
which, one morning I called my spouse up to me. 'Hark ye, sir,' said I to 
him, 'I have two very weighty questions to ask of you; I don't know what 
answer you will give to the first, but I doubt you will be able to give but 
a sorry answer to the other, and yet, I assure you, it is of the last 
importance to yourself and towards the future part of your life, wherever 
it is to be.'
He did not seem to be much alarmed, because he could see I was speaking in 
a kind of merry way. 'Let's hear your questions, my dear,' says he, 'and 
I'll give the best answer I can to them.' 'Why, first,' says I,

1. 'You have married a wife here, made her a lady, and put her in 
expectation of being something else still when she comes abroad; pray have 
you examined whether you are able to supply all her extravagant demands 
when she comes abroad, and maintain an expensive Englishwoman in all her 
pride and vanity? In short, have you enquired whether you are able to keep 
her?

2. 'You have married a wife here and given her a great many fine things, 
and you maintain her like a princess, and sometimes call her so; pray what 
portion have you had with her? what fortune has she been to you? and where 
does her estate lie, that you keep her so fine? I am afraid you keep her in 
a figure a great deal above her estate, at least above all that you have 
seen of it yet; are you sure you haven't got a bite, and that you have not 
made a beggar a lady?'

'Well,' says he, 'have you any more questions to ask? Let's have them all 
together, perhaps they may be all answered in a few words, as well as these 
two.' 'No,' says I, 'these are the two grand questions, at least for the 
present.' 'Why then,' says he, 'I'll answer you in a few words, that I am 
fully master of my own circumstances, and without further enquiry can let 
my wife you speak of know, that as I have made her a lady, I can maintain 
her as a lady wherever she goes with me, and this whether I have one 
pistole of her portion or whether she has any portion or not. And as I have 
not enquired whether she has any portion or not, so she shall not have the 
less respect showed her from me, or be obliged to live meaner or by any 
ways straitened on that account; on the contrary, if she goes abroad to 
live with me in my own country, I will make her more than a lady, and 
support the expense of it too without meddling with anything she has; and 
this I suppose,' says he, 'contains an answer to both your questions 
together.'
He spoke this with a great deal more earnestness in his countenance than I 
had when I proposed my questions, and said a great many kind things upon 
it, as the consequences of former discourses, so that I was obliged to be 
in earnest too. 'My dear,' says I, 'I was but in jest in my questions, but 
they were proposed to introduce what I am going to say to you in earnest, 
namely, that if I am to go abroad, 'tis time I should let you know how 
things stand, and what I have to bring you with your wife; how it is to be 
disposed, and secured, and the like. And therefore, come,' says I, 'sit 
down, and let me show you your bargain here; I hope you will find that you 
have not got a wife without a fortune.'
He told me then that since he found I was in earnest, he desired that I 
would adjourn it till tomorrow, and then we would do as the poor people do 
after they marry, feel in their pockets and see how much money they can 
bring together in the world. 'Well,' says I, 'with all my heart '; and so 
we ended our talk for that time.
As this was in the morning, my spouse went out after dinner to his 
goldsmith's, as he said, and about three hours after, returns with a porter 
and two large boxes with him; and his servant brought another box, which I 
observed was almost as heavy as the two that the porter brought, and made 
the poor fellow sweat heartily. He dismissed the porter, and in a little 
while after went out again with his man, and returning at night, brought 
another porter with more boxes and bundles, and all was carried up and put 
into a chamber next to our bedchamber, and in the morning he called for a 
pretty large round table and began to unpack.
When the boxes were opened I found they were chiefly full of books and 
papers and parchments, I mean books of accounts and writings, and such 
things as were in themselves of no moment to me, because I understood them 
not; but I perceived he took them all out and spread them about him upon 
the table and chairs, and began to be very busy with them. So I withdrew 
and left him, and he was indeed so busy among them that he never missed me 
till I had been gone a good while; but when he had gone through all his 
papers and come to open a little box, he called for me again. 'Now,' says 
he, and called me his countess, 'I am ready to answer your first question; 
if you will sit down till I have opened this box, we will see how it 
stands.'
So we opened the box. There was in it indeed what I did not expect, for I 
thought he had sunk his estate rather than raised it; but he produced me in 
goldsmith's bills, and stock in the English East India Company, about 
£16,000 sterling; then he gave into my hands nine assignments upon the Bank 
of Lyons in France, and two upon the rents of the Town House in Paris, 
amounting in the whole to 5800 crowns per annum, or annual rent as 'tis 
called there; and lastly, the sum of 30,000 rix-dollars in the Bank of 
Amsterdam, besides some jewels and gold in the box to the value of about 
£1500 or £1600, among which was a very good necklace of pearl of about £200 
value; and that he pulled out and tied about my neck, telling me that 
should not be reckoned into the account.
I was equally pleased and surprised, and it was with an inexpressible joy 
that I saw him so rich 'You might well tell me,' said I, 'that you were 
able to make me countess and maintain me as such.' In short, he was 
immensely rich, for besides all this he showed me, which was the reason of 
his being so busy among the books - I say he showed me several adventures 
he had abroad in the business of his merchandise; as particularly an eighth 
share in an East India ship then abroad, an account-current with a merchant 
at Cadiz in Spain, about £3000 lent upon bottomry upon ships gone to the 
Indies, and a large cargo of goods in a merchant's hands for sale at Lisbon 
in Portugal; so that in his books there was about £12,000 more, all which 
put together made about,£27,000 sterling, and £1320 a year.
I stood amazed at this account, as well I might, and said nothing to him 
for a good while, and the rather because I saw him still busy looking over 
his books. After a while, as I was going to express my wonder, 'Hold, my 
dear,' says he, 'this is not all neither.' Then he pulled me out some old 
seals and small parchment rolls, which I did not understand, but he told me 
they were a right of reversion which he had to a paternal estate in his 
family, and a mortgage of 14,000 rix-dollars, which he had upon it, in the 
hands of the present possessor, so that was about £3000 more.
'But now hold again,' says he, 'for I must pay my debts out of all this, 
and they are very great, I assure you.' And the first, he said, was a black 
article of 8000 pistoles, which he had a lawsuit about at Paris, but had it 
awarded against him, which was the loss he had told me of, and which made 
him leave Paris in disgust; that in other accounts he owed about £5300 
sterling, but after all this, upon the whole, he had still £17,000 clear 
stock in money, and £1320 a year in rent.
After some pause it came to my turn to speak. 'Well,' says I, ''tis very 
hard a gentleman with such a fortune as this should come over to England 
and marry a wife with nothing; it shall never,' says I, 'be said but what I 
have I'll bring into the public stock '; so I began to produce.
First, I pulled out the mortgage which good Sir Robert had procured for me, 
the annual rent £700 per annum, the principal money £14,000.
Secondly, I pulled out another mortgage upon land, procured by the same 
faithful friend, which at three times had advanced £12,000.
Thirdly, I pulled him out a parcel of little securities, procured by 
several hands, by fee - farm rents and such petty mortgages as those times 
afforded, amounting to £10,800 principal money, and paying £636 a year; so 
that in the whole there was £2056 a year ready money constantly coming in.
When I had shown him all these, I laid them upon the table and bade him 
take them, that he might be able to give me an answer to the second 
question, viz. what fortune he had with his wife? and laughed a little at 
it.
He looked at them a while and then handed them all back again to me. 'I 
will not touch them,' says he, 'nor one of them, till they are all settled 
in trustees' hands, for your own use, and the management wholly your own.
I cannot omit what happened to me while all this was acting, though it was 
cheerful work in the main, yet I trembled every joint of me worse, for 
aught I know, than ever Belshazzar did at the handwriting on the wall, and 
the occasion was every way as just. 'Unhappy wretch,' said I to myself, 
'shall my ill-got wealth, the product of prosperous lust and of a vile and 
vicious life of whoredom and adultery, be intermingled with the honest well-
gotten estate of this innocent gentleman, to be a moth and a caterpillar 
among it, and bring the judgments of Heaven upon him and upon what he has, 
for my sake? Shall my wickedness blast his comforts? Shall I be fire in his 
flax, and be a means to provoke Heaven to curse his blessings? God forbid! 
I'll keep them asunder if it be possible.'
This is the true reason why I have been so particular in the account of my 
vast acquired stock, and how his estate, which was perhaps the product of 
many years' fortunate industry, and which was equal, if not superior, to 
mine at best, was at my request kept apart from mine, as is mentioned 
above.
I have told you how he gave back all my writings into my own hands again. 
'Well,' says I, seeing you will have it be kept apart, it shall be so upon 
one condition which I have to propose, and no other.' 'And what is the 
condition?' says he. 'Why,' says I, 'all the pretence I can have for the 
making over my own estate to me, is that in case of your mortality I may 
have it reserved for me if I outlive you.' 'Well,' says he, 'that is true.' 
'But then,' said I, 'the annual income is always received by the husband 
during his life, as 'tis supposed for the mutual subsistence of the family. 
Now,' says I, 'here is £2000 a year, which I believe is as much as we shall 
spend, and I desire none of it may be saved; and all the income of your own 
estate, the interest of the £17,000 and the £1320 a year may be constantly 
laid by for the increase of your estate; and so,' added I, 'by joining the 
interest every year to the capital, you will perhaps grow as rich as you 
would do if you were to trade with it all, if you were obliged to keep 
house out of it too.'
He liked the proposal very well and said it should be so, and this way I in 
some measure satisfied myself that I should not bring my husband under the 
blast of just Providence for mingling my cursed ill-gotten wealth with his 
honest estate. This was occasioned by the reflections which at some 
intervals of time came into my thoughts, of the justice of Heaven, which I 
had reason to expect would some time or other still fall upon me or my 
effects, for the dreadful life I had lived.
And let nobody conclude from the strange success I met with in all my 
wicked doings, and the vast estate which I had raised by it, that therefore 
I either was happy or easy. No, no, there was a dart struck into the liver; 
there was a secret hell within, even all the while when our joy was at the 
highest, but more especially now, after it was all over, and when according 
to all appearance I was one of the happiest women upon earth; all this 
while, I say, I had such a constant terror upon my mind as gave me every 
now and then very terrible shocks, and which made me expect something very 
frightful upon every accident of life.
In a word, it never lightened or thundered but I expected the next flash 
would penetrate my vitals, and melt the sword (soul) in this scabbard of 
flesh; it never blew a storm of wind but I expected the fall of some stack 
of chimneys, or some part of the house would bury me in its ruins; and so 
of other things.
But I shall perhaps have occasion to speak of all these things again by and 
by; the case before us was in a manner settled. We had full £4000 per annum 
for our future subsistence, besides a vast sum in jewels and plate, and 
besides this I had about £8000 reserved in money, which I kept back from 
him, to provide for my two daughters, of whom I have yet so much to say.
With this estate settled as you have heard, and with the best husband in 
the world, I left England again. I had not only in human prudence and by 
the nature of the thing, being now married and settled in so glorious a 
manner - I say I had not only abandoned all the gay and wicked course which 
I had gone through before, but I began to look back upon it with that 
horror and that detestation which is the certain companion, if not the 
forerunner, of repentance.
Sometimes the wonders of my present circumstances would work upon me, and I 
should have some raptures upon my soul upon the subject of my coming so 
smoothly out of the arms of hell, that I was not engulfed in ruin, as most 
who lead such lives are, first or last; but this was a flight too high for 
me. I was not come to that repentance that is raised from a sense of 
Heaven's goodness; I repented of the crime, but it was of another and lower 
kind of repentance, and rather moved by my fears of vengeance than from a 
sense of being spared from being punished and landed safe after a storm.
The first thing which happened after our coming to The Hague (where we 
lodged for a while) was that my spouse saluted me one morning with the 
title of Countess; as he said he intended to do, by having the inheritance 
to which the honour was annexed made over to him. It is true it was a 
reversion, but it soon fell, and in the meantime, as all the brothers of a 
Count are called Counts, so I had the title by courtesy about three years 
before I had it in reality.
I was agreeably surprised at this coming so soon, and would have had my 
spouse to have taken the money which it cost him out of my stock, but he 
laughed at me and went on.
I was now in the height of my glory and prosperity, and I was called the 
Countess de --, for I had obtained that, unlooked for, which I secretly 
aimed at, and was really the main reason of my coming abroad. I took now 
more servants, lived in a kind of magnificence that I had not been 
acquainted with, was called Your Honour at every word, and had a coronet 
behind my coach, though at the same time I knew little or nothing of my new 
pedigree.
The first thing that my spouse took upon him to manage was to declare 
ourselves married eleven years before our arriving in Holland, and 
consequently to acknowledge our little son, who was yet in England, to be 
legitimate, order him to be brought over and added to his family, and 
acknowledge him to be our own.
This was done by giving notice to his people at Nimeguen, where his 
children (which were two sons and a daughter) were brought up, that he was 
come over from England, and that he was arrived at The Hague with his wife 
and should reside there some time, and that he would have his two sons 
brought down to see him, which accordingly was done, and where I 
entertained them with all the kindness and tenderness that they could 
expect from their mother-in-law, and who pretended to be so ever since they 
were two or three years old.
This supposing us to have been so long married was not difficult at all in 
a country where we had been seen together about that time, viz. eleven 
years and a half before, and where we had never been seen afterwards till 
we now returned together; this being seen together was also openly owned, 
and acknowledged of course, by our friend the merchant at Rotterdam, and 
also by the people in the house where we both lodged, in the same city, and 
where our first intimacies began, and who, as it happened, were all alive; 
and therefore to make it the more public we made a tour to Rotterdam again, 
lodged in the same house, and was visited there by our friend the merchant, 
and afterwards invited frequently to his house, where he treated us very 
handsomely.
This conduct of my spouse, and which he managed very cleverly, was indeed a 
testimony of a wonderful degree of honesty and affection to our little son, 
for it was done purely for the sake of the child.
I call it an honest affection, because it was from a principle of honesty 
that he so earnestly concerned himself to prevent the scandal which would 
otherwise have fallen upon the child, who was itself innocent. And as it 
was from this principle of justice that he so earnestly solicited me, and 
conjured me by the natural affections of a mother, to marry him when it was 
yet young within me and unborn, that the child might not suffer for the sin 
of its father and mother, so though at the same time he really loved me 
very well, yet I had reason to believe that it was from this principle of 
justice to the child that he came to England again to seek me, with design 
to marry me and, as he called it, save the innocent lamb from an infamy 
worse than death.
It is with just reproach to myself that I must repeat it again, that I had 
not the same concern for it though it was the child of my own body, nor had 
I ever the hearty affectionate love to the child that he had. What the 
reason of it was I cannot tell, and indeed I had shown a general neglect of 
the child through all the gay years of my London revels, except that I sent 
Amy to look upon it now and then and to pay for its nursing. As for me, I 
scarce saw it four times in the first four years of its life, and often 
wished it would go quietly out of the world; whereas a son which I had by 
the jeweller I took a different care of, and showed a differing concern 
for, though I did not let him know me, for I provided very well for him, 
had him put out very well to school, and when he came to years fit for it, 
let him go over with a person of honesty and good business to the Indies; 
and, after he had lived there some time and began to act for himself, sent 
him over the value of £2000 at several times, with which he traded and grew 
rich, and, as 'tis to be hoped, may at last come over again with forty or 
fifty thousand pounds in his pocket, as many do who have not such 
encouragement at their beginning.
I also sent him over a wife, a beautiful young lady, well bred, an 
exceeding good-natured, pleasant creature; but the nice young fellow did 
not like her, and had the impudence to write to me, that is, to the person 
I employed to correspond with him, to send him another, and promised that 
he would marry her I had sent him to a friend of his, who liked her better 
than he did; but I took it so ill that I would not send him another, and 
withal, stopped another article of £1000 which I had appointed to send him. 
He considered of it afterwards, and offered to take her; but then truly she 
took so ill the first affront he put upon her, that she would not have him, 
and I sent him word I thought she was very much in the right. However, 
after courting her two years, and some friends interposing, she took him, 
and made him an excellent wife, as I knew she would; but I never sent him 
the £1000 cargo, so that he lost that money for misusing me, and took the 
lady at last without it.
My new spouse and I lived a very regular, contemplative life, and in itself 
certainly a life filled with all human felicity. But if I looked upon my 
present situation with satisfaction, as I certainly did, so in proportion I 
on all occasions looked back on former things with detestation and with the 
utmost affliction; and now indeed, and not till now, those reflections 
began to prey upon my comforts and lessen the sweets of my other 
enjoyments. They might be said to have gnawed a hole in my heart before, 
but now they made a hole quite through it; now they ate into all my 
pleasant things, made bitter every sweet, and mixed my sighs with every 
smile.
