Notwithstanding your constant refusal, when I have asked leave to prefix
your name to this dedication, I must still insist on my right to desire
your protection of this work.

To you, Sir, it is owing that this history was ever begun. It was by your
desire that I first thought of such a composition. So many years have
since past, that you may have, perhaps, forgotten this circumstance: but
your desires are to me in the nature of commands; and the impression of
them is never to be erased from my memory.

Again, Sir, without your assistance this history had never been completed.
Be not startled at the assertion. I do not intend to draw on you the
suspicion of being a romance writer. I mean no more than that I partly owe
to you my existence during great part of the time which I have employed in
composing it: another matter which it may be necessary to remind you of;
since there are certain actions of which you are apt to be extremely
forgetful; but of these I hope I shall always have a better memory than
yourself.

Lastly, It is owing to you that the history appears what it now is. If
there be in this work, as some have been pleased to say, a stronger
picture of a truly benevolent mind than is to be found in any other, who
that knows you, and a particular acquaintance of yours, will doubt whence
that benevolence hath been copied? The world will not, I believe, make me
the compliment of thinking I took it from myself. I care not: this they
shall own, that the two persons from whom I have taken it, that is to say,
two of the best and worthiest men in the world, are strongly and zealously
my friends. I might be contented with this, and yet my vanity will add a
third to the number; and him one of the greatest and noblest, not only in
his rank, but in every public and private virtue. But here, whilst my
gratitude for the princely benefactions of the Duke of Bedford bursts from
my heart, you must forgive my reminding you that it was you who first
recommended me to the notice of my benefactor.

And what are your objections to the allowance of the honour which I have
sollicited? Why, you have commended the book so warmly, that you should be
ashamed of reading your name before the dedication. Indeed, sir, if the
book itself doth not make you ashamed of your commendations, nothing that
I can here write will, or ought. I am not to give up my right to your
protection and patronage, because you have commended my book: for though I
acknowledge so many obligations to you, I do not add this to the number;
in which friendship, I am convinced, hath so little share: since that can
neither biass your judgment, nor pervert your integrity. An enemy may at
any time obtain your commendation by only deserving it; and the utmost
which the faults of your friends can hope for, is your silence; or,
perhaps, if too severely accused, your gentle palliation.

In short, sir, I suspect, that your dislike of public praise is your true
objection to granting my request. I have observed that you have, in common
with my two other friends, an unwillingness to hear the least mention of
your own virtues; that, as a great poet says of one of you, (he might
justly have said it of all three), you

If men of this disposition are as careful to shun applause, as others are
to escape censure, how just must be your apprehension of your character
falling into my hands; since what would not a man have reason to dread, if
attacked by an author who had received from him injuries equal to my
obligations to you!

And will not this dread of censure increase in proportion to the matter
which a man is conscious of having afforded for it? If his whole life, for
instance, should have been one continued subject of satire, he may well
tremble when an incensed satirist takes him in hand. Now, sir, if we apply
this to your modest aversion to panegyric, how reasonable will your fears
of me appear!

Yet surely you might have gratified my ambition, from this single
confidence, that I shall always prefer the indulgence of your inclinations
to the satisfaction of my own. A very strong instance of which I shall
give you in this address, in which I am determined to follow the example
of all other dedicators, and will consider not what my patron really
deserves to have written, but what he will be best pleased to read.

Without further preface then, I here present you with the labours of some
years of my life. What merit these labours have is already known to
yourself. If, from your favourable judgment, I have conceived some esteem
for them, it cannot be imputed to vanity; since I should have agreed as
implicitly to your opinion, had it been given in favour of any other man’s
production. Negatively, at least, I may be allowed to say, that had I been
sensible of any great demerit in the work, you are the last person to
whose protection I would have ventured to recommend it.

From the name of my patron, indeed, I hope my reader will be convinced, at
his very entrance on this work, that he will find in the whole course of
it nothing prejudicial to the cause of religion and virtue, nothing
inconsistent with the strictest rules of decency, nor which can offend
even the chastest eye in the perusal. On the contrary, I declare, that to
recommend goodness and innocence hath been my sincere endeavour in this
history. This honest purpose you have been pleased to think I have
attained: and to say the truth, it is likeliest to be attained in books of
this kind; for an example is a kind of picture, in which virtue becomes,
as it were, an object of sight, and strikes us with an idea of that
loveliness, which Plato asserts there is in her naked charms.

Besides displaying that beauty of virtue which may attract the admiration
of mankind, I have attempted to engage a stronger motive to human action
in her favour, by convincing men, that their true interest directs them to
a pursuit of her. For this purpose I have shown that no acquisitions of
guilt can compensate the loss of that solid inward comfort of mind, which
is the sure companion of innocence and virtue; nor can in the least
balance the evil of that horror and anxiety which, in their room, guilt
introduces into our bosoms. And again, that as these acquisitions are in
themselves generally worthless, so are the means to attain them not only
base and infamous, but at best incertain, and always full of danger.
Lastly, I have endeavoured strongly to inculcate, that virtue and
innocence can scarce ever be injured but by indiscretion; and that it is
this alone which often betrays them into the snares that deceit and
villainy spread for them. A moral which I have the more industriously
laboured, as the teaching it is, of all others, the likeliest to be
attended with success; since, I believe, it is much easier to make good
men wise, than to make bad men good.

For these purposes I have employed all the wit and humour of which I am
master in the following history; wherein I have endeavoured to laugh
mankind out of their favourite follies and vices. How far I have succeeded
in this good attempt, I shall submit to the candid reader, with only two
requests: First, that he will not expect to find perfection in this work;
and Secondly, that he will excuse some parts of it, if they fall short of
that little merit which I hope may appear in others.

I will detain you, sir, no longer. Indeed I have run into a preface, while
I professed to write a dedication. But how can it be otherwise? I dare not
praise you; and the only means I know of to avoid it, when you are in my
thoughts, are either to be entirely silent, or to turn my thoughts to some
other subject.

Pardon, therefore, what I have said in this epistle, not only without your
consent, but absolutely against it; and give me at least leave, in this
public manner, to declare that I am, with the highest respect and
gratitude,—

Sir,

Your most obliged,

Obedient, humble servant,

HENRY FIELDING.

THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING.

BOOK I. — CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS
NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS
HISTORY.

Chapter i. — The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the
feast.

An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives a
private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a public
ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money. In the former
case, it is well known that the entertainer provides what fare he pleases;
and though this should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to
the taste of his company, they must not find any fault; nay, on the
contrary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to commend
whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this happens to the
master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what they eat will insist on
gratifying their palates, however nice and whimsical these may prove; and
if everything is not agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to
censure, to abuse, and to d—n their dinner without controul.

To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such
disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning host
to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their first
entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves with the
entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what
is provided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary better
accommodated to their taste.

