( Originally Published 1877 )
A Vicar and his Family.
WHO, pray, has not read that delightful old story about a certain Dr. Primrose, who was Vicar of Wakefield ? Was it in the Sunday-school library that we first came upon it ? — or was it on the book-shelves of some darling old aunt who kept it as one of the treasures of her school-days ? For it is an old book : our grandmothers read it, and may-be our great-grandmothers ; and I think it is quite certain that our grand-children will read it too.
There are skipping-places in it, to be sure ; such are some of the long talks about second marriages, which don't concern young people much ; and such is the page-long speech about kings and republics and free government : but with these taken out, or skipped over, — as well as the Greek, which has no business there, — what a delightful story it is !
One grows into the kindliest sort of companionship with the good Dr. Primrose and his family, and follows their fortunes as if they were fortunes of his own, and never forgets them, — let him live as long as he may.
Naturally we don't think as much of Mrs. Primrose as we do of the Doctor; but that happens in a good many families where we love to go. She is a little too proud of her daughters, — who are fine girls, both of them, - and a little too much bent upon holding up her head in the world.
Of course it is a very good thing to hold up one's head, and better still to be able to do so with a clear conscience ; but we don't like to encounter people who want to impress everybody they meet—with a notion of their great importance. There was a little of this in Mrs. Primrose, but not a bit of it in the Doctor.
He was of good fortune when the story opens ; and besides those two daughters, Sophia and Olivia, had two sons. George and Moses. as well as a couple of younger boys, who don't have much to do with the story ; and for aught that appears, they may be young boys some-where in England still.
Not much happens to interest one while the Doctor is comfortably rich. He says himself, that, the most important event of a twelvemonth was the moving from the blue chamber to the brown ; that surely would not concern young fellows who have no moving to do. The son George does, indeed, fall in love with a very nice girl, — Miss Wilmot, who has a snug fortune of her own ; and as Miss Wilmot has a strong fancy for George, it is counted a settled thing between them ; and, indeed, the marriage-day was fixed.
But Dr. Primrose (I call him Doctor because Mr. Jenkinson, an important character in the story, always did, and I am sure if he had lived among our American colleges he would have been a doctor) — Dr. Primrose, I say, could not get over his love for talk about the wickedness of second marriages, in which Mr. Wilmot, the father of the charming Arabella, did not agree with him ; and as they waxed warm one day, Mr. Wilmot — I dare say, getting the worst of the argument—let slip the fact that the Doctor was a beggar, — since the business man who had been intrusted with his property had become bankrupt, and had fled from the country.
This was an ugly thing for Mr. Wilmot to say, and a rough way of pushing his cause ; but it was none the less true. And this fact and the quarrel broke off the match ; and son George, in high dudgeon, set off to seek his fortune otherwheres.
Nor was this the worst : the good Doctor had to leave his fine house, and take a poor parish in a distant part of the country, with a cottage so small that there could be no moving every spring from thé blue chamber to the brown. There were no chambers to move into. But out of this change of home, and the griefs and trials that came with it, grew all those events which have made the history of the old Vicar so charming a one that it has been conned and read in ten thousand households all over the world.
Can I tell you what those events were in a half-hour of talk ?
Ah, well.! it will be spoiling one' of the tenderest of stories ; and yet I will try to catch so much of the pith and of the point of it as shall make you eager to taste for yourself, and "at first hands," the delicate humor and the charming flow of that old-fashioned novel of the Vicar of Wakefield. I call it a novel, though it is as unlike as possible to the work that our modern novel-writers do.
Mr. Burchell and the squire
Mrs. Primrose — poor woman — who had loved to put on airs in her large house, did not get over the love in the small house. It is a love that it is hard for anybody to get over, if they begin once to encourage it. But the Doctor, good soul, laughed at her grand dressing and her eagerness to show off her daughters in the old finery. She even aims at something like style in going to church, by rigging up the two plough-horses so that one should carry the boy Moses and herself with the two little ones, and the other make a mount for the two daughters. Of course it was but a sorry figure they cut, and the Doctor had his laugh at them, though it was on a Sunday. Yet when a middle-aged woman has an eye for " style," it is not easy to laugh her out of it ; and Mrs. Primrose was set on to this and a good many other like manoeuvres by a hope she had of making conquest of a certain Squire Thornhill, — who was their landlord and the great man of the neighborhood, — and of matching him with one of her daughters. He was of fair age, lived freely in a grand house, rode to the hounds, and sent presents of game to the Primrose girls, — much to the delight of their mamma ; who banters Olivia specially on these attentions, and wonders the Doctor—simple soul—cannot see through it all. She has even hopes of capturing the Squire's chaplain—or the man who passes as chaplain —for her daughter Sophia ; who is a sweeter girl than Olivia, — though not so coquettish and not taking so much after the mother.