Not all the affluence of a plentiful fortune, not a hundred thousand pounds 
estate (for between us we had little less), not honour and titles, 
attendants and equipages - in a word, not all the things we call pleasure 
could give me any relish or sweeten the taste of things to me, at least not 
so much, but I grew sad, heavy, pensive, and melancholy, slept little and 
ate little, dreamed continually of the most frightful and terrible things 
imaginable: nothing but apparitions, of devils and monsters, falling into 
gulfs, and off from steep and high precipices, and the like; so that in the 
morning, when I should rise and be refreshed with the blessing of rest, I 
was hag-ridden with frights and terrible things formed merely in the 
imagination, and was either tired and wanted sleep, or overrun with 
vapours, and not fit for conversing with my family or any one else.
My husband, the tenderest creature in the world, and particularly so to me, 
was in great concern for me, and did everything that lay in his power to 
comfort and restore me; strove to reason me out of it, then tried all the 
ways possible to divert me, but it was all to no purpose, or to but very 
little.
My only relief was sometimes to unbosom myself to poor Amy when she and I 
were alone, and she did all she could to comfort me, but all was to little 
effect there; for though Amy was the better penitent before, when we had 
been in the storm, Amy was just where she used to be, now a wild, gay, 
loose wretch, and not much the graver for her age; for Amy was between 
forty and fifty by this time too.
But to go on with my own story. As I had no comforter, so I had no 
counsellor; it was well, as I often thought, that I was not a Roman 
Catholic, for what a piece of work should I have made, to have gone to a 
priest with such a history as I had to tell him, and what penance would any 
father confessor have obliged me to perform, especially if he had been 
honest and true to his office?
However, as I had none of the recourse, so I had none of the absolution by 
which the criminal confessing goes away comforted; but I went about with a 
heart loaded with crime, and altogether in the dark as to what I was to do, 
and in this condition I languished near two years. I may well call it 
languishing, for if Providence had not relieved me, I should have died in 
little time. But of that hereafter.
I must now go back to another scene and join it to this end of my story, 
which will complete all my concern with England, at least all that I shall 
bring into this account. I have hinted at large what I had done for my two 
sons, one at Messina and the other in the Indies.
But I have not gone through the story of my two daughters. I was so in 
danger of being known by one of them, that I durst not see her, so as to 
let her know who I was; and for the other, I could not well know how to see 
her and own her, and let her see me, because she must then know that I 
would not let her sister know me, which would look strange. So that, upon 
the whole, I resolved to see neither of them at all, but Amy managed all 
that for me; and when she had made gentlewomen of them both, by giving them 
a good though late education, she had like to have blown up the whole case, 
and herself and me too, by an unhappy discovery of herself to the last of 
them, that is, to her who was our cook-maid, and who, as I said before, Amy 
had been obliged to turn away for fear of the very discovery which now 
happened. I have observed already in what manner Amy managed her by a third 
person, and how the girl, when she was set up for a lady, as above, came 
and visited Amy at my lodgings; after which, Amy going as was her custom to 
see the girl's brother (my son), at the honest man's house in Spitalfields, 
both the girls were there, merely by accident, at the same time, and the 
other girl unawares discovered the secret, namely, that this was the lady 
that had done all this for them.
Amy was greatly surprised at it, but as she saw there was no remedy, she 
made a jest of it, and so after that conversed openly, being still 
satisfied that neither of them could make much of it as long as they knew 
nothing of me. So she took them together one time and told them the 
history, as she called it, of their mother, beginning at the miserable 
carrying them to their aunt's; she owned she was not their mother, herself, 
but described her to them. However, when she said she was not their mother, 
one of them expressed herself very much surprised, for the girl had taken 
up a strong fancy that Amy was really her mother, and that she had for some 
particular reasons concealed it from her; and therefore when she told her 
frankly that she was not her mother, the girl fell a-crying, and Amy had 
much ado to keep life in her. This was the girl who was at first my cook-
maid in the Pall Mall. When Amy had brought her to again a little, and she 
had recovered her first disorder, Amy asked what ailed her. The poor girl 
hung about her and kissed her, and was in such a passion still, though she 
was a great wench of nineteen or twenty years old, that she could not be 
brought to speak a great while. At last, having recovered her speech, she 
said still, 'But oh! do not say you ain't my mother. I'm sure you are my 
mother '; and then the girl cried again like to kill herself. Amy could not 
tell what to do with her a good while; she was loath to say again she was 
not her mother, because she would not throw her into a fit of crying again; 
but she went round about a little with her. 'Why, child,' says she, 'why 
would you have me be your mother? If it be because I am so kind to you, be 
easy, my dear,' says Amy, 'I'll be as kind to you still as if I was your 
mother.'
'Ay, but,' says the girl, 'I am sure you are my mother too; and what have I 
done that you won't own me, and that you will not be called my mother? 
Though I am poor, you have made me a gentlewoman,' says she, 'and I won't 
do anything to disgrace you. Besides,' adds she, 'I can keep a secret too, 
especially for my own mother, sure.' Then she calls Amy her dear mother, 
and hung about her neck again, crying still vehemently.
This last part of the girl's words alarmed Amy, and, as she told me, 
frighted her terribly; nay, she was so confounded with it, that she was not 
able to govern herself or to conceal her disorder from the girl herself, as 
you shall hear. Amy was at a full stop and confused to the last degree, and 
the girl, a sharp jade, turned it upon her. 'My dear mother,' says she, 'do 
not be uneasy about it, I know it all; but do not be uneasy, I won't let my 
sister know a word of it, or my brother either, without you give me leave; 
but don't disown me now you have found me, don't hide yourself from me any 
longer; I can't bear that,' says she, 'it will break my heart.'
'I think the girl's mad,' says Amy. 'Why, child, I tell thee if I was thy 
mother I would not disown thee; don't you see I am as kind to you as if I 
was your mother?' Amy might as well have sung a song to a kettledrum as 
talk to her. 'Yes,' says the girl, 'you are very good to me indeed,' and 
that was enough to make anybody believe she was her mother too; but however 
that was not the case, she had other reasons to believe and to know that 
she was her mother, and it was a sad thing she would not let her call her 
mother, who was her own child.
Amy was so heart-full with the disturbance of it that she did not enter 
further with her into the enquiry, as she would otherwise have done, I mean 
as to what made the girl so positive, but comes away and tells me the whole 
story.
I was thunderstruck with the story at first, and much more afterwards, as 
you shall hear; but, I say, I was thunderstruck at first, and amazed, and 
said to Amy, 'There must be something or other in it more than we know of 
'; but having examined further into it, I found the girl had no notion of 
anybody but of Amy, and glad I was that I was not concerned in the pretence 
and that the girl had no notion of me in it. But even this easiness did not 
continue long, for the next time Amy went to see her she was the same 
thing, and rather more violent with Amy than she was before. Amy 
endeavoured to pacify her by all the ways imaginable. First she told her 
she took it ill that she would not believe her, and told her if she would 
not give over such a foolish whimsy she would leave her to the wide world 
as she found her.
This put the girl into fits, and she cried ready to kill herself and hung 
about Amy again like a child. 'Why,' says Amy, 'why can you not be easy 
with me then and compose yourself, and let me go on to do you good and show 
you kindness, as I would do, and as I intend to do? Can you think that if I 
was your mother I would not tell you so? What whimsy is this that possesses 
your mind?' says Amy. Well, the girl told her in a few words, but those few 
such as frighted Amy out of her wits, and me too, that she knew well enough 
how it was. 'I know,' says she, 'when you left --,' naming the village, 
'where I lived when my father went away from us all, that you went over to 
France; I know that too, and who you went with,' says the girl. 'Did not my 
Lady Roxana come back again with you? I know it all well enough, though I 
was but a child, I have heard it all.' And thus she ran on with such 
discourse as put Amy out of all temper again; and she raved at her like a 
bedlam, and told her she would never come near her any more; she might go a-
begging again if she would, she 'd have nothing to do with her. The girl, a 
passionate wench, told her she knew the worst of it, she could go to 
service again, and if she would not own her own child she must do as she 
pleased; then she fell into a passion of crying again, as if she would kill 
herself.
In short, this girl's conduct terrified Amy to the last degree, and me too, 
and was it not that we knew the girl was quite wrong in some things, she 
was yet so right in some other, that it gave me a great deal of perplexity. 
But that which put Amy the most to it, was that the girl (my daughter) told 
her that she (meaning me her mother) had gone away with the jeweller, and 
into France too - she did not call him the jeweller, but with the landlord 
of the house; who, after her mother fell into distress, and that Amy had 
taken all the children from her, made much of her, and afterwards married 
her.
In short, it was plain the girl had but a broken account of things, but yet 
that she had received some accounts that had a reality in the bottom of 
them; so that it seems our first measures and the amour with the jeweller 
were not so concealed as I thought they had been, and, it seems, came in a 
broken manner to my sister-in-law, whom Amy carried the children to, and 
she made some bustle, it seems, about it; but as good luck was, it was too 
late, and I was removed and gone none knew whither, or else she would have 
sent all the children home to me again, to be sure.
This we picked out of the girl's discourse, that is to say, Amy did, at 
several times; but it all consisted of broken fragments of stories such as 
the girl herself had heard so long ago, that she herself could make very 
little of it; only that in the main, that her mother had played the whore, 
had gone away with the gentleman that was landlord of the house, that he 
married her, that she went into France; and as she had learnt in my family, 
where she was a servant, that Mrs. Amy and her Lady Roxana had been in 
France together, so she put all these things together, and, joining them 
with the great kindness that Amy now showed her, possessed the creature 
that Amy was really her mother; nor was it possible for Amy to conquer it 
for a long time.
But this, after I had searched into it as far as by Amy's relation I could 
get an account of it, did not disquiet me half so much as that the young 
slut had got the name of Roxana by the end, and that she knew who her Lady 
Roxana was, and the like; though this neither did not hang together, for 
then she would not have fixed upon Amy for her mother. But some time after, 
when Amy had almost persuaded her out of it, and that the girl began to be 
so confounded in her discourses of it that they made neither head nor tail, 
at last the passionate creature flew out in a kind of rage, and said to Amy 
that if she was not her mother, Madam Roxana was her mother then, for one 
of them, she was sure, was her mother; and then, all this that Amy had done 
for her was by Madam Roxana's order. 'And I am sure,' says she, 'it was my 
Lady Roxana's coach that brought the gentlewoman (whoever it was) to my 
uncle's in Spitalfields, for the coachman told me so.' Amy fell a-laughing 
at her aloud, as was her usual way; but as Amy told me, it was but on one 
side of her mouth, for she was so confounded at her discourse that she was 
ready to sink into the ground; and so was I too, when she told it me.
However, Amy brazened her out of it all; told her, 'Well, since you think 
you are so high-born as to be my Lady Roxana's daughter, you may go to her 
and claim your kindred, can't you? I suppose,' says Amy, 'you know where to 
find her?' She said she did not question to find her, for she knew where 
she was gone to live privately, but thought she might be removed again; 
'for I know how it is,' says she, with a kind of a smile or a grin, 'I know 
how it all is, well enough.'
Amy was so provoked that she told me, in short, she began to think it would 
be absolutely necessary to murder her. That expression filled me with 
horror; all my blood ran chill in my veins, and a fit of trembling seized 
me that I could not speak a good while. At last, 'What, is the devil in 
you, Amy?' said I. 'Nay, nay,' says she, 'let it be the devil or not the 
devil, if I thought she knew one tittle of your history I would dispatch 
her if she were my own daughter a thousand times.' 'And I,' says I in a 
rage, 'as well as I love you, would be the first that should put the halter 
about your neck and see you hanged, with more satisfaction than ever I saw 
you in my life. Nay,' says I, 'you would not live to be hanged, I believe I 
should cut your throat with my own hand; I am almost ready to do it,' said 
I, 'as 'tis, for your but naming the thing.' With that I called her 'cursed 
devil,' and bade her get out of the room.
I think it was the first time that ever I was angry with Amy in all my 
life, and when all was done, though she was a devilish jade in having such 
a thought, yet it was all of it the effect of her excess of affection and 
fidelity to me.
But this thing gave me a terrible shock, for it happened just after I was 
married, and served to hasten my going over to Holland; for I would not 
have been seen, so as to be known by the name of Roxana, no, not for ten 
thousand pounds. It would have been enough to have ruined me to all intents 
and purposes with my husband, and everybody else too; I might as well have 
been the German Princess.
Well, I set Amy to work; and, give Amy her due, she set all her wits to 
work to find out which way this girl had her knowledge, but more 
particularly how much knowledge she had, that is to say, what she really 
knew, and what she did not know; for this was the main thing with me, how 
she could say she knew who Madam Roxana was, and what notions she had of 
that affair was very mysterious to me; for 'twas certain she could not have 
a right notion of me, because she would have it be that Amy was her mother.
I scolded heartily at Amy for letting the girl ever know her, that is to 
say, know her in this affair; for that she knew her, could not be hid, 
because she, as I might say, served Amy, or rather under Amy, in my family, 
as is said before; but she (Amy) talked with her at first by another 
person, and not by herself, and that secret came out by an accident, as I 
have said above.
Amy was concerned at it as well as I, but could not help it, and though it 
gave us great uneasiness, yet as there was no remedy we were bound to make 
as little noise of it as we could, that it might go no further. I bade Amy 
punish the girl for it, and she did so, for she parted with her in a huff, 
and told her she should see she was not her mother, for that she could 
leave her just where she found her; and seeing she could not be content to 
be served by the kindness of a friend, but that she would needs make a 
mother of her, she would for the future be neither mother nor friend; and 
so bid her go to service again and be a drudge as she was before.
The poor girl cried most lamentably, but would not be beaten out of it 
still; but that which dumbfounded Amy more than all the rest, was that when 
she had rated the poor girl a long time and could not beat her out of it, 
and had, as I have observed, threatened to leave her, the girl kept to what 
she said before, and put this turn to it again, that she was sure, if Amy 
wasn't, my Lady Roxana was her mother, and that she would go find her out; 
adding that she made no doubt but she could do it, for she knew where to 
enquire the name of her new husband.
Amy came home with this piece of news in her mouth to me. I could easily 
perceive when she came in that she was mad in her mind, and in a rage at 
something or other, and was in great pain to get it out; for when she came 
first in, my husband was in the room. However, Amy going up to undress her, 
I soon made an excuse to follow her, and coming into the room, 'What the 
devil is the matter, Amy?' says I; 'I am sure you have some bad news.' 
'News!' says Amy aloud, 'ay, so I have; I think the devil is in that young 
wench - she'll ruin us all and herself too, there's no quieting her.' So 
she went on and told me all the particulars; but sure nothing was so 
astonished as I was when she told me that the girl knew I was married, that 
she knew my husband's name, and would endeavour to find me out; I thought I 
should have sunk down at the very words. In the middle of all my amazement 
Amy starts up and runs about the room like a distracted body. 'I'll put an 
end to it, that I will; I can't bear it; I must murder her; I'll kill her, 
by God!' and swears by her Maker in the most serious tone in the world; and 
then repeated it over three or four times, walking to and again in the 
room; 'I will,' in short, 'I will kill her if there was not another wench 
in the world.'
'Prithee hold thy tongue, Amy,' says I; 'why, thou art mad.' 'Ay, so I am,' 
says she, 'stark mad, but I'll be the death of her for all that, and then I 
shall be sober again.' 'But you shan't,' says I, 'you shan't hurt a hair of 
her head; why, you ought to be hanged for what you have done already, for 
having resolved on it, is doing it, as to the guilt of the fact; you are a 
murderer already, as much as if you had done it already.'
'I know that,' says Amy, 'and it can be no worse. I'll put you out of your 
pain, and her too; she shall never challenge you for her mother in this 
world, whatever she may in the next.' 'Well, well,' says I, 'be quiet, and 
do not talk thus, I can't bear it '; so she grew a little soberer after a 
while.
I must acknowledge, the notion of being discovered carried with it so many 
frightful ideas, and hurried my thoughts so much, that I was scarce myself, 
any more than Amy, so dreadful a thing is a load of guilt upon the mind.
And yet when Amy began the second time to talk thus abominably of killing 
the poor child, of murdering her, and swore by her Maker that she would, so 
that I began to see that she was in earnest, I was terrified a great deal, 
and it helped to bring me to myself again in other cases.