As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is capable
of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from these
honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill of fare to
our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader particular
bills to every course which is to be served up in this and the ensuing
volumes.

The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than Human
Nature. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious
in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named but
one article. The tortoise—as the alderman of Bristol, well learned
in eating, knows by much experience—besides the delicious calipash
and calipee, contains many different kinds of food; nor can the learned
reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected under one
general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook will have sooner
gone through all the several species of animal and vegetable food in the
world, than an author will be able to exhaust so extensive a subject.

An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that this
dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of all the
romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls abound? Many
exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient
cause for his contemning of them as common and vulgar, that something was
to be found in the most paltry alleys under the same name. In reality,
true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, as the Bayonne ham,
or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the shops.

But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the cookery of
the author; for, as Mr Pope tells us—

The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten
at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some
of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where,
then, lies the difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter,
if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the
dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes
and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that
which is the sharpest and keenest.

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists less
in the subject than in the author’s skill in well dressing it up. How
pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find that we have, in the
following work, adhered closely to one of the highest principles of the
best cook which the present age, or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath
produced. This great man, as is well known to all lovers of polite eating,
begins at first by setting plain things before his hungry guests, rising
afterwards by degrees as their stomachs may be supposed to decrease, to
the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall
represent human nature at first to the keen appetite of our reader, in
that more plain and simple manner in which it is found in the country, and
shall hereafter hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian
seasoning of affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By these
means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on for
ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed to have made
some persons eat.

Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our bill of
fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly to serve up the
first course of our history for their entertainment.

Chapter ii. — A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller
account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.

In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is commonly
called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives still, a
gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the
favourite of both nature and fortune; for both of these seem to have
contended which should bless and enrich him most. In this contention,
nature may seem to some to have come off victorious, as she bestowed on
him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her power; but in
pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others perhaps may think
this single endowment to have been more than equivalent to all the various
blessings which he enjoyed from nature. From the former of these, he
derived an agreeable person, a sound constitution, a solid understanding,
and a benevolent heart; by the latter, he was decreed to the inheritance
of one of the largest estates in the county.

This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and beautiful woman,
of whom he had been extremely fond: by her he had three children, all of
whom died in their infancy. He had likewise had the misfortune of burying
this beloved wife herself, about five years before the time in which this
history chuses to set out. This loss, however great, he bore like a man of
sense and constancy, though it must be confest he would often talk a
little whimsically on this head; for he sometimes said he looked on
himself as still married, and considered his wife as only gone a little
before him, a journey which he should most certainly, sooner or later,
take after her; and that he had not the least doubt of meeting her again
in a place where he should never part with her more—sentiments for
which his sense was arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion
by a second, and his sincerity by a third.

He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one sister,
for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady was now somewhat past
the age of thirty, an aera at which, in the opinion of the malicious, the
title of old maid may with no impropriety be assumed. She was of that
species of women whom you commend rather for good qualities than beauty,
and who are generally called, by their own sex, very good sort of women—as
good a sort of woman, madam, as you would wish to know. Indeed, she was so
far from regretting want of beauty, that she never mentioned that
perfection, if it can be called one, without contempt; and would often
thank God she was not as handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty
had led into errors which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget
Allworthy (for that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived the
charms of person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as
well as for others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her
prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to
apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have observed,
though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of
prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on duty where
there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly deserts those
paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing, dying, and spreading,
every net in their power; and constantly attends at the heels of that
higher order of women for whom the other sex have a more distant and awful
respect, and whom (from despair, I suppose, of success) they never venture
to attack.

Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to
acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as
often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any
pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to mind
their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or works which no
ways concern them; for till they produce the authority by which they are
constituted judges, I shall not plead to their jurisdiction.

Chapter iii. — An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his
return home. The decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper
animadversions on bastards.

I have told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr Allworthy
inherited a large fortune; that he had a good heart, and no family. Hence,
doubtless, it will be concluded by many that he lived like an honest man,
owed no one a shilling, took nothing but what was his own, kept a good
house, entertained his neighbours with a hearty welcome at his table, and
was charitable to the poor, i.e. to those who had rather beg than work, by
giving them the offals from it; that he died immensely rich and built an
hospital.

And true it is that he did many of these things; but had he done nothing
more I should have left him to have recorded his own merit on some fair
freestone over the door of that hospital. Matters of a much more
extraordinary kind are to be the subject of this history, or I should
grossly mis-spend my time in writing so voluminous a work; and you, my
sagacious friend, might with equal profit and pleasure travel through some
pages which certain droll authors have been facetiously pleased to call The
History of England.

Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some
very particular business, though I know not what it was; but judge of its
importance by its having detained him so long from home, whence he had not
been absent a month at a time during the space of many years. He came to
his house very late in the evening, and after a short supper with his
sister, retired much fatigued to his chamber. Here, having spent some
minutes on his knees—a custom which he never broke through on any
account—he was preparing to step into bed, when, upon opening the
cloathes, to his great surprize he beheld an infant, wrapt up in some
coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, between his sheets. He stood
some time lost in astonishment at this sight; but, as good nature had
always the ascendant in his mind, he soon began to be touched with
sentiments of compassion for the little wretch before him. He then rang
his bell, and ordered an elderly woman-servant to rise immediately, and
come to him; and in the meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty
of innocence, appearing in those lively colours with which infancy and
sleep always display it, that his thoughts were too much engaged to
reflect that he was in his shirt when the matron came in. She had indeed
given her master sufficient time to dress himself; for out of respect to
him, and regard to decency, she had spent many minutes in adjusting her
hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the hurry in which she had
been summoned by the servant, and though her master, for aught she knew,
lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in some other fit.

It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a regard to
decency in her own person, should be shocked at the least deviation from
it in another. She therefore no sooner opened the door, and saw her master
standing by the bedside in his shirt, with a candle in his hand, than she
started back in a most terrible fright, and might perhaps have swooned
away, had he not now recollected his being undrest, and put an end to her
terrors by desiring her to stay without the door till he had thrown some
cloathes over his back, and was become incapable of shocking the pure eyes
of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, who, though in the fifty-second year of her age,
vowed she had never beheld a man without his coat. Sneerers and prophane
wits may perhaps laugh at her first fright; yet my graver reader, when he
considers the time of night, the summons from her bed, and the situation
in which she found her master, will highly justify and applaud her
conduct, unless the prudence which must be supposed to attend maidens at
that period of life at which Mrs Deborah had arrived, should a little
lessen his admiration.