They say in the neighborhood that Squire Thornhill is indebted for his easy way of living to the bounty of an eccentric uncle, — not much older than himself, but more grave, living much in London, not well known down in the country, but spoken of always with very much awe.
The Primrose family, moreover, make the acquaintance of a Mr. Burchell, — whom they meet first, I think, upon the highway ; and who does good service by saving Sophia from drowning, when she had fallen, one day, into the river that ran near by. He is a shabby-genteel person in appearance, but well instructed, and can talk by the hour with the Doctor about his hobbies ; and he brings little gifts for the boys ; indeed, if he had been rich and better-looking, Mrs. Primrose would have been half-disposed to favor him as a proper match for Sophia —provided the chaplain should fail her.
A curious thing is, that Mr. Burchell doesn't talk in the highest terms of Squire Thornhill ; and another curious thing is, that he avoids any occasion of meeting him at the Vicar's cottage — all which Madame Primrose places to the account of the poor man's jealousy. Maybe so ; but the Doctor thought well of him and of his talk, and so did Moses and the boys ; and it always seemed to me that Sophia—though she never said so—looked kindly on him, and was not so much disturbed by his lack of fine clothes as Olivia or her mother.
They were all flustered and provoked, however, when they learned, in an accidental way, that Burchell, by some talk and letters of his, had prevented the two girls from carrying out a plan they had formed of going up to London with a couple of lady friends of Squire Thornhill's. These town ladies had been down to the country, and paid a visit to the Vicarage,, very much to the delight of Madame Primrose, who could never have done with admiring their fine feathers and silks. It would be a splendid thing for the dear girls to go up to London with them !
The Doctor did not, indeed, think quite so highly of these town ladies ; but what business had Mr. Burchell to interfere, and by his misrepresentations to defeat what would have been such a pleasure to the girls? 'Twas a shabby intermeddling in his family affairs ; and he told Mr. Burchell so with some warmth. And Mr. Burchell was warm too ; and what business had the Doctor to be prying into the contents of private letters cif his ? In short, they made a sharp family quarrel of it with Mr. Burchell, and Burchell took his stick and walked away. This was the last they saw of him for a long time.
Did Sophia possibly look after him with a little yearning and repenting? I used to ask myself that question when I read the story in my young days ; but I don't think she did — certainly not at the moment.
Well, the Doctor's money affairs were not getting on well : I think Madame Primrose and her love for good style had something to do with it. Good style, as it is called, has very much to do then, and always, with — not getting on well.
The good folks of the family had sent Moses off to the Fair to make sale of the colt ; but Moses was horribly cheated, and came back with only a gross of green spectacles — of which, you may be sure, he never heard the last. The good Doctor thought to mend matters by taking the only remaining horse himself. The rogues would never cheat him: but they did, and very badly too ; for he brought back only a worthless bit of paper, which was a draft on Neighbor Flamborough, who had two bouncing daughters, — one of whom Moses was tender upon. The Vicar had taken this draft from the man Jenkinson, who had talked Greek with the Doctor, and praised a book he had written, and so made the good man believe that he, — Jenkinson, was the worthiest and most benevolent creature in the world.
Moses had the laugh now. But it was no laughing time for the family : they were growing poorer and poorer. Mrs. Primrose's "style" was getting uncomfortably pinched ; and the match with the Squire didn't get on : so she thought to spur his attentions by setting up a new claimant for Miss Olivia, in Farmer Williams, who lived hard by. This had not gone very far, when, one day, the boys ran in, crying out, — " Olivia is gone ! "
And so she had — in a coach : it was a runaway of a very bad kind. Was Burchell the criminal, or who ? The old gentleman seized his pistols, and would have made after the wretch, but his wife and poor weeping Sophy quieted him.