We laid our heads together then, to see if it was possible to discover by 
what means she had learnt to talk so, and how she (I mean my girl) came to 
know that her mother had married a husband. But it would not do, the girl 
would acknowledge nothing, and gave but a very imperfect account of things 
still, being disgusted to the last degree with Amy's leaving her so 
abruptly as she did.
Well, Amy went to the house where the boy was, but it was all one; there 
they had only heard a confused story of the Lady somebody, they knew not 
who, which this same wench had told them, but they gave no heed to it at 
all. Amy told them how foolishly the girl had acted, and how she had 
carried on the whimsy so far in spite of all they could say to her; that 
she had taken it so ill, she would see her no more, and so she might e'en 
go to service again if she would, for she (Amy) would have nothing to do 
with her unless she humbled herself and changed her note, and that quickly 
too.
The good old gentleman who had been the benefactor to them all was greatly 
concerned at it, and the good woman his wife was grieved beyond all 
expressing, and begged her ladyship, meaning Amy, not to resent it; they 
promised too they would talk with her about it, and the old gentlewoman 
added with some astonishment, 'Sure, she cannot be such a fool but she will 
be prevailed with to hold her tongue, when she has it from your own mouth 
that you are not her mother, and sees that it disobliges your ladyship to 
have her insist upon it '; and so Amy came away, with some expectation that 
it would be stopped here.
But the girl was such a fool for all that, and persisted in it obstinately, 
notwithstanding all they could say to her, nay, her sister begged and 
entreated her not to play the fool, for that it would ruin her too, and 
that the lady (meaning Amy) would abandon them both.
Well, notwithstanding this, she insisted, I say, upon it, and which was 
worse, the longer it lasted the more she began to drop Amy's Ladyship, and 
would have it that the Lady Roxana was her mother, and that she had made 
some enquiries about it, and did not doubt but that she should find her 
out.
When it was come to this, and we found there was nothing to be done with 
the girl, but that she was so obstinately bent upon the search after me 
that she ventured to forfeit all she had in view - I say when I found it 
was come to this, I began to be more serious in my preparations of my going 
beyond sea, and particularly it gave me some reason to fear that there was 
something in it; but the following accident put me beside all my measures, 
and struck me into the greatest confusion that ever I was in in my life.
I was so near going abroad that my spouse and I had taken measures for our 
going off; and because I would be sure not to go too public, but so as to 
take away all possibility of being seen, I had made some exception to my 
spouse against going in the ordinary public passage boats. My pretence to 
him was the promiscuous crowds in those vessels, want of convenience, and 
the like; so he took the hint and found me out an English merchant ship 
which was bound for Rotterdam, and getting soon acquainted with the master, 
he hired his whole ship, that is to say, his great cabin, for I do not mean 
his ship for freight, that so we had all the conveniences possible for our 
passage. And all things being near ready, he brought home the captain one 
day to dinner with him, that I might see him and be acquainted a little 
with him. So we came after dinner to talk of the ship and the conveniences 
on board, and the captain pressed me earnestly to come on board and see the 
ship, intimating that he would treat us as well as he could; and in 
discourse I happened to say I hoped he had no other passengers. He said, 
No, he had not; but he said his wife had courted him a good while to let 
her go over to Holland with him, for he always used that trade, but he 
never could think of venturing all he had in one bottom. But if I went with 
him he thought to take her and her kinswoman along with him this voyage, 
that they might both wait upon me; and so added, that if we would do him 
the honour to dine on board the next day, he would bring his wife on board, 
the better to make us welcome.
Who now could have believed the devil had any snare at the bottom of all 
this, or that I was in any danger on such an occasion so remote and out of 
the way as this was? But the event was the oddest that could be thought of. 
As it happened, Amy was not at home when we accepted this invitation, and 
so she was left out of the company; but instead of Amy we took our honest, 
good-humoured, never-to-be-omitted friend the Quaker, one of the best 
creatures that ever lived, sure, and who, besides a thousand good qualities 
unmixed with one bad one, was particularly excellent for being the best 
company in the world. Though I think I had carried Amy too if she had not 
been engaged in this unhappy girl's affair; for on a sudden the girl was 
lost and no news was to be heard of her, and Amy had hunted her to every 
place she could think of that it was likely to find her in, but all the 
news she could hear of her was that she was gone to an old comrade's house 
of hers which she called sister, and who was married to a master of a ship 
who lived at Redriff, and even this the jade never told me. It seems when 
this girl was directed by Amy to get her some breeding, go to the boarding-
school and the like, she was recommended to a boarding-school at 
Camberwell, and there she contracted an acquaintance with a young lady (so 
they are all called) her bedfellow, that they called sisters, and promised 
never to break off their acquaintance.
But judge you what an unaccountable surprise I must be in when I came on 
board the ship and was brought into the captain's cabin, or what they call 
it, the great cabin of the ship, to see his lady or wife, and another young 
person with her, who when I came to see her near-hand was my old cook-maid 
in the Pall Mall, and, as appeared by the sequel of the story, was neither 
more nor less than my own daughter. That I knew her was out of doubt, for 
though she had not had opportunity to see me very often, yet I had often 
seen her, as I must needs, being in my own family so long.
If ever I had need of courage and a full presence of mind, it was now; it 
was the only valuable secret in the world to me; all depended upon this 
occasion. If the girl knew me, I was undone, and to discover any surprise 
or disorder had been to make her know me, or guess it, and discover 
herself.
I was once going to feign a swooning, and faint away, and so falling on the 
ground or floor, put them all into a hurry and fright, and by that means 
get an opportunity to be continually holding something to my nose to smell 
to, and so hold my hand or my handkerchief, or both, before my mouth, then 
pretend I could not bear the smell of the ship or the closeness of the 
cabin. But that would have been only to remove into a clearer air upon the 
quarter-deck, where we should with it have had a clearer light too; and if 
I had pretended the smell of the ship, it would have served only to have 
carried us all on shore to the captain's house, which was hard by; for the 
ship lay so close to the shore that we only walked over a plank to go on 
board, and over another ship which lay within her. So this not appearing 
feasible, and the thought not being two minutes old, there was no time, for 
the two ladies rose up and we saluted, so that I was bound to come so near 
my girl as to kiss her, which I would not have done had it been possible to 
have avoided it, but there was no room to escape.
I cannot but take notice here that, notwithstanding there was a secret 
horror upon my mind and I was ready to sink when I came close to her to 
salute her, yet it was a secret inconceivable pleasure to me when I kissed 
her, to know that I kissed my own child, my own flesh and blood, born of my 
body, and whom I had never kissed since I took the fatal farewell of them 
all, with a million of tears and a heart almost dead with grief, when Amy 
and the good woman took them all away and went with them to Spitalfields. 
No pen can describe, no words can express, I say, the strange impression 
which this thing made upon my spirits. I felt something shoot through my 
blood, my heart fluttered, my head flashed and was dizzy, and all within 
me, as I thought, turned about, and much ado I had not to abandon myself to 
an excess of passion at the first sight of her, much more when my lips 
touched her face. I thought I must have taken her in my arms and kissed her 
again a thousand times, whether I would or no.
But I roused up my judgment and shook it off, and with infinite uneasiness 
in my mind I sat down You will not wonder if upon this surprise I was not 
conversible for some minutes, and that the disorder had almost discovered 
itself. I had a complication of severe things upon me; I could not conceal 
my disorder without the utmost difficulty, and yet upon my concealing it 
depended the whole of my prosperity, so I used all manner of violence with 
myself to prevent the mischief which was at the door.
Well, I saluted her, but as I went first forward to the captain's lady, who 
was at the farther end of the cabin, towards the light, I had the occasion 
offered to stand with my back to the light when I turned about to her, who 
stood more on my left hand, so that she had not a fair sight of me though I 
was so near her. I trembled and knew neither what I did nor said; I was in 
the utmost extremity between so many particular circumstances as lay upon 
me, for I was to conceal my disorder from everybody, at the utmost peril, 
and at the same time expected everybody would discern it. I was to expect 
she would discover that she knew me, and yet was by all means possible to 
prevent it; I was to conceal myself if possible, and yet had not the least 
room to do anything towards it; in short, there was no retreat, no shifting 
anything off, no avoiding or preventing her having a full sight of me; nor 
was there any counterfeiting my voice, for then my husband would have 
perceived it; in short, there was not the least circumstance that offered 
me any assistance or any favourable thing to help me in this exigence.
After I had been upon the rack for near half an hour, during which I 
appeared stiff and reserved and a little too formal, my spouse and the 
captain fell into discourses about the ship and the sea, and business 
remote from us women, and by and by the captain carried him out upon the 
quarter-deck and left us all by ourselves in the great cabin. Then we began 
to be a little freer one with another, and I began to be a little revived 
by a sudden fancy of my own, namely, I thought I perceived that the girl 
did not know me; and the chief reason of my having such a notion was, 
because I did not perceive the least disorder in her countenance or the 
least change in her carriage, no confusion, no hesitation in her discourse, 
nor, which I had my eye particularly upon, did I observe that she fixed her 
eyes much upon me; that is to say, not singling me out to look steadily at 
me, as I thought would have been the case, but that she rather singled out 
my friend the Quaker and chatted with her on several things, but I observed 
too that it was all about indifferent matters.
This greatly encouraged me, and I began to be a little cheerful; but I was 
knocked down again as with a thunder-clap when, turning to the captain's 
wife and discoursing of me, she said to her, 'Sister, I cannot but think 
(my lady) to be very much like such a person.' Then she named the person, 
and the captain's wife said she thought so too. The girl replied again she 
was sure she had seen me before, but she could not recollect where. I 
answered (though her speech was not directed to me) that I fancied she had 
not seen me before in England, but asked if she had lived in Holland. She 
said, No, no, she had never been out of England; and I added that she could 
not then have known me in England, unless it was very lately, for I had 
lived at Rotterdam a great while. This carried me out of that part of the 
broil pretty well; and to make it go off the better, when a little Dutch 
boy came into the cabin, who belonged to the captain and who I easily 
perceived to be Dutch, I jested and talked Dutch to him, and was merry 
about the boy, that is to say, as merry as the consternation I was still in 
would let me be.
However, I began to be thoroughly convinced by this time that the girl did 
not know me, which was an infinite satisfaction to me; or, at least, that 
though she had some notion of me, yet that she did not think anything about 
my being who I was, and which perhaps she would have been as glad to have 
known as I would have been surprised if she had; indeed, it was evident 
that had she suspected anything of the truth, she would not have been able 
to have concealed it.
Thus this meeting went off, and you may be sure I was resolved, if once I 
got off of it, she should never see me again to revive her fancy; but I was 
mistaken there too, as you shall hear. After we had been on board, the 
captain's lady carried us home to her house, which was but just on shore, 
and treated us there again very handsomely, and made us promise that we 
would come again and see her before we went, to concert our affairs for the 
voyage, and the like; for she assured us that both she and her sister went 
the voyage at that time for our company. And I thought to myself, 'Then 
you'll never go the voyage at all,' for I saw from that moment that it 
would be no way convenient for my ladyship to go with them, for that 
frequent conversation might bring me to her mind, and she would certainly 
claim her kindred to me in a few days, as indeed would have been the case.
It is hardly possible for me to conceive what would have been our part in 
this affair had my woman Amy gone with me on board this ship; it had 
certainly blown up the whole affair, and I must for ever after have been 
this girl's vassal, that is to say, have let her into the secret, and 
trusted to her keeping it too, or have been exposed and undone; the very 
thought filled me with horror.
But I was not so unhappy neither, as it fell out, for Amy was not with us, 
and that was my deliverance indeed; yet we had another chance to get over 
still. As I resolved to put off the voyage, so I resolved to put off the 
visit, you may be sure, going upon this principle, namely, that I was fixed 
in it that the girl had seen her last of me and should never see me more.
However, to bring myself well off, and withal to see (if I could) a little 
further into the matter, I sent my friend the Quaker to the captain's lady 
to make the visit promised, and to make my excuse that I could not possibly 
wait on her, for that I was very much out of order; and in the end of the 
discourse I bade her insinuate to them that she was afraid I should not be 
able to get ready to go the voyage so soon as the captain would be obliged 
to go, and that perhaps we might put it off to his next voyage. I did not 
let the Quaker into any other reason for it than that I was indisposed, and 
not knowing what other face to put upon that part, I made her believe that 
I thought I was a-breeding.
It was easy to put that into her head, and she of course hinted to the 
captain's lady that she found me very ill, that she was afraid I would 
miscarry, and then, to be sure, I could not think of going.
She went, and she managed that part very dexterously, as I knew she would, 
though she knew not a word of the grand reason of my indisposition; but I 
was all sunk and dead-hearted again when she told me she could not 
understand the meaning of one thing in her visit, namely, that the young 
woman, as she called her, that was with the captain's lady, and whom she 
called sister, was most impertinently inquisitive into things, as who I 
was, how long I had been in England, where I had lived, and the like; and 
that, above all the rest, she enquired if I did not live once at the other 
end of the town.
'I thought her enquiries so out of the way,' says the honest Quaker, 'that 
I gave her not the least satisfaction; but as I saw by thy answers on board 
the ship, when she talked of thee, that thou didst not incline to let her 
be acquainted with thee, so I was resolved that she should not be much the 
wiser for me; and when she asked me if thou ever livedst here or there, I 
always said no, but that thou wast a Dutch lady, and was going home again 
to thy family, and lived abroad.
I thanked her very heartily for that part, and indeed she served me in it 
more than I let her know she did; in a word, she thwarted the girl so 
cleverly, that if she had known the whole affair she could not have done it 
better.
But I must acknowledge all this put me upon the rack again, and I was quite 
discouraged, not at all doubting but that the jade had a right scent of 
things and that she knew and remembered my face, but had artfully concealed 
her knowledge of me till she might perhaps do it more to my disadvantage. I 
told all this to Amy, for she was all the relief I had. The poor soul (Amy) 
was ready to hang herself, that, as she said, she had been the occasion of 
it all; and that if I was ruined (which was the word I always used to her), 
she had ruined me; and she tormented herself about it so much, that I was 
sometimes fain to comfort her and myself too.
What Amy vexed herself at was chiefly that she should be surprised so by 
the girl, as she called her, I mean surprised into a discovery of herself 
to the girl, which indeed was a false step of Amy's, and so I had often 
told her. But 'twas to no purpose to talk of that now, the business was how 
to get clear of the girl's suspicions, and of the girl too, for it looked 
more threatening every day than another; and if I was uneasy at what Amy 
had told me of her rambling and rattling to her (Amy), I had a thousand 
times as much reason to be uneasy now when she had chopped upon me so 
unhappily as this, and not only had seen my face, but knew too where I 
lived, what name I went by, and the like.
And I am not come to the worst of it yet neither; for a few days after my 
friend the Quaker had made her visit and excused me on the account of 
indisposition, as if they had done it in over and above kindness because 
they had been told I was not well, they comes both directly to my lodgings 
to visit me; the captain's wife and my daughter (whom she called sister), 
and the captain to show them the place. The captain only brought them to 
the door, put them in, and went away upon some business.
Had not the kind Quaker in a lucky moment come running in before them, they 
had not only clapped in upon me in the parlour, as it had been a surprise, 
but, which would have been a thousand times worse, had seen Amy with me; I 
think if that had happened I had had no remedy but to take the girl by 
herself and have made myself known to her, which would have been all 
distraction.
But the Quaker, a lucky creature to me, happened to see them come to the 
door before they rang the bell, and instead of going to let them in, came 
running in with some confusion in her countenance, and told me who was a-
coming; at which Amy ran first, and I after her, and bid the Quaker come up 
as soon as she had let them in.
I was going to bid her deny me, but it came into my thoughts, that having 
been represented so much out of order, it would have looked very odd; 
besides, I knew the honest Quaker, though she would do anything else for 
me, would not lie for me, and it would have been hard to have desired it of 
her.
After she had let them in and brought them into the parlour, she came up to 
Amy and I, who were hardly out of the fright, and yet were congratulating 
one another that Amy was not surprised again.
They paid their visit in form, and I received them as formally, but took 
occasion two or three times to hint that I was so ill that I was afraid I 
should not be able to go to Holland, at least not so soon as the captain 
must go off, and made my compliments, how sorry I was to be disappointed of 
the advantage of their company and assistance in the voyage; and sometimes 
I talked as if I thought I might stay till the captain returned, and would 
be ready to go again. Then the Quaker put in, that then I might be too far 
gone, meaning with child, that I should not venture at all; and then (as if 
she should be pleased with it) added, she hoped I would stay and lie in at 
her house; so as this carried its own face with it, 'twas well enough.