When Mrs Deborah returned into the room, and was acquainted by her master
with the finding the little infant, her consternation was rather greater
than his had been; nor could she refrain from crying out, with great
horror of accent as well as look, “My good sir! what’s to be done?”
Mr Allworthy answered, she must take care of the child that evening, and
in the morning he would give orders to provide it a nurse. “Yes,
sir,” says she; “and I hope your worship will send out your
warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be one of the
neighbourhood; and I should be glad to see her committed to Bridewell, and
whipt at the cart’s tail. Indeed, such wicked sluts cannot be too severely
punished. I’ll warrant ’tis not her first, by her impudence in laying it
to your worship.” “In laying it to me, Deborah!”
answered Allworthy: “I can’t think she hath any such design. I
suppose she hath only taken this method to provide for her child; and
truly I am glad she hath not done worse.” “I don’t know what
is worse,” cries Deborah, “than for such wicked strumpets to
lay their sins at honest men’s doors; and though your worship knows your
own innocence, yet the world is censorious; and it hath been many an
honest man’s hap to pass for the father of children he never begot; and if
your worship should provide for the child, it may make the people the
apter to believe; besides, why should your worship provide for what the
parish is obliged to maintain? For my own part, if it was an honest man’s
child, indeed—but for my own part, it goes against me to touch these
misbegotten wretches, whom I don’t look upon as my fellow-creatures.
Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a Christian. If I might be so
bold to give my advice, I would have it put in a basket, and sent out and
laid at the churchwarden’s door. It is a good night, only a little rainy
and windy; and if it was well wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is
two to one but it lives till it is found in the morning. But if it should
not, we have discharged our duty in taking proper care of it; and it is,
perhaps, better for such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to
grow up and imitate their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of
them.”

There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would have offended
Mr Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; but he had now got one of
his fingers into the infant’s hand, which, by its gentle pressure, seeming
to implore his assistance, had certainly out-pleaded the eloquence of Mrs
Deborah, had it been ten times greater than it was. He now gave Mrs
Deborah positive orders to take the child to her own bed, and to call up a
maid-servant to provide it pap, and other things, against it waked. He
likewise ordered that proper cloathes should be procured for it early in
the morning, and that it should be brought to himself as soon as he was
stirring.

Such was the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the respect she bore her
master, under whom she enjoyed a most excellent place, that her scruples
gave way to his peremptory commands; and she took the child under her
arms, without any apparent disgust at the illegality of its birth; and
declaring it was a sweet little infant, walked off with it to her own
chamber.

Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a heart
that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly satisfied. As
these are possibly sweeter than what are occasioned by any other hearty
meal, I should take more pains to display them to the reader, if I knew
any air to recommend him to for the procuring such an appetite.

Chapter iv. — The reader’s neck brought into danger by a
description; his escape; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget
Allworthy.

The Gothic stile of building could produce nothing nobler than Mr
Allworthy’s house. There was an air of grandeur in it that struck you with
awe, and rivalled the beauties of the best Grecian architecture; and it
was as commodious within as venerable without.

It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom than the
top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north-east by a grove of old
oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near half a mile, and yet
high enough to enjoy a most charming prospect of the valley beneath.

In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards the house,
near the summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gushing out of a rock
covered with firs, and forming a constant cascade of about thirty feet,
not carried down a regular flight of steps, but tumbling in a natural fall
over the broken and mossy stones till it came to the bottom of the rock,
then running off in a pebly channel, that with many lesser falls winded
along, till it fell into a lake at the foot of the hill, about a quarter
of a mile below the house on the south side, and which was seen from every
room in the front. Out of this lake, which filled the center of a
beautiful plain, embellished with groups of beeches and elms, and fed with
sheep, issued a river, that for several miles was seen to meander through
an amazing variety of meadows and woods till it emptied itself into the
sea, with a large arm of which, and an island beyond it, the prospect was
closed.

On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, adorned with
several villages, and terminated by one of the towers of an old ruined
abby, grown over with ivy, and part of the front, which remained still
entire.

The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, composed of
very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all the diversity that
hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with admirable taste, but owing
less to art than to nature, could give. Beyond this, the country gradually
rose into a ridge of wild mountains, the tops of which were above the
clouds.

It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably serene, when
Mr Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, where the dawn opened every
minute that lovely prospect we have before described to his eye; and now
having sent forth streams of light, which ascended the blue firmament
before him, as harbingers preceding his pomp, in the full blaze of his
majesty rose the sun, than which one object alone in this lower creation
could be more glorious, and that Mr Allworthy himself presented—a
human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what manner he might
render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by doing most good to his
creatures.

Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high a
hill as Mr Allworthy’s, and how to get thee down without breaking thy
neck, I do not well know. However, let us e’en venture to slide down
together; for Miss Bridget rings her bell, and Mr Allworthy is summoned to
breakfast, where I must attend, and, if you please, shall be glad of your
company.

The usual compliments having past between Mr Allworthy and Miss Bridget,
and the tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs Wilkins, and told his sister
he had a present for her, for which she thanked him—imagining, I
suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament for her person. Indeed, he
very often made her such presents; and she, in complacence to him, spent
much time in adorning herself. I say in complacence to him, because she
always exprest the greatest contempt for dress, and for those ladies who
made it their study.

But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed when Mrs
Wilkins, according to the order she had received from her master, produced
the little infant? Great surprizes, as hath been observed, are apt to be
silent; and so was Miss Bridget, till her brother began, and told her the
whole story, which, as the reader knows it already, we shall not repeat.

Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the ladies are
pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained such a severity of
character, that it was expected, especially by Wilkins, that she would
have vented much bitterness on this occasion, and would have voted for
sending the child, as a kind of noxious animal, immediately out of the
house; but, on the contrary, she rather took the good-natured side of the
question, intimated some compassion for the helpless little creature, and
commended her brother’s charity in what he had done.

Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her condescension
to Mr Allworthy, when we have informed him that the good man had ended his
narrative with owning a resolution to take care of the child, and to breed
him up as his own; for, to acknowledge the truth, she was always ready to
oblige her brother, and very seldom, if ever, contradicted his sentiments.
She would, indeed, sometimes make a few observations, as that men were
headstrong, and must have their own way, and would wish she had been blest
with an independent fortune; but these were always vented in a low voice,
and at the most amounted only to what is called muttering.

However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed with the utmost
profuseness on the poor unknown mother, whom she called an impudent slut,
a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet, with
every other appellation with which the tongue of virtue never fails to
lash those who bring a disgrace on the sex. — A consultation was now
entered into how to proceed in order to discover the mother. A scrutiny
was first made into the characters of the female servants of the house,
who were all acquitted by Mrs Wilkins, and with apparent merit; for she
had collected them herself, and perhaps it would be difficult to find such
another set of scarecrows.

The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the parish; and this
was referred to Mrs Wilkins, who was to enquire with all imaginable
diligence, and to make her report in the afternoon.

Matters being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his study, as was his
custom, and left the child to his sister, who, at his desire, had
undertaken the care of it.

Chapter v. — Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon
observation upon them.