It came out shortly after, that Thornhill was the man ; and that he had made a mock marriage, and had made two or three such before. And yet the villain had the daring to call upon the Doctor with explanations ; but the good man blazed upon him with all the rage of injured innocence. The Squire was cool ; for Dr. Primrose owed him large debts, which there was no means of paying.
Olivia found her way back, broken-hearted, and was warmly greeted by the father, though she met only a half-welcome from Mrs. Primrose.
It came to a prison, at last, for the good Vicar ; for in those days people who could not or would not pay their debts were clapped into prisons. The family of the good man would not leave him, but journeyed up to the town where the jail lay — though it was winter weather, the ground covered in snow, and poor Olivia just recovering from a slow fever. The parishioners of the Doctor would, indeed, have snatched him from the keeping of the officers of the law, as they set out on their journey; but the good Vicar in his earnest way checked them, and bade them remember that without law there could be no justice, and they must respect what the law commanded.
What Happened in Prison
For a long time Dr. Primrose lay in that dreary jail ; his family paying him frequent visits, and he by kindly talk winning upon the company of his fellow-prisoners — among whom happened to be that very Jenkinson who had so deceived him on his visit to the horse-fair, but who now at last seemed repentant.
Surely it was a very sorry time for the poor Primrose family : the father in prison for debts he could find no means to pay ; the oldest son a wanderer—none knew where ; Olivia a poor disgraced creature ; and to add to the sum of troubles, it is reported that the lawless Squire Thornhill is to marry the charming Miss Wilmot, who had been once the promised bride of the poor wandering George Primrose: This seemed enough to break down all faith in that Providence whose overwatching care the good Vicar had always preached. Yet still further griefs were in store : Sophia—poor Sophia—in one of her walks into the country, where she hoped to catch some new strength and bloom, was stolen away — gone, none knew whither. And, as if to crown all, the wandering vagabond George returns — not with honors, but a prisoner, with shackles upon his limbs. He has heard of the wrong done his poor sister Olivia ; in his anger, he has challenged Squire Thornhill to mortal combat ; he has resisted the servants of that base master, —has cut one down with his sword.
Indeed, it is a sorry group in that prison : the son a felon ; the Doctor a hopeless debtor; Olivia disgraced and broken-hearted ; Sophia gone !
That was the place in this old story for tears — if anybody had them; and a good many did have them ; and I have no doubt will have them in years to come. But we fellows didn't stop there—for all the crying. We felt sure something better was to happen. And it did, — it did.
First of all, Sophia was brought back, rescued ; and who do you think brought her back ? Why, Mr. Burchell, — old seedy Burchell ; and the family—even to Mrs. Primrose—cannot help thanking the man, not-withstanding his shabby clothes.
Mr. Jenkinson, too, proves a friend at last — is ready to swear that the marriage of Olivia to Squire Thornhill was not a mock marriage at all, but a real marriage ; for he himself had brought the priest who went through the ceremony.
The good Doctor was enraptured at this ; and Mrs. Primrose went up and kissed poor, shrinking Olivia — for the first time. (I never liked Mrs. Primrose over-much.)
After this, Miss Arabella Wilmot comes in to see the poor Vicar, and is much taken aback to find George there : she blushes, and is disturbed ; for, to tell truth, she has never loved any one else ; and when occasion permitted, I dare say she told him so ; for they were hand in hand, in a corner, before much time had passed.
Squire Thornhill came in, — for what reason I don't know exactly,—but got hard looks from everybody ; most of all from Mr. Burchell, whom he seemed to fear greatly.
Can you fancy why he should ? — It was all clear enough presently ; for this Mr. Burchell — old, seedy Burchell — was none other than the famous and wealthy and eccentric Sir William Thornhill, on whose favor the reckless young squire was dependent. However, the uncle let his nephew off easily, but compelled him to acknowledge publicly his marriage with Miss Olivia.
Then came old father Wilmot, with the story that the man of business who had run away with the Vicar's fortune had been captured, and there was good chance that all his property would be restored. George, too, would be cleared from imprisonment : at least, Sir William Thornhill said he would bring it about ; and nobody doubted that he would.
Of course the Primrose family had now reason to be happy ; and they all looked so except Sophia, who wore a very sad countenance. The truth is, when Mr. Burchell had brought her back to her father, the good Doctor — knowing her preserver only as Mr. Burchell — had told him in his gratitude, that, as he had rescued her, he deserved to possess her, — to which Mr. Burchell had not made much reply.