But it was now high time to talk of this to my husband, which, however, was 
not the greatest difficulty before me. For after this and other chat had 
taken up some time, the young fool began her tattle again, and two or three 
times she brought it in that I was so like a lady that she had the honour 
to know at the other end of the town, that she could not put that lady out 
of her mind when I was by; and once or twice I fancied the girl was ready 
to cry. By and by she was at it again, and at last I plainly saw tears in 
her eyes, upon which I asked her if the lady was dead, because she seemed 
to be in some concern for her. She made me much easier by her answer than 
ever she did before; she said she did not really know, but she believed she 
was dead.
This, I say, a little relieved my thoughts, but I was soon down again; for 
after some time the jade began to grow talkative, and as it was plain that 
she had told all that her head could retain of Roxana and the days of joy 
which I had spent at that part of the town, another accident had like to 
have blown us all up again.
I was in a kind of deshabille when they came, having on a loose robe like a 
morning-gown, but much after the Italian way, and I had not altered it when 
I went up, only dressed my head a little, and as I had been represented as 
having been lately very ill, so the dress was becoming enough for a 
chamber.
This morning-vest or robe, call it as you please, was more shaped to the 
body than we wear them since showing the body in its true shape, and 
perhaps a little too plainly if it had been to be worn where any men were 
to come, but among ourselves it was well enough, especially for hot 
weather; the colour was green, figured, and the stuff a French damask, very 
rich.
This gown or vest put the girl's tongue a-running again, and her sister, as 
she called her, prompted it; for as they both admired my vest and were 
taken up much about the beauty of the dress, the charming damask, the noble 
trimming, and the like, my girl puts in a word to the sister (captain's 
wife). 'This is just such a thing as I told you,' says she, 'the lady 
danced in.' 'What!' says the captain's wife, 'the Lady Roxana that you told 
me of? Oh! that's a charming story,' says she; 'tell it my lady.' I could 
not avoid saying so too, though from my soul I wished her in heaven for but 
naming it; nay, I won't say but if she had been carried t' other way, it 
had been much at one to me, if I could but have been rid of her and her 
story too. For when she came to describe the Turkish dress, it was 
impossible but the Quaker, who was a sharp, penetrating creature, should 
receive the impression in a more dangerous manner than the girl; only that 
indeed she was not so dangerous a person, for if she had known it all I 
could more freely have trusted her than I could the girl, by a great deal; 
nay, I should have been perfectly easy in her.
However, as I have said, her talk made me dreadfully uneasy, and the more 
when the captain's wife mentioned but the name of Roxana. What my face 
might do towards betraying me I knew not, because I could not see myself, 
but my heart beat as if it would have jumped out of my mouth, and my 
passion was so great, that for want of vent I thought I should have burst. 
In a word, I was in a kind of a silent rage, for the force I was under of 
restraining my passion was such as I never felt the like of. I had no vent, 
nobody to open myself to or to make a complaint to for my relief; I durst 
not leave the room by any means, for then she would have told all the story 
in my absence, and I should have been perpetually uneasy to know what she 
had said or had not said; so that, in a word, I was obliged to sit and hear 
her tell all the story of Roxana, that is to say, of myself, and not know 
at the same time whether she was in earnest or in jest; whether she knew me 
or no, or, in short, whether I was to be exposed or not exposed.
She began only in general with telling where she lived; what a place she 
had of it, how gallant a company her lady had always had in the house, how 
they used to sit up all night in the house gaming and dancing, what a fine 
lady her mistress was, and what a vast deal of money the upper servants 
got. As for her, she said, her whole business was in the next house, so 
that she got but little; except one night that there was twenty guineas 
given to be divided among the servants, when, she said, she got two guineas 
and a half for her share.
She went on, and told them how many servants there was and how they were 
ordered; but, she said, there was one Mrs. Amy, who was over them all, and 
that she, being the lady's favourite, got a great deal. She did not know, 
she said, whether Amy was her Christian name or her surname, but she 
supposed it was her surname; that they were told she got threescore pieces 
of gold at one time, being the same night that the rest of the servants had 
the twenty guineas divided among them.
I put in at that word and said 'twas a vast deal to give away. 'Why,' says 
I, ''twas a portion for a servant.' 'Oh, madam!' says she, 'it was nothing 
to what she got afterwards; we that were servants hated her heartily for 
it, that is to say, we wished it had been our lot in her stead.' Then I 
said again, 'Why, it was enough to get her a good husband and settle her 
for the world, if she had sense to manage it.' 'So it might, to be sure, 
madam,' says she, 'for we were told she laid up above £500. But I suppose 
Mrs. Amy was too sensible that her character would require a good portion 
to put her off.'
'Oh,' said I, 'if that was the case, 'twas another thing.'
'Nay,' says she, 'I don't know, but they talked very much of a young lord 
that was very great with her.'
'And pray what came of her at last?' said I; for I was willing to hear a 
little (seeing she would talk of it) what she had to say, as well of Amy as 
of myself.
'I don't know, madam,' said she, 'I never heard of her for several years 
till t' other day I happened to see her.'
'Did you indeed!' says I, and made mighty strange of it; 'what, and in 
rags, it may be,' said I; 'that's often the end of such creatures.'
'Just the contrary, madam,' says she, 'she came to visit an acquaintance of 
mine, little thinking, I suppose, to see me, and I assure you she came in 
her coach.'
'In her coach!' said I; 'upon my word, she had made her market then. I 
suppose she made hay while the sun shone; was she married, pray?'
'I believe she had been married, madam,' says she, 'but it seems she had 
been at the East Indies, and if she was married, it was there, to be sure. 
I think she said she had good luck in the Indies.'
'That is, I suppose,' said I, 'had buried her husband there.'
'I understand it so, madam,' says she, 'and that she had got his estate.'
'Was that her good luck?' said I. It might be good to her as to the money 
indeed, but it was but the part of a jade to call it good luck.
Thus far our discourse of Mrs. Amy went, and no further, for she knew no 
more of her; but then the Quaker unhappily, though undesignedly, put in a 
question, which the honest, good-humoured creature would have been far from 
doing if she had known that I had carried on the discourse of Amy on 
purpose to drop Roxana out of the conversation.
But I was not to be made easy too soon. The Quaker put in, 'But I think 
thou saidst something was behind of thy mistress; what didst thou call her: 
Roxana, was it not? Pray what became of her?'
'Ay, ay, Roxana,' says the captain's wife; 'pray, sister, let's hear the 
story of Roxana; it will divert my lady, I'm sure.'
'That's a damned lie,' said I to myself; 'if you knew how little 'twould 
divert me, you would have too much advantage over me.' Well, I saw no 
remedy but the story must come on, so I prepared to hear the worst of it.
'Roxana!' says she, 'I know not what to say of her; she was so much above 
us, and so seldom seen, that we could know little of her but by report, but 
we did sometimes see her too; she was a charming woman indeed, and the 
footmen used to say that she was to be sent for to Court.'
'To Court!' said I, 'why, she was at Court, wasn't she? The Pall Mall is 
not far from Whitehall.'
'Yes, madam,' says she, 'but I mean another way.'
'I understand thee,' says the Quaker. 'Thou meanest, I suppose, to be 
mistress to the King.'
'Yes, madam,' says she.
I cannot help confessing what a reserve of pride still was left in me; and 
though I dreaded the sequel of the story, yet when she talked how handsome 
and how fine a lady this Roxana was, I could not help being pleased and 
tickled with it, and put in questions two or three times of how handsome 
she was, and was she really so fine a woman as they talked of, and the 
like, on purpose to hear her repeat what the people's opinion of me was and 
how I had behaved.
'Indeed,' says she at last, 'she was a most beautiful creature as ever I 
saw in my life.' 'But then,' said I, 'you never had the opportunity to see 
her but when she was set out to the best advantage.'
'Yes, yes, madam,' says she, 'I have seen her several times in her 
deshabille, and I can assure you she was a very fine woman; and that which 
was more still, everybody said she did not paint.'
This was still agreeable to me one way, but there was a devilish sting in 
the tail of it all, and this last article was one, wherein she said she had 
seen me several times in my deshabille. This put me in mind that then she 
must certainly know me, and it would come out at last, which was death to 
me but to think of.
'Well, but, sister,' says the captain's wife, 'tell my lady about the ball, 
that's the best of all the story, and of Roxana's dancing in a fine 
outlandish dress.'
'That's one of the brightest parts of her story indeed,' says the girl; 
'the case was this. We had balls and meetings in her ladyship's apartments 
every week almost, but one time my lady invited all the nobles to come such 
a time and she would give them a ball; and there was a vast crowd indeed,' 
says she.
'I think you said the King was there, sister, didn't you?'
'No, madam,' says she, 'that was the second time, when they said the King 
had heard how finely the Turkish lady danced, and that he was there to see 
her; but the King, if His Majesty was there, came disguised.'
'That is what they call incog.,' says my friend the Quaker; 'thou canst not 
think the King would disguise himself.' 'Yes,' says the girl, 'it was so; 
he did not come in public with his Guards, but we all knew which was the 
King, well enough; that is to say, which they said was the King.'
'Well,' says the captain's wife, 'about the Turkish dress; pray let us hear 
that.' 'Why,' says she, 'my lady sat in a fine little drawing-room, which 
opened into the great room, and where she received the compliments of the 
company; and when the dancing began, a great lord,' says she, 'I forget who 
they called him (but he was a very great lord or duke, I don't know which), 
took her out and danced with her; but after a while my lady on a sudden 
shut the drawing-room and ran upstairs with her woman Mrs. Amy, and though 
she did not stay long (for I suppose she had contrived it all beforehand), 
she came down dressed in the strangest figure that ever I saw in my life, 
but it was exceeding fine.
Here she went on to describe the dress as I have done already, but did it 
so exactly that I was surprised at the manner of her telling it; there was 
not a circumstance of it left out.
I was now under a new perplexity, for this young slut gave so complete an 
account of everything in the dress, that my friend the Quaker coloured at 
it, and looked two or three times at me to see if I did not do so too; for 
(as she told me afterwards) she immediately perceived it was the same dress 
that she had seen me have on, as I have said before. However, as she saw I 
took no notice of it, she kept her thoughts private to herself, and I did 
so too as well as I could.
I put in two or three times, that she had a good memory that could be so 
particular in every part of such a thing.
'Oh, madam!' says she, 'we that were servants stood by ourselves in a 
corner, but so as we could see more than some strangers; besides,' says 
she, 'it was all our conversation for several days in the family, and what 
one did not observe, another did.' 'Why,' says I to her, 'this was no 
Persian dress; only, I suppose, your lady was some French comedian, that is 
to say, a stage Amazon, that put on a counterfeit dress to please the 
company, such as they used in the play of Tamerlane at Paris, or some 
such.'
'No, indeed, madam,' says she, 'I assure you my lady was no actress; she 
was a fine, modest lady, fit to be a princess; everybody said if she was a 
mistress, she was fit to be a mistress to none but the King, and they 
talked her up for the King as if it had really been so. Besides, madam,' 
says she, 'my lady danced a Turkish dance, all the lords and gentry said it 
was so, and one of them swore he had seen it danced in Turkey himself; so 
that it could not come from the theatre at Paris; and then the name 
Roxana,' says she, 'was a Turkish name.'
'Well,' said I, 'but that was not your lady's name, I suppose.'
'No, no, madam,' said she, 'I know that; I know my lady's name and family 
very well. Roxana was not her name, that's true indeed.'
Here she ran me aground again, for I durst not ask her what was Roxana's 
real name, lest she had really dealt with the devil and had boldly given my 
own name in for answer. So that I was still more and more afraid that the 
girl had really gotten the secret somewhere or other, though I could not 
imagine neither how that could be.
In a word, I was sick of the discourse, and endeavoured many ways to put an 
end to it, but it was impossible, for the captain's wife, who called her 
sister, prompted her and pressed her to tell it, most ignorantly thinking 
that it would be a pleasant tale to all of us.
Two or three times the Quaker put in that this Lady Roxana had a good stock 
of assurance, and that 'twas likely if she had been in Turkey, she had 
lived with or been kept by some great Bassa there. But still she would 
break in upon all such discourse, and fly out into the most extravagant 
praises of her mistress, the famed Roxana. I ran her down as some 
scandalous woman, that it was not possible to be otherwise, but she would 
not hear of it; her lady was a person of such and such qualifications that 
nothing but an angel was like her, to be sure. And yet, after all she could 
say, her own account brought her down to this, that, in short, her lady 
kept little less than a gaming-ordinary, or, as it would be called in the 
times since that, an assembly for gallantry and play.
All this while I was very uneasy, as I said before, and yet the whole story 
went off again without any discovery, only that I seemed a little concerned 
that she should liken me to this gay lady whose character I pretended to 
run down very much, even upon the foot of her own relation.
But I was not at the end of my mortifications yet neither, for now my 
innocent Quaker threw out an unhappy expression which put me upon the 
tenters again. Says she to me, 'This lady's habit, I fancy, is just such a 
one as thine, by the description of it '; and then turning to the captain's 
wife, says she, 'I fancy my friend has a finer Turkish or Persian dress, a 
great deal.' 'Oh!' says the girl, ''tis impossible to be finer; my lady's,' 
says she, 'was all covered with gold and diamonds; her hair and head-dress, 
I forget the name they gave it,' says she, 'shone like the stars, there was 
so many jewels in it.'
I never wished my good friend the Quaker out of my company before now, but 
indeed I would have given some guineas to have been rid of her just now; 
for beginning to be curious in the comparing the two dresses, she 
innocently began a description of mine, and nothing terrified me so much as 
the apprehension lest she should importune me to show it, which I was 
resolved I would never agree to.
But before it came to this she pressed my girl to describe the Tyhiaai or 
head-dress, which she did so cleverly that the Quaker could not help saying 
mine was just such a one; and after several other similitudes, all very 
vexatious to me, out comes the kind motion to me to let the ladies see my 
dress, and they joined their eager desires of it, even to importunity.
I desired to be excused, though I had little to say at first why I declined 
it; but at last it came into my head to say it was packed up with my other 
clothes that I had least occasion for, in order to be sent on board the 
captain's ship, but that if we lived to come to Holland together (which, by 
the way, I resolved should never happen), then, I told them, at unpacking 
my clothes they should see me dressed in it; but they must not expect I 
should dance in it, like the Lady Roxana in all her fine things.
This carried it off pretty well, and getting over this got over most of the 
rest, and I began to be easy again; and, in a word, that I may dismiss the 
story too as soon as may be, I got rid at last of my visitors, whom I had 
wished gone two hours sooner than they intended it.
As soon as they were gone I ran up to Amy, and gave vent to my passions by 
telling her the whole story and letting her see what mischiefs one false 
step of hers had like, unluckily, to have involved us all in, more perhaps 
than we could ever have lived to get through Amy was sensible of it enough, 
and was just giving her wrath a vent another way, viz. by calling the poor 
girl all the damned jades and fools (and sometimes worse names) that she 
could think of; in the middle of which up comes my honest, good Quaker and 
puts an end to our discourse. The Quaker came in smiling (for she was 
always soberly cheerful). 'Well,' says she, 'thou art delivered at last, I 
come to joy thee of it; I perceived thou wert tired grievously of thy 
visitors.'
'Indeed,' says I, 'so I was; that foolish young girl held us all in a 
Canterbury story, I thought she would never have done with it.' 'Why, truly 
I thought she was very careful to let thee know she was but a cook-maid.' 
'Ay,' says I, 'and at a gaming-house, or gaming-ordinary, and at t'other 
end of the town too; all which (by the way) she might know, would add very 
little to her good name among us citizens.'
'I can't think,' says the Quaker, 'but she had some other drift in that 
long discourse; there's something else in her head,' says she, 'I am 
satisfied of that.' Thought I, 'Are you satisfied of it? I am sure I am the 
less satisfied for that; at least 'tis but small satisfaction to me to hear 
you say so. What can this be?' says I; 'and when will my uneasiness have an 
end?' But this was silent, and to myself, you may be sure. But in answer to 
my friend the Quaker, I returned by asking her a question or two about it; 
as what she thought was in it, and why she thought there was anything in 
it; 'for,' says I, 'she can have nothing in it relating to me.'