When her master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, expecting her cue
from Miss Bridget; for as to what had past before her master, the prudent
housekeeper by no means relied upon it, as she had often known the
sentiments of the lady in her brother’s absence to differ greatly from
those which she had expressed in his presence. Miss Bridget did not,
however, suffer her to continue long in this doubtful situation; for
having looked some time earnestly at the child, as it lay asleep in the
lap of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could not forbear giving it a hearty
kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully pleased with its
beauty and innocence. Mrs Deborah no sooner observed this than she fell to
squeezing and kissing, with as great raptures as sometimes inspire the
sage dame of forty and five towards a youthful and vigorous bridegroom,
crying out, in a shrill voice, “O, the dear little creature!—The
dear, sweet, pretty creature! Well, I vow it is as fine a boy as ever was
seen!”

These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the lady, who
now proceeded to execute the commission given her by her brother, and gave
orders for providing all necessaries for the child, appointing a very good
room in the house for his nursery. Her orders were indeed so liberal,
that, had it been a child of her own, she could not have exceeded them;
but, lest the virtuous reader may condemn her for showing too great regard
to a base-born infant, to which all charity is condemned by law as
irreligious, we think proper to observe that she concluded the whole with
saying, “Since it was her brother’s whim to adopt the little brat,
she supposed little master must be treated with great tenderness. For her
part, she could not help thinking it was an encouragement to vice; but
that she knew too much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their
ridiculous humours.”

With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted,
accompanied every act of compliance with her brother’s inclinations; and
surely nothing could more contribute to heighten the merit of this
compliance than a declaration that she knew, at the same time, the folly
and unreasonableness of those inclinations to which she submitted. Tacit
obedience implies no force upon the will, and consequently may be easily,
and without any pains, preserved; but when a wife, a child, a relation, or
a friend, performs what we desire, with grumbling and reluctance, with
expressions of dislike and dissatisfaction, the manifest difficulty which
they undergo must greatly enhance the obligation.

As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be
supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them
my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of
my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such
instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers
are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery.

Chapter vi. — Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a
simile. A short account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and
discouragements which may attend young women in the pursuit of learning.

Mrs Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the will of her
master, now prepared to visit those habitations which were supposed to
conceal its mother.

Not otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld by the
feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their heads, the
amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, spread wide the alarm, and
fly trembling to their hiding-places. He proudly beats the air, conscious
of his dignity, and meditates intended mischief.

So when the approach of Mrs Deborah was proclaimed through the street, all
the inhabitants ran trembling into their houses, each matron dreading lest
the visit should fall to her lot. She with stately steps proudly advances
over the field: aloft she bears her towering head, filled with conceit of
her own pre-eminence, and schemes to effect her intended discovery.

The sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these poor people
had any apprehension of the design with which Mrs Wilkins was now coming
towards them; but as the great beauty of the simile may possibly sleep
these hundred years, till some future commentator shall take this work in
hand, I think proper to lend the reader a little assistance in this place.

It is my intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the nature of a
kite to devour little birds, so is it the nature of such persons as Mrs
Wilkins to insult and tyrannize over little people. This being indeed the
means which they use to recompense to themselves their extreme servility
and condescension to their superiors; for nothing can be more reasonable,
than that slaves and flatterers should exact the same taxes on all below
them, which they themselves pay to all above them.

Whenever Mrs Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary condescension
to Mrs Bridget, and by that means had a little soured her natural
disposition, it was usual with her to walk forth among these people, in
order to refine her temper, by venting, and, as it were, purging off all
ill humours; on which account she was by no means a welcome visitant: to
say the truth, she was universally dreaded and hated by them all.

On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the habitation of an
elderly matron; to whom, as this matron had the good fortune to resemble
herself in the comeliness of her person, as well as in her age, she had
generally been more favourable than to any of the rest. To this woman she
imparted what had happened, and the design upon which she was come thither
that morning. These two began presently to scrutinize the characters of
the several young girls who lived in any of those houses, and at last
fixed their strongest suspicion on one Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed,
was the likeliest person to have committed this fact.

This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face or person;
but nature had somewhat compensated the want of beauty with what is
generally more esteemed by those ladies whose judgment is arrived at years
of perfect maturity, for she had given her a very uncommon share of
understanding. This gift Jenny had a good deal improved by erudition. She
had lived several years a servant with a schoolmaster, who, discovering a
great quickness of parts in the girl, and an extraordinary desire of
learning—for every leisure hour she was always found reading in the
books of the scholars—had the good-nature, or folly—just as
the reader pleases to call it—to instruct her so far, that she
obtained a competent skill in the Latin language, and was, perhaps, as
good a scholar as most of the young men of quality of the age. This
advantage, however, like most others of an extraordinary kind, was
attended with some small inconveniences: for as it is not to be wondered
at, that a young woman so well accomplished should have little relish for
the society of those whom fortune had made her equals, but whom education
had rendered so much her inferiors; so is it matter of no greater
astonishment, that this superiority in Jenny, together with that behaviour
which is its certain consequence, should produce among the rest some
little envy and ill-will towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly
burnt in the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her return from her
service.

Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor Jenny, to
the surprize of everybody, and to the vexation of all the young women in
these parts, had publickly shone forth on a Sunday in a new silk gown,
with a laced cap, and other proper appendages to these.

The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. Jenny had, by
her learning, increased her own pride, which none of her neighbours were
kind enough to feed with the honour she seemed to demand; and now, instead
of respect and adoration, she gained nothing but hatred and abuse by her
finery. The whole parish declared she could not come honestly by such
things; and parents, instead of wishing their daughters the same,
felicitated themselves that their children had them not.

Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned the name of
this poor girl to Mrs Wilkins; but there was another circumstance that
confirmed the latter in her suspicion; for Jenny had lately been often at
Mr Allworthy’s house. She had officiated as nurse to Miss Bridget, in a
violent fit of illness, and had sat up many nights with that lady; besides
which, she had been seen there the very day before Mr Allworthy’s return,
by Mrs Wilkins herself, though that sagacious person had not at first
conceived any suspicion of her on that account: for, as she herself said,
“She had always esteemed Jenny as a very sober girl (though indeed
she knew very little of her), and had rather suspected some of those
wanton trollops, who gave themselves airs, because, forsooth, they thought
themselves handsome.”

Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs Deborah, which she
immediately did. When Mrs Deborah, putting on the gravity of a judge, with
somewhat more than his austerity, began an oration with the words, “You
audacious strumpet!” in which she proceeded rather to pass sentence
on the prisoner than to accuse her.

Though Mrs Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny, from the
reasons above shewn, it is possible Mr Allworthy might have required some
stronger evidence to have convicted her; but she saved her accusers any
such trouble, by freely confessing the whole fact with which she was
charged.