But now Mr. Burchell—that is, Sir William Thorn-hill, with all the dignity that should belong to a great baronet, said that he was glad to see prosperity restored to this Primrose family ; — that he had a great respect for the good Doctor (he didn't say any thing about Mrs. Primrose) ;— that he was glad to see so many happy faces about him, and that the only exceptions were the faces of Miss Sophia and Mr. Jenkinson. He thought Jenkinson deserved well of the Vicar ; and he pro-posed that the good man should give Sophia to him as a bride, and he himself, he said, would add a wedding portion of five hundred pounds.
But Sophia's face did not clear up at all : nay, there were angry tears in her eyes as she vowed with a pitiful, low voice— that she would not have Mr. Jenkinson at all, — never !
"Why, then," said Sir William Thornhill, " I must take the dear girl myself ; " and with that he snatched her to his arms.
Could there be a prettier ending to that story of the Primroses ? No wonder it charmed us ; no wonder it has charmed thousands.
And what became of Moses ? Why, Moses married one of the bouncing Miss Flamboroughs, of course. And I'll warrant you that Mrs. Primrose let everybody know, within twenty miles round, that her daughter became Lady Thornhill ; and I will warrant further, that Sir William never took to his mother-in-law very strongly, and never enjoyed her gooseberry-wine so much — as when he drank it outside her own house.
And was there really a Dr. Primrose who told this story about his own family, and about the vanities of his wife, and who married his daughter to Mr. Burchell — otherwise known as Sir William Thornhill ?
It is as little true of any one, as that Master Aladdin found a lamp which worked the wonders we read of in the chapter that went before this.
The person who really told this story of Dr. Primrose was an Irishman, of the name of Goldsmith, who used to be talked of among those who knew him best as " poor Goldy." He was a short, thick-set man, marked with old traces of small-pox, with a quick, clear black eye, and head almost bald.
Among his friends was the famous painter Sir Joshua Reynolds, who made a picture of him, from which most of the engravings are made, and which I am sure was not a little flattered. I give it to you here.
Leslie, the painter, said he saw in it all the genius that went to the "Vicar of Wake-field," and the " Deserted Village;" and I dare say Sir Joshua Reynolds painted it (as he should have done) with the memory of all the best things poor Goldy had done, quickening his skill, and lightening up his touches on the canvas. Without this knowing and feeling of a man's inner life, good portraits are never made.
I said that Goldsmith was nearly bald-headed, and he so appears in Reynolds's picture ; but it was the custom of that day—the latter part of the last century—to wear wigs ; and Goldsmith almost always wore a wig.
And now you shall see what his quizzical friend Bunbury made of his face, with the wig above it, and with his upper lip, which was very protruding, making a show that must have provoked Goldsmith; yet it was said to be very like him. He played a great many games of cards with his friend Bunbury, — of which game he was always over-fond ; but I think he would never have forgiven that friend if he had known that we now, more than a century later, should be looking at it, and calling it a fair picture of him.
As he loved cards and gaming, so he loved wine over-much, and was often the worse for it. I don't mean to say that he went so far as to make a sot of himself, but that he lingered often and often over tavern-tables when he might have been doing better things. And remember in excuse for him, that he lived in days when almost everybody drank wine in taverns, and when even that great man Dr. Johnson —who was also a friend of Gold-smith's — sometimes drank so much as to forget himself, and to make his great figure reel along the walk on the way to his chambers.
Dr. Johnson was the great literary character of that day (it was in the reign of George II. and George III.), and wrote the best Dictionary of the English Language — until Dr. Webster made a better one; and it was through this very Dr. Sam Johnson, that the story of Dr. Primrose, I have told you of, found its way first to the printer's hands.
You would like to know how it happened ; and it is a thing you ought to know. Well—one day, Dr. Johnson, being at dinner with Mrs. Thrale, who was a great friend of Johnson's, received a message from poor Goldy, saying that he was in distress, and "would the Doctor call round and see him ? "
Goldy was living, at that time, in Wine-Office Court, near Fleet Street ; and there the Doctor went to see him, having sent a guinea by the messenger to relieve any pressing trouble. Goldy had used the guinea to buy (among other things) a bottle of wine, and was sitting over it when the Doctor came in.