'Nay,' says the kind Quaker, 'if she had any view towards thee, that's no 
business of mine, and I should be far from desiring thee to inform me.'
This alarmed me again; not that I feared trusting the good-humoured 
creature with it if there had been anything of just suspicion in her, but 
this affair was a secret I cared not to communicate to anybody. However, I 
say, this alarmed me a little, for as I had concealed everything from her, 
I was willing to do so still; but as she could not but gather up abundance 
of things from the girl's discourse which looked towards me, so she was too 
penetrating to be put off with such answers as might stop another's mouth. 
Only there was this double felicity in it: first, that she was not 
inquisitive to know or find anything out, and not dangerous if she had 
known the whole story. But, as I say, she could not but gather up several 
circumstances from the girl's discourse, as particularly the name of Amy, 
and the several descriptions of the Turkish dress which my friend the 
Quaker had seen and taken so much notice of, as I have said above.
As for that, I might have turned it off by jesting with Amy and asking her 
who she lived with before she came to live with me; but that would not do, 
for we had unhappily anticipated that way of talking by having often talked 
how long Amy had lived with me, and which was still worse, by having owned 
formerly that I had had lodgings in the Pall Mall; so that all those things 
corresponded too well. There was only one thing that helped me out with the 
Quaker, and that was the girl's having reported how rich Mrs. Amy was 
grown, and that she kept her coach. Now as there might be many more Mrs. 
Amy's besides mine, so it was not likely to be my Amy, because she was far 
from such a figure as keeping her coach; and this carried it off from the 
suspicions which the good, friendly Quaker might have in her head.
But as to what she imagined the girl had in her head, there lay more real 
difficulty in that part a great deal, and I was alarmed at it very much; 
for my friend the Quaker told me she observed that the girl was in a great 
passion when she talked of the habit, and more when I had been importuned 
to show her mine but declined it. She said she several times perceived her 
to be in disorder and to restrain herself with great difficulty, and once 
or twice she muttered to herself that she had found it out or that she 
would find it out, she could not tell whether, and that she often saw tears 
in her eyes; that when I said my suit of Turkish clothes was put up, but 
that she should see it when we arrived in Holland, she heard her say softly 
she would go over on purpose then.
After she had ended her observations, I added I observed too that the girl 
talked and looked oddly, and that she was mighty inquisitive, but I could 
not imagine what it was she aimed at. 'Aimed at!' says the Quaker, ''tis 
plain to me what she aims at; she believes thou art the same Lady Roxana 
that danced in the Turkish vest, but she is not certain.' 'Does she believe 
so?' says I; 'if I had thought that, I would have put her out of her pain.' 
'Believe so!' says the Quaker, 'yes, and I began to believe so too, and 
should have believed so still if thou hadst not satisfied me to the 
contrary by thy taking no notice of it and by what thou hast said since.' 
'Should you have believed so?' said I warmly, 'I am very sorry for that; 
why, would you have taken me for an actress or a French stage-player?' 
'No,' says the good, kind creature, 'thou carry'st it too far; as soon as 
thou mad'st thy reflections upon her I knew it could not be; but who could 
think any other when she described the Turkish dress which thou hast here, 
with the head-tire and jewels, and when she named thy maid Amy too, and 
several other circumstances concurring? I should certainly have believed 
it,' said she, 'if thou hadst not contradicted it, but as soon as I heard 
thee speak I concluded it was otherwise.' 'That was very kind,' said I, 
'and I am obliged to you for doing me so much justice; 'tis more, it seems, 
than that young talking creature does.' 'Nay,' says the Quaker, 'indeed she 
does not do thee justice, for she as certainly believes it still as ever 
she did.' 'Does she?' said I. 'Ay,' says the Quaker, 'and I warrant thee 
she'll make thee another visit about it.' 'Will she?' says I; 'then I 
believe I shall downright affront her.' 'No, thou shalt not affront her,' 
says she (full of her good humour and temper), 'I'll take that part off thy 
hands, for I'll affront her for thee, and not let her see thee.' I thought 
that was a very kind offer, but was at a loss how she would be able to do 
it; and the thought of seeing her there again distracted me, not knowing 
what temper she would come in, much less what manner to receive her in. But 
my fast friend and constant comforter the Quaker said she perceived the 
girl was impertinent, and that I had no inclination to converse with her, 
and she was resolved I should not be troubled with her. But I shall have 
occasion to say more of this presently, for this girl went further yet than 
I thought she had.
It was now time, as I said before, to take measures with my husband in 
order to put off my voyage; so I fell into talk with him one morning as he 
was dressing, and while I was in bed. I pretended I was very ill, and as I 
had but too easy a way to impose upon him, because he so absolutely 
believed everything I said, so I managed my discourse so as that he should 
understand by it I was a-breeding, though I did not tell him so.
However, I brought it about so handsomely, that before he went out of the 
room he came and sat down by my bedside, and began to talk very seriously 
to me upon the subject of my being so everyday ill; and that as he hoped I 
was with child, he would have me consider well of it whether I had not best 
alter my thoughts of the voyage to Holland, for that being seasick, and 
which was worse, if a storm should happen, might be very dangerous to me. 
And after saying abundance of the kindest things that the kindest of 
husbands in the world could say, he concluded that it was his request to me 
that I would not think any more of going till after all should be over, but 
that I would, on the contrary, prepare to lie in where I was, and where I 
knew, as well as he, I could be very well provided and very well assisted.
This was just what I wanted, for I had, as you have heard, a thousand good 
reasons why I should put off the voyage, especially with that creature in 
company; but I had a mind the putting it off should be at his motion, not 
my own, and he came into it of himself, just as I would have had it. This 
gave me an opportunity to hang back a little, and to seem as if I was 
unwilling. I told him I could not abide to put him to difficulties and 
perplexities in his business; that now he had hired the great cabin in the 
ship, and perhaps paid some of the money, and, it may be, taken freight for 
goods, and to make him break it all off again would be a needless charge to 
him, or perhaps a damage to the captain.
As to that, he said it was not to be named, and he would not allow it to be 
any consideration at all; that he could easily pacify the captain of the 
ship by telling him the reason of it, and that if he did make him some 
satisfaction for the disappointment, it should not be much.
'But, my dear,' says I, 'you haven't heard me say I am with child, neither 
can I say so, and if it should not be so at last, then I shall have made a 
fine piece of work of it indeed. Besides,' says I, 'the two ladies, the 
captain's wife and her sister, they depend upon our going over, and have 
made great preparations, and all in compliment to me; what must I say to 
them?'
'Well, my dear,' says he, 'if you should not be with child, though I hope 
you are, yet there is no harm done; the staying three or four months longer 
in England will be no damage to me, and we can go when we please, when we 
are sure you are not with child, or when it appearing that you are with 
child, you shall be down and up again. And as for the captain's wife and 
sister, leave that part to me, I'll answer for it there shall be no quarrel 
raised upon that subject; I'll make your excuse to them by the captain 
himself, so all will be well enough there, I'll warrant you.'
This was as much as I could desire, and thus it rested for a while. I had 
indeed some anxious thoughts about this impertinent girl, but believed that 
putting off the voyage would have put an end to it all; so I began to be 
pretty easy. But I found myself mistaken, for I was brought to the point of 
destruction by her again, and that in the most unaccountable manner 
imaginable.
My husband, as he and I had agreed, meeting the captain of the ship, took 
the freedom to tell him that he was afraid he must disappoint him, for that 
something had fallen out which had obliged him to alter his measures, and 
that his family could not be ready to go time enough for him.
'I know the occasion, sir,' says the captain. 'I hear your lady has got a 
daughter more than she expected; I give you joy of it.' 'What do you mean 
by that?' says my spouse. 'Nay, nothing,' says the captain, 'but what I 
hear the women tattle over the tea-table; I know nothing but that you don't 
go the voyage upon it, which I am sorry for. But you know your own 
affairs,' added the captain, 'that's no business of mine.'
'Well, but,' says my husband, 'I must make you some satisfaction for the 
disappointment,' and so pulls out his money. 'No, no,' says the captain, 
and so they fell to straining their compliments one upon another. But, in 
short, my spouse gave him three or four guineas, and made him take it, and 
so the first discourse went off again and they had no more of it.
But it did not go off so easily with me; for now, in a word, the clouds 
began to thicken about me and I had alarms on every side. My husband told 
me what the captain had said, but very happily took it that the captain had 
brought a tale by halves, and, having heard it one way, had told it 
another; and that neither could he understand the captain, neither did the 
captain understand himself; so he contented himself to tell me, he said, 
word for word, as the captain delivered it.
How I kept my husband from discovering my disorder, you shall hear 
presently; but let it suffice to say just now that if my husband did not 
understand the captain, nor the captain understand himself, yet I 
understood them both very well; and to tell the truth, it was a worse shock 
than ever I had had yet. Invention supplied me indeed with a sudden motion 
to avoid showing my surprise, for as my spouse and I were sitting by a 
little table near the fire, I reached out my hand, as if I had intended to 
take a spoon which lay on the other side, and threw one of the candles off 
of the table, and then, snatching it up, started up upon my feet, and 
stooped to the lap of my gown and took it in my hand. 'Oh!' says I, 'my 
gown's spoiled; the candle has greased it prodigiously.' This furnished me 
with an excuse to my spouse to break off the discourse for the present and 
call Amy down. And Amy not coming presently, I said to him, 'My dear, I 
must run upstairs and put it off and let Amy clean it a little.' So my 
husband rose up too, and went into a closet where he kept his papers and 
books, and fetched a book out and sat down by himself to read.
Glad I was that I had got away, and up I ran to Amy, who, as it happened, 
was alone. 'Oh, Amy!' says I, 'we are all utterly undone '; and with that I 
burst out a-crying, and could not speak a word for a great while.
I cannot help saying that some very good reflections offered themselves 
upon this head; it presently occurred, what a glorious testimony it is to 
the justice of Providence, and to the concern Providence has in guiding all 
the affairs of men (even the least as well as the greatest), that the most 
secret crimes are, by the most unforeseen accidents, brought to light and 
discovered.
Another reflection was, how just it is that sin and shame follow one 
another so constantly at the heels, that they are not like attendants only, 
but like cause and consequence, necessarily connected one with another; 
that the crime going before, the scandal is certain to follow, and that 
'tis not in the power of human nature to conceal the first or avoid the 
last.
'What shall I do, Amy?' said I as soon as I could speak, 'and what will 
become of me?' And then I cried again so vehemently, that I could say no 
more a great while. Amy was frighted almost out of her wits, but knew 
nothing what the matter was; but she begged to know, and persuaded me to 
compose myself and not cry so. 'Why, madam, if my master should come up 
now,' says she, 'he will see what a disorder you are in; he will know you 
have been crying, and then he will want to know the cause of it.' With that 
I broke out again. 'Oh! he knows it already, Amy,' says I; 'he knows all! 
'tis all discovered! and we are undone!' Amy was thunderstruck now indeed. 
'Nay,' says Amy, 'if that be true we are undone indeed; but that can never 
be, that's impossible, I'm sure.'
'No, no,' says I, ''tis far from impossible, for I tell you 'tis so.' And 
by this time being a little recovered, I told her what discourse my husband 
and the captain had had together, and what the captain had said. This put 
Amy into such a hurry that she cried, she raved, she swore and cursed like 
a mad thing; then she upbraided me that I would not let her kill the girl 
when she would have done it; and that it was all my own doing, and the 
like. Well, however, I was not for killing the girl yet, I could not bear 
the thoughts of that neither.
We spent half an hour in these extravagances, and brought nothing out of 
them neither; for indeed we could do nothing or say nothing that was to the 
purpose, for if anything was to come out-of-the-way, there was no hindering 
it nor help for it. So after thus giving a vent to myself by crying, I 
began to reflect how I had left my spouse below, and what I had pretended 
to come up for; so I changed my gown that I pretended the candle fell upon, 
and put on another and went down.
When I had been down a good while, and found my spouse did not fall into 
the story again as I expected, I took heart and called for it. 'My dear,' 
said I, 'the fall of the candle put you out of your history; won't you go 
on with it?' 'What history?' says he. 'Why,' says I, 'about the captain.' 
'Oh!' says he, 'I had done with it; I know no more than that the captain 
told a broken piece of news that he had heard by halves, and told more by 
halves than he heard it; namely, of your being with child, and that you 
could not go the voyage.'
I perceived my husband entered not into the thing at all, but took it for a 
story, which, being told two or three times over, was puzzled and come to 
nothing; and that all that was meant by it was what he knew or thought he 
knew already, viz. that I was with child, which he wished might be true.
His ignorance was cordial to my soul, and I cursed them in my thoughts that 
should ever undeceive him; and as I saw him willing to have the story end 
there, as not worth being further mentioned, I closed it too, and said I 
supposed the captain had it from his wife, she might have found somebody 
else to make her remarks upon; and so it passed off with my husband well 
enough, and I was still safe there where I thought myself in most danger. 
But I had two uneasinesses still: the first was, lest the captain and my 
spouse should meet again and enter into further discourse about it; and the 
second was, lest the busy, impertinent girl should come again, and when she 
came, how to prevent her seeing Amy, which was an article as material as 
any of the rest; for seeing Amy would have been as fatal to me as her 
knowing all the rest.
As to the first of these, I knew the captain could not stay in town above a 
week, but that his ship being already full of goods, and fallen down the 
river, he must soon follow; so I contrived to carry my husband somewhere 
out of town for a few days, that they might be sure not to meet.
My greatest concern was, where we should go. At last I fixed upon Northall; 
not, I said, that I would drink the waters, but that I thought the air was 
good, and might be for my advantage. He, who did everything upon the 
foundation of obliging me, readily came into it, and the coach was 
appointed to be ready the next morning; but as we were settling matters he 
put in an ugly word that thwarted all my design. And that was, that he had 
rather I would stay till afternoon, for that he should speak to the captain 
next morning if he could, to give him some letters, which he could do and 
be back again about twelve o'clock.
I said, 'Ay, by all means '; but it was but a cheat on him, and my voice 
and my heart differed, for I resolved, if possible, he should not come near 
the captain nor see him, whatever came of it.
In the evening therefore, a little before we went to bed, I pretended to 
have altered my mind, and that I would not go to Northall, but I had a mind 
to go another way, but I told him I was afraid his business would not 
permit him; he wanted to know where it was. I told him, smiling, I would 
not tell him, lest it should oblige him to hinder his business. He 
answered, with the same temper but with infinitely more sincerity, that he 
had no business of so much consequence as to hinder him going with me 
anywhere that I had a mind to go. 'Yes,' says I, 'you want to speak with 
the captain before he goes away.' 'Why, that's true,' says he, 'so I do,' 
and paused a while; and then added, 'But I'll write a note to a man that 
does business for me, to go to him; 'tis only to get some bills of loading 
signed, and he can do it.' When I saw I had gained my point I seemed to 
hang back a little. 'My dear,' says I, 'don't hinder an hour's business for 
me; I can put it off for a week or two, rather than you shall do yourself 
any prejudice.' 'No, no,' says he, 'you shall not put it off an hour for 
me, for I can do my business by proxy with anybody but my wife '; and then 
he took me in his arms and kissed me. How did my blood flush up into my 
face when I reflected how sincerely, how affectionately this good-humoured 
gentleman embraced the most cursed piece of hypocrisy that ever came into 
the arms of an honest man! His was all tenderness, all kindness, and the 
utmost sincerity; mine all grimace and deceit, a piece of mere manage and 
framed conduct to conceal a past life of wickedness and prevent his 
discovering that he had in his arms a she-devil, whose whole conversation 
for twenty-five years had been black as hell, a complication of crime, and 
for which had he been let into it, he must have abhorred me and the very 
mention of my name. But there was no help for me in it, all I had to 
satisfy myself was that it was my business to be what I was and conceal 
what I had been; that all the satisfaction I could make him was to live 
virtuously for the time to come, not being able to retrieve what had been 
in time past; and this I resolved upon, though had the great temptation 
offered, as it did afterwards, I had reason to question my stability. But 
of that hereafter.