This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contrition, as it
appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs Deborah, who now pronounced a second
judgment against her, in more opprobrious language than before; nor had it
any better success with the bystanders, who were now grown very numerous.
Many of them cried out, “They thought what madam’s silk gown would
end in;” others spoke sarcastically of her learning. Not a single
female was present but found some means of expressing her abhorrence of
poor Jenny, who bore all very patiently, except the malice of one woman,
who reflected upon her person, and tossing up her nose, said, “The
man must have a good stomach who would give silk gowns for such sort of
trumpery!” Jenny replied to this with a bitterness which might have
surprized a judicious person, who had observed the tranquillity with which
she bore all the affronts to her chastity; but her patience was perhaps
tired out, for this is a virtue which is very apt to be fatigued by
exercise.

Mrs Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her inquiry, returned
with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, made a faithful report to
Mr Allworthy, who was much surprized at the relation; for he had heard of
the extraordinary parts and improvements of this girl, whom he intended to
have given in marriage, together with a small living, to a neighbouring
curate. His concern, therefore, on this occasion, was at least equal to
the satisfaction which appeared in Mrs Deborah, and to many readers may
seem much more reasonable.

Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, “For her part, she should
never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman.” For Jenny
before this had the happiness of being much in her good graces also.

The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy culprit
before Mr Allworthy, in order, not as it was hoped by some, and expected
by all, to be sent to the house of correction, but to receive wholesome
admonition and reproof; which those who relish that kind of instructive
writing may peruse in the next chapter.

Chapter vii. — Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot
laugh once through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh
at the author.

When Jenny appeared, Mr Allworthy took her into his study, and spoke to
her as follows: “You know, child, it is in my power as a magistrate,
to punish you very rigorously for what you have done; and you will,
perhaps, be the more apt to fear I should execute that power, because you
have in a manner laid your sins at my door.

“But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me to act in
a milder manner with you: for, as no private resentment should ever
influence a magistrate, I will be so far from considering your having
deposited the infant in my house as an aggravation of your offence, that I
will suppose, in your favour, this to have proceeded from a natural
affection to your child, since you might have some hopes to see it thus
better provided for than was in the power of yourself, or its wicked
father, to provide for it. I should indeed have been highly offended with
you had you exposed the little wretch in the manner of some inhuman
mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their humanity, than to have
parted with their chastity. It is the other part of your offence,
therefore, upon which I intend to admonish you, I mean the violation of
your chastity;—a crime, however lightly it may be treated by
debauched persons, very heinous in itself, and very dreadful in its
consequences.

“The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently apparent to
every Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in defiance of the laws of
our religion, and of the express commands of Him who founded that
religion.

“And here its consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for
what can be more so, than to incur the divine displeasure, by the breach
of the divine commands; and that in an instance against which the highest
vengeance is specifically denounced?

“But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, are so
plain, that mankind, however they may want to be reminded, can never need
information on this head. A hint, therefore, to awaken your sense of this
matter, shall suffice; for I would inspire you with repentance, and not
drive you to desperation.

“There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or replete
with horror as this; and yet such, as, if attentively considered, must,
one would think, deter all of your sex at least from the commission of
this crime.

“For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of
old, out of society; at least, from the society of all but wicked and
reprobate persons; for no others will associate with you.

“If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying
them; if you have none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay almost of
procuring your sustenance; for no persons of character will receive you
into their houses. Thus you are often driven by necessity itself into a
state of shame and misery, which unavoidably ends in the destruction of
both body and soul.

“Can any pleasure compensate these evils? Can any temptation have
sophistry and delusion strong enough to persuade you to so simple a
bargain? Or can any carnal appetite so overpower your reason, or so
totally lay it asleep, as to prevent your flying with affright and terror
from a crime which carries such punishment always with it?

“How base and mean must that woman be, how void of that dignity of
mind, and decent pride, without which we are not worthy the name of human
creatures, who can bear to level herself with the lowest animal, and to
sacrifice all that is great and noble in her, all her heavenly part, to an
appetite which she hath in common with the vilest branch of the creation!
For no woman, sure, will plead the passion of love for an excuse. This
would be to own herself the mere tool and bubble of the man. Love, however
barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its meaning, as it is a laudable,
is a rational passion, and can never be violent but when reciprocal; for
though the Scripture bids us love our enemies, it means not with that
fervent love which we naturally bear towards our friends; much less that
we should sacrifice to them our lives, and what ought to be dearer to us,
our innocence. Now in what light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable
woman regard the man who solicits her to entail on herself all the misery
I have described to you, and who would purchase to himself a short,
trivial, contemptible pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the
laws of custom, the whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences, falls
intirely upon her. Can love, which always seeks the good of its object,
attempt to betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be the
loser? If such corrupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend
a real affection for her, ought not the woman to regard him not only as an
enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a false, designing, treacherous,
pretended friend, who intends not only to debauch her body, but her
understanding at the same time?”

Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a moment, and then
proceeded: “I have talked thus to you, child, not to insult you for
what is past and irrevocable, but to caution and strengthen you for the
future. Nor should I have taken this trouble, but from some opinion of
your good sense, notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have made; and from
some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are founded on the openness
and sincerity of your confession. If these do not deceive me, I will take
care to convey you from this scene of your shame, where you shall, by
being unknown, avoid the punishment which, as I have said, is allotted to
your crime in this world; and I hope, by repentance, you will avoid the
much heavier sentence denounced against it in the other. Be a good girl
the rest of your days, and want shall be no motive to your going astray;
and, believe me, there is more pleasure, even in this world, in an
innocent and virtuous life, than in one debauched and vicious.

“As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; I will
provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. And now nothing
remains but that you inform me who was the wicked man that seduced you;
for my anger against him will be much greater than you have experienced on
this occasion.”

Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look and
decent voice thus began:—

“To know you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be an argument
of total want of sense or goodness in any one. In me it would amount to
the highest ingratitude, not to feel, in the most sensible manner, the
great degree of goodness you have been pleased to exert on this occasion.
As to my concern for what is past, I know you will spare my blushes the
repetition. My future conduct will much better declare my sentiments than
any professions I can now make. I beg leave to assure you, sir, that I
take your advice much kinder than your generous offer with which you
concluded it; for, as you are pleased to say, sir, it is an instance of
your opinion of my understanding.”—Here her tears flowing
apace, she stopped a few moments, and then proceeded thus:—“Indeed,
sir, your kindness overcomes me; but I will endeavour to deserve this good
opinion: for if I have the understanding you are so kindly pleased to
allow me, such advice cannot be thrown away upon me. I thank you, sir,
heartily, for your intended kindness to my poor helpless child: he is
innocent, and I hope will live to be grateful for all the favours you
shall show him. But now, sir, I must on my knees entreat you not to
persist in asking me to declare the father of my infant. I promise you
faithfully you shall one day know; but I am under the most solemn ties and
engagements of honour, as well as the most religious vows and
protestations, to conceal his name at this time. And I know you too well,
to think you would desire I should sacrifice either my honour or my
religion.”