I put the cork in the bottle," says the Doctor, " and begged him to be calm." Then he learned that his landlady was threatening him for his rent, and that the sheriffs were ready to pounce upon him. He took a manuscript from his drawer, and begged the Doctor to sell it for him. This was the Vicar of Wakefield —that delightful old story of which I have given you a glimpse.
Dr. Johnson, seeing it had merit, — but not, I think, seeing all its merit — (for it is not much like Rasselas, which was a story by Dr. Johnson, that it may be worth your while to read) went out with it, and sold it for sixty pounds.
The bookseller who bought it thought so little of it, that the story lay in his drawer for fifteen months before it was given to the printer. It appeared finally in 1766, when Goldsmith was thirty-eight years old. The critics did not speak very well of the book at the first : some of them thought it worth their while to make fun of the Primrose family ; but it grew steadily in favor, month by month and year by year, and is now read all over the world.
A great German, who was young when it first appeared, hit upon the tale some four years after, and read it with delight and admiration ; and seventy years later, when he read it again with renewed delight, he told a friend how much its first reading had to do with forming his education. This great German was Goethe.
We told you that Goldsmith was in distress when he wrote the Vicar of Wakefield, and beset by poverty. He never outlived that sort of distress ; for though the booksellers have received thousands and thousands of pounds for that little book, only the first paltry sixty pounds ever went into the pockets of the author.
I do not think he would ever have been rich, if he had received thousands for it. He never had the art of husbanding his moneys, and never knew how to spend them with judgment. His heart was easily touched by any story of suffering; and he would give his last guinea to a begging woman in the street. He loved dearly, too, a good roistering tavern supper, where he could lift up his voice to a great roar of song ; and he paid for a great many such suppers, from which richer men than he slunk away, and left him to the "reckoning." He had a passion for gaming, too, — or, as we should say — gambling, of which I have already spoken. But, before we condemn him too much for this, let us remember that in that day, and in London, gambling was common in most of the respectable houses; and the great orator Charles James Fox would lose, and did lose, as much as eleven thousand pounds at a single sitting.
Another fancy —and a queer one—of poor Goldy's, was his passion for dress. Looking back at Bunbury's picture of him, you would never imagine that he should have a love for silk waistcoats, and velvet breeches, and ruffles, and plush coats. Yet nothing is more true ; and there are old bills of his still in existence, in which are set down in fair figures — and very long ones -what he paid for " Ratteen surtout," and " Blue Velvet Suit," and "Silk breeches," and "Queen's blue dress suit," and "Princess stuff breeches."
Yet he was not — as we should say — a society man. He knew few ladies ; he never married-never was near marrying. I cannot find, by any hint, that he ever loved any young woman better than any old one ; or that any young woman ever loved him tenderly. Indeed, his appearance could never have been very engaging ; and his manner in a mixed company was always some-what clownish.
Mr. Boswell, who was a member of the same club with him, and a great friend of Dr. Johnson's (whose biography he wrote), was much more of a society man, and much less of a man in every other way. He used to sneer at "poor Goldy " and his over-fine clothes ; and I think would never have been seen in the street with him, except that the great Dr. Johnson befriended Gold-smith, and patted him, in his bear-like way, upon the back.
His Family and Death
I have said that no Dr. Primrose ever really lived ; but there were those who said that Goldsmith's old father, who had been a clergyman in Ireland, and who died when the son was quite young, was in many things very like to Dr. Primrose.
It was almost in the middle of Ireland that Goldsmith was born, — not far from Roscommon, and very near to Edgeworthtown — where lived, later, that good woman Maria Edgeworth, whom you also know by her stories, and to whose acquaintance I shall introduce you in a coming chapter of this little book.
He has not the best of schooling in that little village, nor has the poor parish priest—his father — much money to spare. Later, the old gentleman gets a larger and richer parish, — just as Dr. Primrose did not, — and Oliver has a better chance. But he loves to make a song for village idlers, and to hear them roar it out at a tavern table, — better than to study.
And, after his father's death, he becomes more of a vagrant ; sometimes studying ; sometimes tutoring ; sometimes trading horses, —always selling one for less than he is worth, and always buying one for more than he is worth—as most people do. He has some bickerings with his mother, too, —who does not like vagrancy.