After my husband had kindly thus given up his measures to mine, we resolved 
to set out in the morning early. I told him that my project, if he liked 
it, was to go to Tunbridge; and he, being entirely passive in the thing, 
agreed to it with the greatest willingness, but said if I had not named 
Tunbridge, he would have named Newmarket (there being a great Court there, 
and abundance of fine things to be seen). I offered him another piece of 
hypocrisy here, for I pretended to be willing to go thither, as the place 
of his choice, but indeed I would not have gone for a thousand pounds; for 
the Court being there at that time, I durst not run the hazard of being 
known at a place where there were so many eyes that had seen me before. So 
that, after some time, I told my husband that I thought Newmarket was so 
full of people at that time, that we should get no accommodation; that 
seeing the Court and the crowd was no entertainment at all to me, unless as 
it might be so to him, that if he thought fit, we would rather put it off 
to another time; and that if when we went to Holland, we should go by 
Harwich, we might take a round by Newmarket and Bury, and so come down to 
Ipswich, and go from thence to the seaside. He was easily put off from 
this, as he was from anything else that I did not approve; and so with all 
imaginable facility he appointed to be ready early in the morning, to go 
with me for Tunbridge.
I had a double design in this, viz. first, to get away my spouse from 
seeing the captain any more; and secondly, to be out of the way myself, in 
case this impertinent girl, who was now my plague, should offer to come 
again, as my friend the Quaker believed she would; and as indeed happened 
within two or three days afterwards.
Having thus secured my going away the next day, I had nothing to do but to 
furnish my faithful agent the Quaker with some instructions what to say to 
this tormentor (for such she proved afterwards), and how to manage her if 
she made any more visits than ordinary.
I had a great mind to leave Amy behind too, as an assistant, because she 
understood so perfectly well what to advise upon any emergence; and Amy 
importuned me to do so. But I know not what secret impulse prevailed over 
my thoughts against it, I could not do it for fear the wicked jade should 
make her away, which my very soul abhorred the thoughts of; which, however, 
Amy found means to bring to pass afterwards, as I may in time relate more 
particularly.
It is true I wanted as much to be delivered from her as ever a sick man did 
from a third-day ague, and had she dropped into the grave by any fair way, 
as I may call it - I mean had she died by any ordinary distemper - I should 
have shed but very few tears for her. But I was not arrived to such a pitch 
of obstinate wickedness as to commit murder, especially such as to murder 
my own child, or so much as to harbour a thought so barbarous in my mind. 
But, as I said, Amy effected all afterwards without my knowledge, for which 
I gave her my hearty curse, though I could do little more; for to have 
fallen upon Amy had been to have murdered myself. But this tragedy requires 
a longer story than I have room for here. I return to my journey.
My dear friend the Quaker was kind, and yet honest, and would do anything 
that was just and upright to serve me, but nothing wicked or dishonourable. 
That she might be able to say boldly to the creature, if she came, she did 
not know where I was gone, she desired I would not let her know; and to 
make her ignorance the more absolutely safe to herself, and likewise to me, 
I allowed her to say that she heard us talk of going to Newmarket, etc. She 
liked that part, and I left all the rest to her, to act as she thought fit, 
only charged her that if the girl entered into the story of the Pall Mall, 
she should not entertain much talk about it, but let her understand that we 
all thought she spoke of it a little too particularly, and that the lady 
(meaning me) took it a little ill to be so likened to a public mistress or 
a stage-player, and the like; and so bring her, if possible, to say no more 
of it. However, though I did not tell my friend the Quaker how to write to 
me or where I was, yet I left a sealed paper with her maid to give her, in 
which I gave her a direction how to write to Amy, and so in effect to 
myself.
It was but a few days after I was gone, but the impatient girl came to my 
lodgings on pretence to see how I did, and to hear if I intended to go the 
voyage, and the like. My trusty agent was at home, and received her coldly 
at the door, but told her that the lady which she supposed she meant was 
gone from her house.
This was a full stop to all she could say for a good while; but as she 
stood musing some time at the door, considering what to begin a talk upon, 
she perceived my friend the Quaker looked a little uneasy, as if she wanted 
to go in and shut the door, which stung her to the quick; and the wary 
Quaker had not so much as asked her to come in; for seeing her alone, she 
expected she would be very impertinent, and concluded that I did not care 
how coldly she received her.
But she was not to be put off so. She said if the Lady -- was not to be 
spoken with, she desired to speak two or three words with her, meaning my 
friend the Quaker. Upon that the Quaker civilly but coldly asked her to 
walk in, which was what she wanted. Note, she did not carry her into her 
best parlour as formerly, but into a little outer room where the servants 
usually waited.
By the first of her discourse she did not stick to insinuate as if she 
believed I was in the house but was unwilling to be seen, and pressed 
earnestly that she might speak but two words with me; to which she added 
earnest entreaties, and at last tears.
'I am sorry,' says my good creature the Quaker, 'thou hast so ill an 
opinion of me as to think I would tell thee an untruth, and say that the 
Lady -- was gone from my house if she was not. I assure thee I do not use 
any such method, nor does the Lady -- desire any such kind of service from 
me as I know of. If she had been in the house, I should have told thee so.'
She said little to that, but said it was business of the utmost importance 
that she desired to speak with me about; and then cried again very much.
'Thou seem'st to be sorely afflicted,' says the Quaker, 'I wish I could 
give thee any relief; but if nothing will comfort thee but seeing the Lady 
--, it is not in my power.'
'I hope it is,' says she again; 'to be sure it is of great consequence to 
me, so much that I am undone without it.'
'Thou troublest me very much to hear thee say so,' says the Quaker; 'but 
why then didst thou not speak to her apart when thou wast here before?'
'I had no opportunity,' says she, 'to speak to her alone, and I could not 
do it in company; if I could have spoken but two words to her alone, I 
would have thrown myself at her foot and asked her blessing.'
'I am surprised at thee; I do not understand thee,' says the Quaker.
'Oh!' says she, 'stand my friend, if you have any charity, or if you have 
any compassion for the miserable, for I am utterly undone!'
'Thou terrifiest me,' says the Quaker, 'with such passionate expressions, 
for verily I cannot comprehend thee.'
'Oh!' says she, 'she is my mother; she is my mother, and she does not own 
me.'
'Thy mother!' says the Quaker, and began to be greatly moved indeed; 'I am 
astonished at thee; what dost thou mean?'
'I mean nothing but what I say,' says she, 'I say again she is my mother! 
and will not own me '; and with that she stopped with a flood of tears.
'Not own thee!' says the Quaker; and the tender, good creature wept too. 
'Why, she says she does not know thee, and never saw thee before.'
'No,' says the girl, 'I believe she does not know me, but I know her, and I 
know that she is my mother.'
'It's impossible! Thou talkest mystery,' says the Quaker; 'wilt thou 
explain thyself a little to me?'
'Yes, yes,' says she, 'I can explain it well enough; I am sure she is my 
mother, and I have broken my heart to search for her; and now to lose her 
again, when I was so sure I had found her, will break my heart more 
effectually.'
'Well, but if she be thy mother,' says the Quaker, 'how can it be that she 
should not know thee?'
'Alas!' says she, 'I have been lost to her ever since I was a child. She 
has never seen me.'
'And hast thou never seen her?' says the Quaker.
'Yes,' says she, 'I have seen her, often enough I saw her, for when she was 
the Lady Roxana I was her housemaid, being a servant, but I did not know 
her then, nor she me, but it has all come out since; has she not a maid 
named Amy?' (Note, the honest Quaker was nonplussed, and greatly surprised 
at that question.)
'Truly,' says she, 'the Lady -- has several women-servants, but I do not 
know all their names.'
'But her woman, her favourite,' adds the girl; 'is not her name Amy?'
'Why, truly,' says the Quaker with a very happy turn of wit, 'I do not like 
to be examined; but lest thou shouldst take up any mistakes by reason of my 
backwardness to speak, I will answer thee for once that what her woman's 
name is I know not but they call her Cherry.'
N.B. - My husband gave her that name in jest on our wedding day, and we had 
called her by it ever since, so that she spoke literally true at that time
The girl replied very modestly that she was sorry if she gave her any 
offence in asking, that she did not design to be rude to her or pretend to 
examine her, but that she was in such an agony at this disaster, that she 
knew not what she did or said; and that she should be very sorry to 
disoblige her, but begged of her again, as she was a Christian and a woman, 
and had been a mother of children, that she would take pity on her, and if 
possible assist her, so that she might come to me and speak a few words to 
me.
The tender-hearted Quaker told me the girl spoke this with such moving 
eloquence that it forced tears from her, but she was obliged to say that 
she neither knew where I was gone nor how to write to me, but that if she 
did ever see me again she would not fail to give me an account of all she 
had said to her or that she should yet think fit to say, and to take my 
answer to it if I thought fit to give any.
Then the Quaker took the freedom to ask a few particulars about this 
wonderful story, as she called it; at which, the girl beginning at the 
first distresses of my life, and indeed of her own, went through all the 
history of her miserable education, her service under the Lady Roxana, as 
she called me, and her relief by Mrs. Amy; with the reasons she had to 
believe that as Amy owned herself to be the same that lived with her 
mother, and especially that Amy was the Lady Roxana's maid too and came out 
of France with her, she was by those circumstances, and several others in 
her conversation, as fully convinced that the Lady Roxana was her mother, 
as she was that the Lady -- at her house (the Quaker's) was the very same 
Roxana that she had been servant to.
My good friend the Quaker, though terribly shocked at the story, and not 
well knowing what to say, vet was too much my friend to seem convinced in a 
thing which she did not know to be true, and which, if it was true, she 
could see plainly I had a mind should not be known; so she turned her 
discourse to argue the girl out of it. She insisted upon the slender 
evidence she had of the fact itself, and the rudeness of claiming so near a 
relation of one so much above her, and of whose concern in it she had no 
knowledge, at least not sufficient proof; that as the lady at her house was 
a person above any disguises, so she could not believe that she would deny 
her being her daughter if she was really her mother; that she was able 
sufficiently to have provided for her if she had not a mind to have her 
known; and therefore, seeing she had heard all she had said of the Lady 
Roxana, and was so far from owning herself to be the person, so she had 
censured that sham lady as a cheat and a common woman; and that 'twas 
certain she could never be brought to own a name and character she had so 
justly exposed.
Besides, she told her that her lodger (meaning me) was not a sham lady, but 
the real wife of a knight baronet, and that she knew her to be honestly 
such, and far above such a person as she had described. She then added that 
she had another reason why it was not very possible to be true; 'and that 
is,' says she, 'thy age is in the way; for thou acknowledgest that thou art 
four-and-twenty years old, and that thou wast the youngest of three of thy 
mother's children, so that by thy account thy mother must be extremely 
young, or this lady cannot be thy mother; for thou seest,' says she, 'and 
any one may see, she is but a young woman now, and cannot be supposed to be 
above forty years old, if she is so much, and is now big with child at her 
going into the country. So that I cannot give any credit to thy notion of 
her being thy mother; and if I might counsel thee, it should be to give 
over that thought as an improbable story that does but serve to disorder 
thee and disturb thy head; for,' added she, 'I perceive thou art much 
disturbed indeed.'
But this was all nothing. She could be satisfied with nothing but seeing 
me; but the Quaker defended herself very well, and insisted on it that she 
could not give her any account of me. And finding her still importunate, 
she affected at last being a little disgusted that she should not believe 
her, and added that indeed if she had known where I was gone, she would not 
have given any one an account of it unless I had given her orders to do so. 
'But seeing she has not acquainted me,' says she, 'where she is gone, 'tis 
an intimation to me she was not desirous it should be publicly known.' And 
with this she rose up, which was as plain a desiring her to rise up too and 
be gone as could be expressed, except the downright showing her the door.
Well, the girl rejected all this, and told her she could not indeed expect 
that she (the Quaker) should be affected with the story she had told her, 
however moving, or that she should take any pity on her. That it was her 
misfortune that when she was at the house before, and in the room with me, 
she did not beg to speak a word with me in private, or throw herself upon 
the floor at my feet and claim what the affection of a mother would have 
done for her; but since she had slipped her opportunity, she would wait for 
another. That she found by her (the Quaker's) talk that she had not quite 
left her lodgings, but was gone into the country, she supposed, for the 
air; and she was resolved she would take so much knight-errantry upon her, 
that she would visit all the airing places in the nation, and even all the 
kingdom over, ay, and Holland too, but she would find me; for she was 
satisfied she could so convince me that she was my own child, that I would 
not deny it, and she was sure I was so tender and compassionate, I would 
not let her perish after I was convinced that she was my own flesh and 
blood. And in saying she would visit all the airing-places in England, she 
reckoned them all up by name, and began with Tunbridge, the very place I 
was gone to; then reckoning up Epsom, Northall, Barnet, Newmarket, Bury, 
and at last the Bath. And with this she took her leave.
My faithful agent the Quaker failed not to write to me immediately, but as 
she was a cunning as well as an honest woman, it presently occurred to her 
that this was a story which, whether true or false, was not very fit to 
come to my husband's knowledge; that as she did not know what I might have 
been, or might have been called in former times, and how far there might 
have been some thing or nothing in it, so she thought if it was a secret I 
ought to have the telling of it myself, and if it was not, it might as well 
be public afterwards as now; and that, at least, she ought to leave it 
where she found it, and not hand it forwards to anybody without my consent. 
These prudent measures were inexpressibly kind as well as seasonable, for 
it had been likely enough that her letter might have come publicly to me, 
and though my husband would not have opened it, yet it would have looked a 
little odd that I should conceal its contents from him when I had pretended 
so much to communicate all my affairs.
In consequence of this wise caution my good friend only wrote me in a few 
words that the impertinent young woman had been with her, as she expected 
she would, and that she thought it would be very convenient that, if I 
could spare Cherry, I would send her up (meaning Amy), because she found 
there might be some occasion for her.
As it happened, this letter was enclosed to Amy herself, and not sent by 
the way I had at first ordered, but it came safe to my hands; and though I 
was alarmed a little at it, yet I was not acquainted with the danger I was 
in of an immediate visit from this teasing creature till afterwards; and I 
ran a greater risk indeed than ordinary, in that I did not send Amy up 
under thirteen or fourteen days, believing myself as much concealed at 
Tunbridge as if I had been at Vienna.
But the concern my faithful spy (for such my Quaker was now, upon the mere 
foot of her own sagacity) - I say her concern for me was my safety in this 
exigence, when I was, as it were, keeping no guard for myself; for finding 
Amy not come up, and that she did not know how soon this wild thing might 
put her designed ramble in practice, she sent a messenger to the captain's 
wife's house, where she lodged, to tell her that she wanted to speak with 
her. She was at the heels of the messenger, and came eager for some news, 
and hoped, she said, the lady (meaning me) had been come to town.
The Quaker, with as much caution as she was mistress of, not to tell a 
downright lie, made her believe she expected to hear of me very quickly; 
and frequently, by the by, speaking of being abroad to take the air, talked 
of the country about Bury, how pleasant it was, how wholesome, and how fine 
the air, how the downs about Newmarket were exceeding fine, and what a vast 
deal of company there was, now the Court was there; till at last the girl 
began to conclude that my ladyship was gone thither; for, she said, she 
knew I loved to see a great deal of company.
'Nay,' says my friend, 'thou takest me wrong; I did not suggest,' says she, 
'that the person thou enquirest after is gone thither, neither do I believe 
she is, I assure you.' Well, the girl smiled, and let her know that she 
believed it for all that; so, to clinch it fast, 'Verily,' says she with 
great seriousness, 'thou dost not do well, for thou suspectest everything 
and believest nothing. I speak solemnly to thee that I do not believe they 
are gone that way; so if thou givest thyself the trouble to go that way, 
and art disappointed, do not say that I have deceived thee.' She knew well 
enough that if this did abate her suspicion, it would not remove it, and 
that it would do little more than amuse her; but by this she kept her in 
suspense till Amy came up, and that was enough.
When Amy came up she was quite confounded to hear the relation which the 
Quaker gave her, and found means to acquaint me of it, only letting me 
know, to my great satisfaction, that she would not come to Tunbridge first, 
but that she would certainly go to Newmarket or Bury first.
However, it gave me very great uneasiness, for as she resolved to ramble in 
search after me over the whole country, I was safe nowhere, no, not in 
Holland itself; so indeed I did not know what to do with her. And thus I 
had a bitter in all my sweet, for I was continually perplexed with this 
hussy and thought she haunted me like an evil spirit.
In the meantime Amy was next door to stark mad about her; she durst not see 
her at my lodgings, for her life, and she went days without number to 
Spitalfields, where she used to come, and to her former lodging, and could 
never meet with her. At length she took up a mad resolution that she would 
go directly to the captain's house in Redriff and speak with her; it was a 
mad step, that's true, but as Amy said she was mad, so nothing she could do 
could be otherwise. For if Amy had found her at Redriff, she (the girl) 
would have concluded presently that the Quaker had given her notice, and so 
that we were all of a knot, and that, in short, all she had said was right. 