Mr Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred words was sufficient
to stagger, hesitated a moment before he replied, and then told her, she
had done wrong to enter into such engagements to a villain; but since she
had, he could not insist on her breaking them. He said, it was not from a
motive of vain curiosity he had inquired, but in order to punish the
fellow; at least, that he might not ignorantly confer favours on the
undeserving.

As to these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn assurances,
that the man was entirely out of his reach; and was neither subject to his
power, nor in any probability of becoming an object of his goodness.

The ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much credit with this
worthy man, that he easily believed what she told him; for as she had
disdained to excuse herself by a lie, and had hazarded his further
displeasure in her present situation, rather than she would forfeit her
honour or integrity by betraying another, he had but little apprehensions
that she would be guilty of falsehood towards himself.

He therefore dismissed her with assurances that he would very soon remove
her out of the reach of that obloquy she had incurred; concluding with
some additional documents, in which he recommended repentance, saying,
“Consider, child, there is one still to reconcile yourself to, whose
favour is of much greater importance to you than mine.”

Chapter viii. — A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah;
containing more amusement, but less instruction, than the former.

When Mr Allworthy had retired to his study with Jenny Jones, as hath been
seen, Mrs Bridget, with the good housekeeper, had betaken themselves to a
post next adjoining to the said study; whence, through the conveyance of a
keyhole, they sucked in at their ears the instructive lecture delivered by
Mr Allworthy, together with the answers of Jenny, and indeed every other
particular which passed in the last chapter.

This hole in her brother’s study-door was indeed as well known to Mrs
Bridget, and had been as frequently applied to by her, as the famous hole
in the wall was by Thisbe of old. This served to many good purposes. For
by such means Mrs Bridget became often acquainted with her brother’s
inclinations, without giving him the trouble of repeating them to her. It
is true, some inconveniences attended this intercourse, and she had
sometimes reason to cry out with Thisbe, in Shakspeare, “O, wicked,
wicked wall!” For as Mr Allworthy was a justice of peace, certain
things occurred in examinations concerning bastards, and such like, which
are apt to give great offence to the chaste ears of virgins, especially
when they approach the age of forty, as was the case of Mrs Bridget.
However, she had, on such occasions, the advantage of concealing her
blushes from the eyes of men; and De non apparentibus, et non
existentibus eadem est ratio—in English, “When a woman is
not seen to blush, she doth not blush at all.”

Both the good women kept strict silence during the whole scene between Mr
Allworthy and the girl; but as soon as it was ended, and that gentleman
was out of hearing, Mrs Deborah could not help exclaiming against the
clemency of her master, and especially against his suffering her to
conceal the father of the child, which she swore she would have out of her
before the sun set.

At these words Mrs Bridget discomposed her features with a smile (a thing
very unusual to her). Not that I would have my reader imagine, that this
was one of those wanton smiles which Homer would have you conceive came
from Venus, when he calls her the laughter-loving goddess; nor was it one
of those smiles which Lady Seraphina shoots from the stage-box, and which
Venus would quit her immortality to be able to equal. No, this was rather
one of those smiles which might be supposed to have come from the dimpled
cheeks of the august Tisiphone, or from one of the misses, her sisters.

With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the evening breeze of
Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Mrs Bridget gently reproved the
curiosity of Mrs Deborah; a vice with which it seems the latter was too
much tainted, and which the former inveighed against with great
bitterness, adding, “That, among all her faults, she thanked Heaven
her enemies could not accuse her of prying into the affairs of other
people.”

She then proceeded to commend the honour and spirit with which Jenny had
acted. She said, she could not help agreeing with her brother, that there
was some merit in the sincerity of her confession, and in her integrity to
her lover: that she had always thought her a very good girl, and doubted
not but she had been seduced by some rascal, who had been infinitely more
to blame than herself, and very probably had prevailed with her by a
promise of marriage, or some other treacherous proceeding.

This behaviour of Mrs Bridget greatly surprised Mrs Deborah; for this
well-bred woman seldom opened her lips, either to her master or his
sister, till she had first sounded their inclinations, with which her
sentiments were always consonant. Here, however, she thought she might
have launched forth with safety; and the sagacious reader will not perhaps
accuse her of want of sufficient forecast in so doing, but will rather
admire with what wonderful celerity she tacked about, when she found
herself steering a wrong course.

“Nay, madam,” said this able woman, and truly great
politician, “I must own I cannot help admiring the girl’s spirit, as
well as your ladyship. And, as your ladyship says, if she was deceived by
some wicked man, the poor wretch is to be pitied. And to be sure, as your
ladyship says, the girl hath always appeared like a good, honest, plain
girl, and not vain of her face, forsooth, as some wanton husseys in the
neighbourhood are.”

“You say true, Deborah,” said Miss Bridget. “If the girl
had been one of those vain trollops, of which we have too many in the
parish, I should have condemned my brother for his lenity towards her. I
saw two farmers’ daughters at church, the other day, with bare necks. I
protest they shocked me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows, it is
no matter what they suffer. I detest such creatures; and it would be much
better for them that their faces had been seamed with the smallpox; but I
must confess, I never saw any of this wanton behaviour in poor Jenny: some
artful villain, I am convinced, hath betrayed, nay perhaps forced her; and
I pity the poor wretch with all my heart.”

Mrs Deborah approved all these sentiments, and the dialogue concluded with
a general and bitter invective against beauty, and with many compassionate
considerations for all honest plain girls who are deluded by the wicked
arts of deceitful men.

Chapter ix. — Containing matters which will surprize the reader.

Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she had met with from
Mr Allworthy, whose indulgence to her she industriously made public;
partly perhaps as a sacrifice to her own pride, and partly from the more
prudent motive of reconciling her neighbours to her, and silencing their
clamours.

But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may appear reasonable
enough, yet the event did not answer her expectation; for when she was
convened before the justice, and it was universally apprehended that the
house of correction would have been her fate, though some of the young
women cryed out “It was good enough for her,” and diverted
themselves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a silk gown; yet there
were many others who began to pity her condition: but when it was known in
what manner Mr Allworthy had behaved, the tide turned against her. One
said, “I’ll assure you, madam hath had good luck.” A second
cryed, “See what it is to be a favourite!” A third, “Ay,
this comes of her learning.” Every person made some malicious
comment or other on the occasion, and reflected on the partiality of the
justice.

The behaviour of these people may appear impolitic and ungrateful to the
reader, who considers the power and benevolence of Mr Allworthy. But as to
his power, he never used it; and as to his benevolence, he exerted so
much, that he had thereby disobliged all his neighbours; for it is a
secret well known to great men, that, by conferring an obligation, they do
not always procure a friend, but are certain of creating many enemies.

Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr Allworthy, soon removed
out of the reach of reproach; when malice being no longer able to vent its
rage on her, began to seek another object of its bitterness, and this was
no less than Mr Allworthy, himself; for a whisper soon went abroad, that
he himself was the father of the foundling child.