At one time he goes away to Cork, and actually engages place on a ship for America ; but this plan gets somehow upset. If he had come ! Do you think he would have written a "Deserted Village" and a "Vicar of Wakefield" over here? Or would he have slipped into practical ways, and taught the violin, or kept a country tavern, or had an office in the Custom House ?
On one of his jaunts about the Irish country, he found himself belated one night in a village far from home; and, inquiring after a public house, some wag directed him to a gentleman's place, where Goldy went, — and ordered out his horse, — and fumed, — and put on important airs, — and wanted the best supper that could be had ; and did not find out that he was making free with the home of a private gentleman until he asked for his bill next morning. Out of this little adventure grew afterward that charming play of " She Stoops to Conquer," which you may see now, from time to time, upon the stage ; and which is better worth seeing than most of the comedies of to-day.
By the help of a rich uncle, he gets a footing after-ward at college ; later he goes to study medicine at Edinboro' ; and thence he goes over — sent by the same good uncle — to Leyden in Holland, where was a famous university.
Who knows but he might have made a great Doctor, if he had kept by his chances there ? But he doesn't : we presently find him wandering about Europe — sleeping in stables, in religious houses, in small inns — paying his way sometimes by the music he made with the flute he took with him ; and perhaps it was over-use of this that made that great upper lip of his project so much as you see it does in Bunbury's caricature.
I suppose nobody ever went through Europe, seeing so much, with so little money, as Goldsmith. You will see traces of this wandering in his poem of the " Traveller ; " and here and there in the " Bee," — which was another of his books ; and most of all, in the wanderings of George Primrose, in the " Vicar."
Coming to London again, he tried medicine, with velvet coats and big wig to help him ; but he never did much at medicine. He tried teaching; but he was not steady enough and patient enough to get on well at this. Then he became proof-reader — that is to say, -- he corrected the printed sheets for Dr. Richardson, a book-seller, who had written novels—one of which, called " Clarissa," was thought superb, and everybody read it. Women would go a block
out of their way to see the II dear and famous Dr. Richardson. And now scarce anybody knows about " Clarissa ; " but all the world knows the "Vicar."
After this, he kept by books ; writing some which brought him more money than the Primrose story, but not nearly so well known now. He wrote so well that he was asked to join the club,—a very famous club, where he used to meet Burke (another great Irishman and an orator), and Beauclerc, and Boswell, and Dr Johnson, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Garrick the great actor. With some one or two of these, he might have been seen over and over in those times, walking along Fleet Street in London.
They all liked him ; and there were times when they all laughed at him. He never would have made a Mr. Worldly-Wiseman, such as comes into Bunyan's story of the Pilgrim. He was always at "sixes and sevens." He was petulant in his talk often, and he had vanities that crept into his manner ; but his vices were such as disposed one more to laugh than to be shocked by them. And in all he wrote, he was so simple, and pure, and healthy, and withal there was such play of delightful humor, and all of his stories were so tenderly told, that people loved him for his books, and keep on loving him for them today.
Poor and lonely in his chamber, he only knew cheer when he was with some favorite member of the club, or with some humble companion at a coffee-room table. Poor and lonely he died ; with few friends about him, — neither mother, nor wife, nor brother, nor sister near him when his great black eye grew dim, and the light of it passed away forever.
The great statesman Edmund Burke, when the tidings of the death came to him, burst into tears. Sir Joshua Reynolds, when the messenger came to say Goldy was dead — laid his brushes down — shut up his studio, and gave the day up to his grief. Burly old Dr. Johnson was touched keenly, and mourned his death as he had mourned for very few.
They buried him in the Temple Church-yard, quietly ; but among the mourners were men so highly and so worthily known, that the presence of one of them was worth more to the fame and memory of poor Goldy than would have been the presence of a host of gilded carriages, and the blaze of idle ceremony.
There is a tablet in honor of this writer of the Prim-rose story, in Westminster Abbey ; and upon it a Latin inscription — by Dr. Johnson, with one line in it, I dare say you have seen somewhere : —
Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit.
It was so aptly said, that it has been said of many others since ; but never said so truly as of poor Goldy.
No one knows just where he lies buried in Temple Church-yard, for there is no record. But they have placed a stone with his name upon it on the north side of the Temple Church, a little west of the master's house ; and there visitors go every Sunday — strangers from all countries — men, and women, and children, to see the stone which bears the name of the man who told such a winning story of a poor Vicar and his family.
He will never be forgotten. He deserves to be remembered.