But as it happened, things came to hit better than we expected; for that 
Amy, going out of a coach to take water at Tower Wharf, meets the girl just 
come on shore, having crossed the water from Redriff. Amy made as if she 
would have passed by her, though they met so full that she did not pretend 
she did not see her, for she looked fairly upon her first; but then, 
turning her head away with a slight, offered to go from her, but the girl 
stopped and spoke first, and made some manners to her.
Amy spoke coldly to her and a little angry, and after some words, standing 
in the street or passage, the girl saying she seemed to be angry, and would 
not have spoken to her, 'Why,' says Amy, 'how can you expect I should have 
any more to say to you, after I had done so much for you and you have 
behaved so to me?' The girl seemed to take no notice of that now, but 
answered, 'I was going to wait on you now.' 'Wait on me!' says Amy; 'what 
do you mean by that?' 'Why,' says she again, with a kind of familiarity, 'I 
was going to your lodgings.'
Amy was provoked to the last degree at her, and yet she thought it was not 
her time to resent, because she had a more fatal and wicked design in her 
head against her; which indeed I never knew till after it was executed, nor 
durst Amy ever communicate it to me, for as I had always expressed myself 
vehemently against hurting a hair of her head, so she was resolved to take 
her own measures without consulting me any more.
In order to this Amy gave her good words, and concealed her resentment as 
much as she could; and when she talked of going to her lodging, Amy smiled 
and said nothing, but called for a pair of oars to go to Greenwich, and 
asked her, seeing she said she was going to her lodging, to go along with 
her, for she was going home and was all alone.
Amy did this with such a stock of assurance that the girl was confounded 
and knew not what to say; but the more she hesitated the more Amy pressed 
her to go, and, talking very kindly to her, told her if she did not go to 
see her lodgings, she might go to keep her company, and she would pay a 
boat to bring her back again; so, in a word, Amy prevailed on her to go 
into the boat with her, and carried her down to Greenwich.
'Tis certain that Amy had no more business at Greenwich than I had, nor was 
she going thither; but we were all hampered to the last degree with the 
impertinence of this creature, and in particular I was horribly perplexed 
with it.
As they were in the boat Amy began to reproach her with ingratitude in 
treating her so rudely, who had done so much for her and been so kind to 
her, and to ask her what she had got by it or what she expected to get. 
Then came in my share, the Lady Roxana; Amy jested with that, and bantered 
her a little and asked her if she had found her yet.
But Amy was both surprised and enraged when the girl told her roundly that 
she thanked her for what she had done for her, but that she would not have 
her think she was so ignorant as not to know that what she (Amy) had done 
was by her mother's order, and who she was beholden to for it. That she 
could never make instruments pass for principals, and pay the debt to the 
agent when the obligation was all to the original. That she knew w ell 
enough who she was, and who she was employed by. That she knew the Lady -- 
very well (naming the name that I now went by), which was my husband's true 
name, and by which she might know whether she had found out her mother or 
no.
Amy wished her at the bottom of the Thames; and had there been no watermen 
in the boat and nobody in sight, she swore to me she would have thrown her 
into the river. I was horribly disturbed when she told me this story, and 
began to think this would at last all end in my ruin; but when Amy spoke of 
throwing her into the river and drowning her, I was so provoked at her, 
that all my rage turned against Amy and I fell thoroughly out with her. I 
had now kept Amy almost thirty years, and found her on all occasions the 
faithfulest creature to me that ever woman had; I say faithful to me, for 
however wicked she was, still she was true to me; and even this rage of 
hers was all upon my account, and for fear any mischief should befall me.
But be that how it would, I could not bear the mention of her murdering the 
poor girl, and it put me so beside myself that I rose up in a rage and bade 
her get out of my sight and out of my house; told her I had kept her too 
long, and that I would never see her face more. I had before told her that 
she was a murderer and a bloody-minded creature, that she could not but 
know that I could not bear the thought of it, much less the mention of it, 
and that it was the impudentest thing that ever was known, to make such a 
proposal to me, when she knew that I was really the mother of this girl, 
and that she was my own child; that it was wicked enough in her, but that 
she must conclude I was ten times wickeder than herself if I could come 
into it; that the girl was in the right, and I had nothing to blame her 
for, but that it was owing to the wickedness o£ my life that made it 
necessary for me to keep her from a discovery, but that I would not murder 
my child though I was otherwise to be ruined by it. Amy replied somewhat 
rough and short, would I not, but she would, she said, if she had an 
opportunity. And upon these words it was that I bade her get out of my 
sight and out of my house; and it went so far that Amy packed up her alls 
and marched off, and was gone for almost good and all. But of that in its 
order; I must go back to her relation of the voyage which they made to 
Greenwich together.
They held on the wrangle all the way by water; the girl insisted upon her 
knowing that I was her mother, and told her all the history of my life in 
the Pall Mall, as well after her being turned away, as before, and of my 
marriage since; and which was worse, not only who my present husband was, 
but where he had lived, viz. at Rouen in France; she knew nothing of Paris 
or of where we were going to live, namely, at Nimeguen, but told her in so 
many words that if she could not find me here, she would go to Holland 
after me.
They landed at Greenwich and Amy carried her into the Park with her, and 
they walked above two hours there in the farthest and remotest walks; which 
Amy did because as they talked with great heat, it was apparent they were 
quarrelling, and the people took notice of it.
They walked till they came almost to the wilderness at the south side of 
the Park, but the girl, perceiving Amy offered to go in there among the 
woods and trees, stopped short there and would go no further, but said she 
would not go in there.
Amy smiled and asked her what was the matter. She replied short, she did 
not know where she was nor where she was going to carry her, and she would 
go no further, and without any more ceremony turns back and walks apace 
away from her. Amy owned she was surprised, and came back too and called to 
her, upon which the girl stopped, and Amy coming up to her, asked her what 
she meant.
The girl boldly replied she did not know but she might murder her, and 
that, in short, she would not trust herself with her, and never would come 
into her company again alone.
It was very provoking; but, however, Amy kept her temper with much 
difficulty, and bore it, knowing that much might depend upon it; so she 
mocked her foolish jealousy and told her she need not be uneasy for her, 
she would do her no harm, and would have done her good if she would have 
let her; but since she was of such a refractory humour, she should not 
trouble herself, for she should never come into her company again, and that 
neither she nor her brother or sister should ever hear from her or see her 
any more; and so she should have the satisfaction of being the ruin of her 
brother and sister, as well as of herself.
The girl seemed a little mollified at that, and said, that for herself she 
knew the worst of it, she could seek her fortune, but 'twas hard her 
brother and sister should suffer on her score, and said something that was 
tender and well enough on that account. But Amy told her it was for her to 
take that into consideration, for she would let her see that it was all her 
own; that she would have done them all good, but that having been used 
thus, she would do no more for any of them; and that she should not need to 
be afraid to come into her company again, for she would never give her 
occasion for it any more; by the way, was false in the girl too, for she 
did venture into Amy's company again after that, once too much, as I shall 
relate by itself.
They grew cooler, however, afterwards, and Amy carried her into a house at 
Greenwich where she was acquainted, and took an occasion to leave the girl 
in a room awhile, to speak to the people in the house, and so prepare them 
to own her as a lodger in the house; and then going in to her again, told 
her there she lodged if she had a mind to find her out, or if anybody else 
had anything to say to her. And so Amy dismissed her and got rid of her 
again, and finding an empty hackney-coach in the town, came away by land to 
London, and the girl going down to the waterside, came by boat.
This conversation did not answer Amy's end at all, because it did not 
secure the girl from pursuing her design of hunting me out; and though my 
indefatigable friend the Quaker amused her three or four days, yet I had 
such notice of it at last, that I thought fit to come away from Tunbridge 
upon it, and where to go I knew not; but, in short, I went to a little 
village upon Epping Forest, called Woodford, and took lodgings in a private 
house, where I lived retired about six weeks, till I thought she might be 
tired of her search and have given me over.
Here I received an account from my trusty Quaker that the wench had really 
been at Tunbridge, had found out my lodgings, and had told her tale there 
in a most dismal tone; that she had followed us as she thought, to London, 
but the Quaker had answered her that she knew nothing of it, which was 
indeed true, and had admonished her to be easy and not hunt after people of 
such fashion as we were, as if we were thieves; that she might be assured 
that since I was not willing to see her, I would not be forced to it, and 
treating me thus would effectually disoblige me. And with such discourses 
as these she quieted her; and she (the Quaker) added that she hoped I 
should not be troubled much more with her.
It was in this time that Amy gave me the history of her Greenwich voyage, 
when she spoke of drowning and killing the girl, in so serious a manner, 
and with such an apparent resolution of doing it, that, as I said, put me 
in a rage with her, so that I effectually turned her away from me, as I 
have said above; and she was gone, nor did she so much as tell me whither 
or which way she was gone; on the other hand, when I came to reflect on it, 
that now I had neither assistant nor confidante to speak to or receive the 
least information, my friend the Quaker excepted, it made me very uneasy.
I waited and expected, and wondered from day to day, still thinking Amy 
would one time or other think a little and come again, or at least let me 
hear of her, but for ten days together I heard nothing of her. I was so 
impatient that I got neither rest by day nor sleep by night, and what to do 
I knew not. I durst not go to town to the Quaker's, for fear of meeting 
that vexatious creature my girl, and I could get no intelligence, where I 
was; so I got my spouse, upon pretence of wanting her company, to take the 
coach one day and fetch my good Quaker to me.
When I had her I durst ask her no questions, nor hardly knew which end of 
the business to begin to talk of; but of her own accord she told me that 
the girl had been three or four times haunting her for news from me, and 
that she had been so troublesome that she had been obliged to show herself 
a little angry with her, and at last told her plainly that she need give 
herself no trouble in searching after me by her means, for she (the Quaker) 
would not tell her if she knew; upon which she refrained awhile. But on the 
other hand, she told me, it was not safe for me to send my own coach for 
her to come in, for she had some reason to believe that she (my daughter) 
watched her door night and day, nay, and watched her too every time she 
went in and out; for she was so bent upon a discovery that she spared no 
pains, and she believed she had taken a lodging very near their house for 
that purpose.
I could hardly give her a hearing of all this for my eagerness to ask for 
Amy, but I was confounded when she told me she had heard nothing of her. 
'Tis impossible to express the anxious thoughts that rolled about in my 
mind and continually perplexed me about her; particularly I reproached 
myself with my rashness in turning away so faithful a creature, that for so 
many years had not only been a servant but an agent, and not only an agent 
but a friend, and a faithful friend too.
Then I considered too that Amy knew all the secret history of my life, had 
been in all the intrigues of it, and been a party in both evil and good, 
and at best there was no policy in it; that as it was very ungenerous and 
unkind to run things to such an extremity with her, and for an occasion too 
in which all the fault she was guilty of was owing to her excess of care 
for my safety, so it must be only her steady kindness to me, and an excess 
of generous friendship for me, that should keep her from ill-using me in 
return for it, which ill-using me was enough in her power and might be my 
utter undoing.
These thoughts perplexed me exceedingly, and what course to take I really 
did not know. I began indeed to give Amy quite over, for she had now been 
gone above a fortnight, and as she had taken away all her clothes and her 
money too, which was not a little, and so had no occasion of that kind to 
come any more, so she had not left any word where she was gone, or to which 
part of the world I might send to hear of her.
And I was troubled on another account too, viz. that my spouse and I too 
had resolved to do very handsomely for Amy, without considering what she 
might have got another way at all; but we had said nothing of it to her, 
and so I thought as she had not known what was likely to fall in her way, 
she had not the influence of that expectation to make her come back.
Upon the whole, the perplexity of this girl who hunted me, as if, like a 
hound, she had had a hot scent but was now at a fault - I say that 
perplexity, and this other part of Amy being gone, issued in this, I 
resolved to be gone, and go over to Holland; there I believed I should be 
at rest. So I took occasion one day to tell my spouse that I was afraid he 
might take it ill that I had amused him thus long, and that at last I 
doubted I was not with child, and that since it was so, our things being 
packed up and all in order for going to Holland, I would go away now when 
he pleased.
My spouse, who was perfectly easy whether in going or staying, left it all 
entirely to me; so I considered of it and began to prepare again for my 
voyage. But, alas! I was irresolute to the last degree; I was, for want of 
Amy, destitute. I had lost my right hand; she was my steward, gathered in 
my rents, I mean my interest money, and kept my accounts, and, in a word, 
did all my business; and without her indeed I knew not how to go away nor 
how to stay. But an accident thrust itself in here, and that even in Amy's 
conduct too, which frighted me away, and without her too, in the utmost 
horror and confusion.
I have related how my faithful friend the Quaker was come to me, and what 
account she gave me of her being continually haunted by my daughter, and 
that, as she said, she watched her very door night and day. The truth was 
she had set a spy to watch so effectually that she (the Quaker) neither 
went in nor out but she had notice of it.
This was too evident when, the next morning after she came to me (for I 
kept her all night), to my unspeakable surprise I saw a hackney-coach stop 
at the door where I lodged, and saw her (my daughter) in the coach all 
alone. It was a very good chance in the middle of a bad one that my husband 
had taken out the coach that very morning and was gone to London; as for 
me, I had neither life nor soul left in me, I was so confounded I knew not 
what to do or to say.
My happy visitor had more presence of mind than I, and asked me if I had 
made no acquaintance among the neighbours. I told her, Yes, there was a 
lady lodged two doors off, that I was very intimate with. 'But hast thou no 
way out backward to go to her?' says she. Now it happened there was a back 
door in the garden, by which we usually went and came to and from the 
house, so I told her of it. 'Well, well,' says she, 'go out and make a 
visit then, and leave the rest to me.' Away I ran, told the lady (for I was 
very free there) that I was a widow today, my spouse being gone to London, 
so I came not to visit her but to dwell with her that day, because also our 
landlady had got strangers come from London. So having framed this orderly 
lie, I pulled some work out of my pocket, and added, 'I did not come to be 
idle.'
As I went out one way, my friend the Quaker went the other to receive this 
unwelcome guest. The girl made but little ceremony, but, having bid the 
coachman ring at the gate, gets down out of the coach and comes to the 
door, a country girl going to the door (belonging to the house), for the 
Quaker forbade any of my maids going. Madam asked for my Quaker by name, 
and the girl asked her to walk in.
Upon this, my Quaker, seeing there was no hanging back, goes to her 
immediately, but put on all the gravity upon her countenance that she was 
mistress of, and that was not a little indeed.
When she (the Quaker) came into the room (for they had shown my daughter 
into a little parlour), she kept her grave countenance but said not a word, 
nor did my daughter speak a good while. But after some time my girl began 
and said, 'I suppose you know me, madam?'
'Yes,' says the Quaker, 'I know thee '; and so the dialogue went on.
Girl. 'Then you know my business too.'
Quaker. 'No, verily, I do not know any business thou canst have here with 
me.'
Girl. 'Indeed, my business is not chiefly with you.
Quaker. 'Why then dost thou come after me thus far?'
Girl. 'You know who I seek.' (And with that she cried.)
Quaker. 'But why shouldst thou follow me for her, since thou knowest that I 
assured thee more than once that I knew not where she was?'
Girl. 'But I hoped you could.'
Quaker. 'Then thou must hope that I did not speak truth, which would be 
very wicked.'
Girl. 'I doubt not but she is in this house.'
Quaker. 'If those be thy thoughts, thou may'st enquire in the house; so 
thou hast no more business with me. Farewell.' (Offers to go.)
Girl. 'I would not be uncivil; I beg you to let me see her.'
Quaker. 'I am here to visit some of my friends, and I think thou art very 
uncivil in following me
Girl. 'I came in hopes of a discovery in my great affair, which you know 
of.'
Quaker. 'Thou cam'st wildly indeed. I counsel thee to go back again and be 
easy. I shall keep my word with thee that I would not meddle in it or give 
thee any account, if I knew it, unless I had her orders.'
Girl. 'If you knew my distress, you could not be so cruel.'
Quaker. 'Thou hast told me all thy story, and I think it might be more 
cruelty to tell thee than not to tell thee; for I understand she is 
resolved not to see thee, and declares she is not thy mother. Willst thou 
be owned where thou hast no relation?'