This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the general opinion,
that it met with universal assent; and the outcry against his lenity soon
began to take another turn, and was changed into an invective against his
cruelty to the poor girl. Very grave and good women exclaimed against men
who begot children, and then disowned them. Nor were there wanting some,
who, after the departure of Jenny, insinuated that she was spirited away
with a design too black to be mentioned, and who gave frequent hints that
a legal inquiry ought to be made into the whole matter, and that some
people should be forced to produce the girl.

These calumnies might have probably produced ill consequences, at the
least might have occasioned some trouble, to a person of a more doubtful
and suspicious character than Mr Allworthy was blessed with; but in his
case they had no such effect; and, being heartily despised by him, they
served only to afford an innocent amusement to the good gossips of the
neighbourhood.

But as we cannot possibly divine what complection our reader may be of,
and as it will be some time before he will hear any more of Jenny, we
think proper to give him a very early intimation, that Mr Allworthy was,
and will hereafter appear to be, absolutely innocent of any criminal
intention whatever. He had indeed committed no other than an error in
politics, by tempering justice with mercy, and by refusing to gratify the
good-natured disposition of the mob,[*] with an object for their
compassion to work on in the person of poor Jenny, whom, in order to pity,
they desired to have seen sacrificed to ruin and infamy, by a shameful
correction in Bridewell.

So far from complying with this their inclination, by which all hopes of
reformation would have been abolished, and even the gate shut against her
if her own inclinations should ever hereafter lead her to chuse the road
of virtue, Mr Allworthy rather chose to encourage the girl to return
thither by the only possible means; for too true I am afraid it is, that
many women have become abandoned, and have sunk to the last degree of
vice, by being unable to retrieve the first slip. This will be, I am
afraid, always the case while they remain among their former acquaintance;
it was therefore wisely done by Mr Allworthy, to remove Jenny to a place
where she might enjoy the pleasure of reputation, after having tasted the
ill consequences of losing it.

To this place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a good journey,
and for the present take leave of her, and of the little foundling her
child, having matters of much higher importance to communicate to the
reader.

Chapter x. — The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of
the characters of two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were
entertained by that gentleman.

Neither Mr Allworthy’s house, nor his heart, were shut against any part of
mankind, but they were both more particularly open to men of merit. To say
the truth, this was the only house in the kingdom where you was sure to
gain a dinner by deserving it.

Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the principal place in
his favour; and in these he had much discernment: for though he had missed
the advantage of a learned education, yet, being blest with vast natural
abilities, he had so well profited by a vigorous though late application
to letters, and by much conversation with men of eminence in this way,
that he was himself a very competent judge in most kinds of literature.

It is no wonder that in an age when this kind of merit is so little in
fashion, and so slenderly provided for, persons possessed of it should
very eagerly flock to a place where they were sure of being received with
great complaisance; indeed, where they might enjoy almost the same
advantages of a liberal fortune as if they were entitled to it in their
own right; for Mr Allworthy was not one of those generous persons who are
ready most bountifully to bestow meat, drink, and lodging on men of wit
and learning, for which they expect no other return but entertainment,
instruction, flattery, and subserviency; in a word, that such persons
should be enrolled in the number of domestics, without wearing their
master’s cloathes, or receiving wages.

On the contrary, every person in this house was perfect master of his own
time: and as he might at his pleasure satisfy all his appetites within the
restrictions only of law, virtue, and religion; so he might, if his health
required, or his inclination prompted him to temperance, or even to
abstinence, absent himself from any meals, or retire from them, whenever
he was so disposed, without even a sollicitation to the contrary: for,
indeed, such sollicitations from superiors always savour very strongly of
commands. But all here were free from such impertinence, not only those
whose company is in all other places esteemed a favour from their equality
of fortune, but even those whose indigent circumstances make such an
eleemosynary abode convenient to them, and who are therefore less welcome
to a great man’s table because they stand in need of it.

Among others of this kind was Dr Blifil, a gentleman who had the
misfortune of losing the advantage of great talents by the obstinacy of a
father, who would breed him to a profession he disliked. In obedience to
this obstinacy the doctor had in his youth been obliged to study physic,
or rather to say he studied it; for in reality books of this kind were
almost the only ones with which he was unacquainted; and unfortunately for
him, the doctor was master of almost every other science but that by which
he was to get his bread; the consequence of which was, that the doctor at
the age of forty had no bread to eat.

Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr Allworthy’s
table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recommendation, when they were
derived from the folly or villany of others, and not of the unfortunate
person himself. Besides this negative merit, the doctor had one positive
recommendation;—this was a great appearance of religion. Whether his
religion was real, or consisted only in appearance, I shall not presume to
say, as I am not possessed of any touchstone which can distinguish the
true from the false.

If this part of his character pleased Mr Allworthy, it delighted Miss
Bridget. She engaged him in many religious controversies; on which
occasions she constantly expressed great satisfaction in the doctor’s
knowledge, and not much less in the compliments which he frequently
bestowed on her own. To say the truth, she had read much English divinity,
and had puzzled more than one of the neighbouring curates. Indeed, her
conversation was so pure, her looks so sage, and her whole deportment so
grave and solemn, that she seemed to deserve the name of saint equally
with her namesake, or with any other female in the Roman kalendar.

As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so experience teaches us
that none have a more direct tendency this way than those of a religious
kind between persons of different sexes. The doctor found himself so
agreeable to Miss Bridget, that he now began to lament an unfortunate
accident which had happened to him about ten years before; namely, his
marriage with another woman, who was not only still alive, but, what was
worse, known to be so by Mr Allworthy. This was a fatal bar to that
happiness which he otherwise saw sufficient probability of obtaining with
this young lady; for as to criminal indulgences, he certainly never
thought of them. This was owing either to his religion, as is most
probable, or to the purity of his passion, which was fixed on those things
which matrimony only, and not criminal correspondence, could put him in
possession of, or could give him any title to.

He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it occurred to his
memory that he had a brother who was under no such unhappy incapacity.
This brother he made no doubt would succeed; for he discerned, as he
thought, an inclination to marriage in the lady; and the reader perhaps,
when he hears the brother’s qualifications, will not blame the confidence
which he entertained of his success.

This gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He was of a middle
size, and what is called well-built. He had a scar on his forehead, which
did not so much injure his beauty as it denoted his valour (for he was a
half-pay officer). He had good teeth, and something affable, when he
pleased, in his smile; though naturally his countenance, as well as his
air and voice, had much of roughness in it: yet he could at any time
deposit this, and appear all gentleness and good-humour. He was not
ungenteel, nor entirely devoid of wit, and in his youth had abounded in
sprightliness, which, though he had lately put on a more serious
character, he could, when he pleased, resume.