Girl. 'Oh! if I could but speak to her, I would prove my relation to her so 
that she could not deny it any longer.'
Quaker. 'Well, but thou canst not come to speak with her, it seems.'
Girl. 'I hope you will tell me if she is here; I had a good account that 
you were come out to see her, and that she sent for you.'
Quaker. 'I much wonder how thou couldst have such an account; if I had come 
out to see her, thou hast happened to miss the house, for I assure thee she 
is not to be found in this house.'
Here the girl importuned her again with the utmost earnestness, and cried 
bitterly, insomuch that my poor Quaker was softened with it, and began to 
persuade me to consider of it, and if it might consist with my affairs to 
see her and hear what she had to say; but this was afterwards. I return to 
the discourse.
The Quaker was perplexed with her a long time; she talked of sending back 
the coach and lying in the town all night. This my friend knew would be 
very uneasy to me, but she durst not speak a word against it; but on a 
sudden thought she offered a bold stroke, which, though dangerous if it had 
happened wrong, had its desired effect.
She told her, that as for dismissing her coach, that was as she pleased; 
she believed she would not easily get a lodging in the town, but that as 
she was in a strange place, she would so much befriend her that she would 
speak to the people of the house, that if they had a room she might have a 
lodging there for one night, rather than be forced back to London before 
she was free to go.
This was a cunning though a dangerous step, and it succeeded accordingly, 
for it amused the creature entirely, and she presently concluded that 
really I could not be there, then; otherwise she would never have asked her 
to lie in the house. So she grew cold again presently as to her lodging 
there, and said, No, since it was so, she would go back that afternoon, but 
she would come again in two or three days, and search that and all the 
towns round in an effectual manner, if she stayed a week or two to do it; 
for, in short, if I was in England or Holland, she would find me.
'In truth,' says the Quaker, 'thou wilt make me very hurtful to thee, 
then.' 'Why so?' says she. 'Because wherever I go thou wilt put thyself to 
great expense, and the country to a great deal of unnecessary trouble.' 
'Not unnecessary,' says she. 'Yes, truly,' says the Quaker, 'it must be 
unnecessary, because 'twill be to no purpose. I think I must abide in my 
own house, to save thee that charge and trouble.'
She said little to that, except that she said she would give her as little 
trouble as possible, but she was afraid she should sometimes be uneasy to 
her, which she hoped she would excuse. My Quaker told her she would much 
rather excuse her if she would forbear; for that, if she would believe her, 
she would assure her she should never get any intelligence of me by her.
That set her into tears again; but after a while recovering herself, she 
told her perhaps she might be mistaken, and she (the Quaker) should watch 
herself very narrowly, or she might one time or other get some intelligence 
from her whether she would or no; and she was satisfied she had gained some 
of her by this journey, for that if I was not in the house I was not far 
off, and if I did not remove very quickly she would find me out. 'Very 
well,' says my Quaker, 'then if the lady is not willing to see thee, thou 
givest me notice to tell her that she may get out of thy way.'
She flew out in a rage at that, and told my friend that if she did, a curse 
would follow her and her children after her, and denounced such horrid 
things upon her as frighted the poor tender-hearted Quaker strangely, and 
put her more out of temper than ever I saw her before; so that she resolved 
to go home the next morning, and I, that was ten times more uneasy than 
she, resolved to follow her and go to London too; which however, upon 
second thoughts, I did not, but took effectual measures not to be seen or 
owned if she came any more; but I heard no more of her for some time.
I stayed there about a fortnight, and in all that time I heard no more of 
her or of my Quaker about her. But after about two days more I had a letter 
from my Quaker, intimating that she had something of moment to say that she 
could not communicate by a letter, but wished I would give myself the 
trouble to come up; directing me to come with the coach into Goodman's 
Fields and then walk to her back door on foot, which being left open on 
purpose, the watchful lady, if she had any spies, could not well see me.
My thoughts had for so long time been kept, as it were, waking, that almost 
everything gave me the alarm, and this especially, so that I was very 
uneasy; but I could not bring matters to bear to make my coming to London 
so clear to my husband as I would have done, for he liked the place and had 
a mind, he said, to stay a little longer, if it was not against my 
inclination. So I wrote my friend the Quaker word that I could not come to 
town yet, and that besides I could not think of being there under spies and 
afraid to look out of doors; and so, in short, I put off going for near a 
fortnight more.
At the end of that time she wrote again, in which she told me that she had 
not lately seen the impertinent visitor which had been so troublesome, but 
that she had seen my trusty agent Amy, who told her she had cried for six 
weeks without intermission; that Amy had given her an account how 
troublesome the creature had been, and to what straits and perplexities I 
was driven by her hunting after and following me from place to place. Upon 
which Amy had said, that notwithstanding I was angry with her and had used 
her so hardly for saying something about her of the same kind, yet there 
was an absolute necessity of securing her and removing her out of the way; 
and that, in short, without asking my leave or anybody's leave, she would 
take care she should trouble her mistress (meaning me) no more, and that 
after Amy had said so, she had indeed never heard any more of the girl; so 
that she supposed Amy had managed it so well as to put an end to it.
The innocent well-meaning creature, my Quaker, who was all kindness and 
goodness in herself, and particularly to me, saw nothing in this but she 
thought Amy had found some way to persuade her to be quiet and easy and to 
give over teasing and following me, and rejoiced in it for my sake; as she 
thought nothing of any evil herself, so she suspected none in anybody else, 
and was exceeding glad of having such good news to write to me. But my 
thoughts of it ran otherwise.
I was struck as with a blast from Heaven at the reading her letter. I fell 
into a fit of trembling from head to foot, and I ran raving about the room 
like a mad-woman. I had nobody to speak a word to, to give vent to my 
passion, nor did I speak a word for a good while, till after it had almost 
overcome me. I threw myself on the bed and cried out, 'Lord, be merciful to 
me, she has murdered my child '; and with that a flood of tears burst out, 
and I cried vehemently for above an hour.
My husband was very happily gone out a-hunting, so that I had every 
opportunity of being alone, and to give my passions some vent, by which I a 
little recovered myself. But after my crying was over, then I fell in a new 
rage at Amy. I called her a thousand devils and monsters and hardhearted 
tigers; I reproached her with her knowing that I abhorred it, and had let 
her know it sufficiently, in that I had, as it were, kicked her out of 
doors, after so many years' friendship and service, only for naming it to 
me.
Well, after some time my spouse came in from his sport, and I put on the 
best looks I could to deceive him; but he did not take so little notice of 
me as not to see I had been crying and that something troubled me, and he 
pressed me to tell him. I seemed to bring it out with reluctance, but told 
him my backwardness was more because I was ashamed that such a trifle 
should have any effect upon me, than for any weight that was in it. So I 
told him I had been vexing myself about my woman Amy not coming again, that 
she might have known me better than not to believe I should have been 
friends with her again, and the like; and that, in short, I had lost the 
best servant by my rashness that ever woman had.
'Well, well,' says he, 'if that be all your grief, I hope you will soon 
shake it off; I'll warrant you in a little while we shall hear of Mrs. Amy 
again 'and so it went off for that time. But it did not go off with me, for 
I was uneasy and terrified to the last degree, and wanted to get some 
further account of the thing. So I went away to my sure and certain 
comforter the Quaker, and there I had the whole story of it; and the good 
innocent Quaker gave me joy of my being rid of such an unsufferable 
tormentor.
'Rid of her! Ay,' says I, 'if I was rid of her fairly and honourably; but I 
don't know what Amy may have done; sure she hasn't made her away?' 'Oh, 
fie!' says my Quaker, 'how canst thou entertain such a notion? No, no, made 
her away! Amy didn't talk like that; I dare say thou may'st be easy in 
that, Amy has nothing of that in her head, I dare say,' says she; and so 
threw it, as it were, out of my thoughts.
But it would not do; it ran in my head continually, night and day I could 
think of nothing else; and it fixed such a horror of the fact upon my 
spirits, and such a detestation of Amy, who I looked upon as the murderer, 
that, as for her, I believe if I could have seen her, I should certainly 
have sent her to Newgate, or to a worse place, upon suspicion; indeed I 
think I could have killed her with my own hands.
As for the poor girl herself, she was ever before my eyes. I saw her by 
night and by day; she haunted my imagination, if she did not haunt the 
house; my fancy showed her me in a hundred shapes and postures; sleeping or 
waking, she was with me. Sometimes I thought I saw her with her throat cut, 
sometimes with her head cut and her brains knocked out, other times hanged 
up upon a beam, another time drowned in the great pond at Camberwell. And 
all these appearances were terrifying to the last degree; and that which 
was still worse, I could really hear nothing of her. I sent to the 
captain's wife in Redriff, and she answered me she was gone to her 
relations in Spitalfields. I sent thither, and they said she was there 
about three weeks ago, but that she went out in a coach with the 
gentlewoman that used to be so kind to her, but whither she was gone they 
knew not, for she had not been there since. I sent back the messenger for a 
description of the woman she went out with, and they described her so 
perfectly that I knew it to be Amy, and none but Amy.
I sent word again that Mrs. Amy, who she went out with, left her in two or 
three hours, and that they should search for her, for I had reason to fear 
she was murdered. This frighted them all intolerably. They believed Amy had 
carried her to pay her a sum of money, and that somebody had watched her 
after her having received it, and had robbed and murdered her.
I believed nothing of that part; but I believed as it was, that whatever 
was done, Amy had done it, and that, in short, Amy had made her away; and I 
believed it the more because Amy came no more near me, but confirmed her 
guilt by her absence.
Upon the whole, I mourned thus for her for above a month, but finding Amy 
still come not near me, and that I must put my affairs in a posture that I 
might go to Holland, I opened all my affairs to my dear trusty friend the 
Quaker, and placed her, in matters of trust, in the room of Amy, and with a 
heavy, bleeding heart for my poor girl, I embarked with my spouse, and all 
our equipage and goods, on board another Holland trader, not a packet-boat, 
and went over to Holland, where I arrived as I have said.
I must put in a caution, however, here, that you must not understand me as 
if I let my friend the Quaker into any part of the secret history of my 
former life; nor did I commit the grand reserved article of all to her, 
viz. that I was really the girl's mother, and the Lady Roxana. There was no 
need of that part being exposed, and it was always a maxim with me that 
secrets should never be opened without evident utility. It could be of no 
manner of use to me or her to communicate that part to her; besides, she 
was too honest herself, to make it safe to me. For though she loved me very 
sincerely, and it was plain by many circumstances that she did so, yet she 
would not lie for me upon occasion, as Amy would, and therefore it was not 
advisable on any terms to communicate that part; for if the girl, or any 
one else, should have come to her afterwards and put it home to her, 
whether she knew that I was the girl's mother or not, or was the same as 
the Lady Roxana or not, she either would not have denied it or would have 
done it with so ill a grace, such blushing, such hesitations, and 
falterings in her answers, as would have put the matter out of doubt, and 
betrayed herself and the secret too.
For this reason, I say, I did not discover anything of that kind to her; 
but I placed her, as I have said, in Amy's stead, in the other affairs of 
receiving money, interests, rents, and the like, and she was as faithful as 
Amy could be, and as diligent.
But there fell out a great difficulty here which I knew not how to get 
over, and this was, how to convey the usual supply or provision and money 
to the uncle and the other sister, who depended, especially the sister, 
upon the said supply for her support; and indeed, though Amy had said 
rashly that she would not take any more notice of the sister, and would 
leave her to perish, as above, yet it was neither in my nature nor Amy's 
either, much less was it in my design, and therefore I resolved to leave 
the management of what I had reserved for that work with my faithful 
Quaker, but how to direct her to manage them was the great difficulty.
Amy had told them in so many words that she was not their mother, but that 
she was the maid Amy that carried them to their aunt's; that she and their 
mother went over to the East Indies to seek their fortune, and that there 
good things had befallen them, and that their mother was very rich and 
happy; that she (Amy) had married in the Indies, but being now a widow, and 
resolving to come over to England, their mother had obliged her to enquire 
them out and do for them as she had done, and that now she was resolved to 
go back to the Indies again; but that she had orders from their mother to 
do very handsomely by them, and, in a word, told them she had £2000 apiece 
for them upon condition that they proved sober, and married suitably to 
themselves, and did not throw themselves away upon scoundrels.
The good family in whose care they had been, I had resolved to take more 
than ordinary notice of; and Amy, by my order, had acquainted them with it 
and obliged my daughters to promise to submit to their government as 
formerly, and to be ruled by the honest man as by a father and counsellor, 
and engaged him to treat them as his children; and to oblige him 
effectually to take care of them, and to make his old age comfortable both 
to him and his wife, who had been so good to the orphans, I had ordered her 
to settle the other £2000, that is to say, the interest of it, which was 
£120 a year, upon them, to be theirs for both their lives, but to come to 
my two daughters after them. This was so just, and was so prudently managed 
by Amy, that nothing she ever did for me pleased me better. And in this 
posture, leaving my two daughters with their ancient friend, and so coming 
away to me (as they thought to the East Indies) she had prepared everything 
in order to her going over with me to Holland; and in this posture that 
matter stood when that unhappy girl whom I have said so much of broke in 
upon all our measures, as you have heard; and by an obstinacy never to be 
conquered or pacified, either with threats or persuasions, pursued her 
search after me (her mother) as I have said, till she brought me even to 
the brink of destruction, and would in all probability have traced me out 
at last, if Amy had not by the violence of her passion, and by a way which 
I had no knowledge of, and indeed abhorred, put a stop to her, of which I 
cannot enter into the particulars here.
However, notwithstanding this, I could not think of going away and leaving 
this work so unfinished as Amy had threatened to do, and for the folly of 
one child, to leave the other to starve, or to stop my determined bounty to 
the good family I have mentioned. So, in a word, I committed the finishing 
it all to my faithful friend the Quaker, to whom I communicated as much of 
the old story as was needful to empower her to perform what Amy had 
promised, and to make her talk so much to the purpose, as one employed more 
remotely than Amy had been, needed to do.
To this purpose she had first of all a full possession of the money, and 
went first to the honest man and his wife and settled all the matter with 
them. When she talked of Mrs. Amy she talked of her as one that had been 
empowered by the mother of the girls in the Indies, but was obliged to go 
back to the Indies, and had settled all sooner if she had not been hindered 
by the obstinate humour of the other daughter; that she had left 
instructions with her for the rest, but that the other had affronted her so 
much that she was gone away without doing anything for her; and that now, 
if anything was done, it must be by fresh orders from the East Indies.
I need not say how punctually my new agent acted; but which was more, she 
brought the old man and his wife, and my other daughter, several times to 
her house, by which I had an opportunity, being there only as a lodger and 
a stranger, to see my other girl, which I had never done before since she 
was a little child.
The day I contrived to see them I was dressed up in a Quaker's habit, and 
looked so like a Quaker that it was impossible for them, who had never seen 
me before, to suppose I had ever been anything else; also my way of talking 
was suitable enough to it, for I had learned that long before.
I have not time here to take notice what a surprise it was to me to see my 
child; how it worked upon my affections; with what infinite struggle I 
mastered a strong inclination that I had to discover myself to her; how the 
girl was the very counterpart of myself, only much handsomer, and how 
sweetly and modestly she behaved; how on that occasion I resolved to do 
more for her than I had appointed by Amy, and the like.
'Tis enough to mention here that as the settling this affair made way for 
my going on board, notwithstanding the absence of my old agent Amy, so 
however I left some hints for Amy too, for I did not yet despair of my 
hearing from her; and that if my good Quaker should ever see her again, she 
should let her see them; wherein particularly ordering her to leave the 
affair of Spitalfields just as I had done, in the hands of my friend, she 
should come away to me, upon this condition nevertheless, that she gave 
full satisfaction to my friend the Quaker that she had not murdered my 
child; for if she had, I told her, I would never see her face more; how, 
notwithstanding this, she came over afterwards without giving my friend any 
of that satisfaction or any account that she intended to come over.
I can say no more now, but that, as above, being arrived in Holland with my 
spouse and his son, formerly mentioned, I appeared there with all the 
splendour and equipage suitable to our new prospect, as I have already 
observed.
Here, after some few years of flourishing and outwardly happy 
circumstances, I fell into a dreadful course of calamities, and Amy also; 
the very reverse of our former good days. The blast of Heaven seemed to 
follow the injury done the poor girl by us both, and I was brought so low 
again that my repentance seemed to be only the consequence of my misery, as 
my misery was of my crime.

FINIS