He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education; for his father had,
with the same paternal authority we have mentioned before, decreed him for
holy orders; but as the old gentleman died before he was ordained, he
chose the church military, and preferred the king’s commission to the
bishop’s.

He had purchased the post of lieutenant of dragoons, and afterwards came
to be a captain; but having quarrelled with his colonel, was by his
interest obliged to sell; from which time he had entirely rusticated
himself, had betaken himself to studying the Scriptures, and was not a
little suspected of an inclination to methodism.

It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should succeed with
a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose inclinations were no
otherwise engaged than to the marriage state in general; but why the
doctor, who certainly had no great friendship for his brother, should for
his sake think of making so ill a return to the hospitality of Allworthy,
is a matter not so easy to be accounted for.

Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to delight
in virtue? Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to a theft when we
cannot commit it ourselves? Or lastly (which experience seems to make
probable), have we a satisfaction in aggrandizing our families, even
though we have not the least love or respect for them?

Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we will not
determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his brother, and easily found
means to introduce him at Allworthy’s as a person who intended only a
short visit to himself.

The captain had not been in the house a week before the doctor had reason
to felicitate himself on his discernment. The captain was indeed as great
a master of the art of love as Ovid was formerly. He had besides received
proper hints from his brother, which he failed not to improve to the best
advantage.

Chapter xi. — Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning
falling in love: descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential
inducements to matrimony.

It hath been observed, by wise men or women, I forget which, that all
persons are doomed to be in love once in their lives. No particular season
is, as I remember, assigned for this; but the age at which Miss Bridget
was arrived, seems to me as proper a period as any to be fixed on for this
purpose: it often, indeed, happens much earlier; but when it doth not, I
have observed it seldom or never fails about this time. Moreover, we may
remark that at this season love is of a more serious and steady nature
than what sometimes shows itself in the younger parts of life. The love of
girls is uncertain, capricious, and so foolish that we cannot always
discover what the young lady would be at; nay, it may almost be doubted
whether she always knows this herself.

Now we are never at a loss to discern this in women about forty; for as
such grave, serious, and experienced ladies well know their own meaning,
so it is always very easy for a man of the least sagacity to discover it
with the utmost certainty.

Miss Bridget is an example of all these observations. She had not been
many times in the captain’s company before she was seized with this
passion. Nor did she go pining and moping about the house, like a puny,
foolish girl, ignorant of her distemper: she felt, she knew, and she
enjoyed, the pleasing sensation, of which, as she was certain it was not
only innocent but laudable, she was neither afraid nor ashamed.

And to say the truth, there is, in all points, great difference between
the reasonable passion which women at this age conceive towards men, and
the idle and childish liking of a girl to a boy, which is often fixed on
the outside only, and on things of little value and no duration; as on
cherry-cheeks, small, lily-white hands, sloe-black eyes, flowing locks,
downy chins, dapper shapes; nay, sometimes on charms more worthless than
these, and less the party’s own; such are the outward ornaments of the
person, for which men are beholden to the taylor, the laceman, the
periwig-maker, the hatter, and the milliner, and not to nature. Such a
passion girls may well be ashamed, as they generally are, to own either to
themselves or others.

The love of Miss Bridget was of another kind. The captain owed nothing to
any of these fop-makers in his dress, nor was his person much more
beholden to nature. Both his dress and person were such as, had they
appeared in an assembly or a drawing-room, would have been the contempt
and ridicule of all the fine ladies there. The former of these was indeed
neat, but plain, coarse, ill-fancied, and out of fashion. As for the
latter, we have expressly described it above. So far was the skin on his
cheeks from being cherry-coloured, that you could not discern what the
natural colour of his cheeks was, they being totally overgrown by a black
beard, which ascended to his eyes. His shape and limbs were indeed exactly
proportioned, but so large that they denoted the strength rather of a
ploughman than any other. His shoulders were broad beyond all size, and
the calves of his legs larger than those of a common chairman. In short,
his whole person wanted all that elegance and beauty which is the very
reverse of clumsy strength, and which so agreeably sets off most of our
fine gentlemen; being partly owing to the high blood of their ancestors,
viz., blood made of rich sauces and generous wines, and partly to an early
town education.

Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy of taste, yet
such were the charms of the captain’s conversation, that she totally
overlooked the defects of his person. She imagined, and perhaps very
wisely, that she should enjoy more agreeable minutes with the captain than
with a much prettier fellow; and forewent the consideration of pleasing
her eyes, in order to procure herself much more solid satisfaction.

The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, in which
discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully returned it. The
lady, no more than her lover, was remarkable for beauty. I would attempt
to draw her picture, but that is done already by a more able master, Mr
Hogarth himself, to whom she sat many years ago, and hath been lately
exhibited by that gentleman in his print of a winter’s morning, of which
she was no improper emblem, and may be seen walking (for walk she doth in
the print) to Covent Garden church, with a starved foot-boy behind
carrying her prayer-book.

The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid enjoyments he
expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of person. He was one of
those wise men who regard beauty in the other sex as a very worthless and
superficial qualification; or, to speak more truly, who rather chuse to
possess every convenience of life with an ugly woman, than a handsome one
without any of those conveniences. And having a very good appetite, and
but little nicety, he fancied he should play his part very well at the
matrimonial banquet, without the sauce of beauty.

To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his arrival, at
least from the moment his brother had proposed the match to him, long
before he had discovered any flattering symptoms in Miss Bridget, had been
greatly enamoured; that is to say, of Mr Allworthy’s house and gardens,
and of his lands, tenements, and hereditaments; of all which the captain
was so passionately fond, that he would most probably have contracted
marriage with them, had he been obliged to have taken the witch of Endor
into the bargain.

As Mr Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor that he never
intended to take a second wife, as his sister was his nearest relation,
and as the doctor had fished out that his intentions were to make any
child of hers his heir, which indeed the law, without his interposition,
would have done for him; the doctor and his brother thought it an act of
benevolence to give being to a human creature, who would be so plentifully
provided with the most essential means of happiness. The whole thoughts,
therefore, of both the brothers were how to engage the affections of this
amiable lady.

But fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more for her favourite
offspring than either they deserve or wish, had been so industrious for
the captain, that whilst he was laying schemes to execute his purpose, the
lady conceived the same desires with himself, and was on her side
contriving how to give the captain proper encouragement, without appearing
too forward; for she was a strict observer of all rules of decorum. In
this, however, she easily succeeded; for as the captain was always on the
look-out, no glance, gesture, or word escaped him.

The satisfaction which the captain received from the kind behaviour of
Miss Bridget, was not a little abated by his apprehensions of Mr
Allworthy; for, notwithstanding his disinterested professions, the captain
imagined he would, when he came to act, follow the example of the rest of
the world, and refuse his consent to a match so disadvantageous, in point
of interest, to his sister. From what oracle he received this opinion, I
shall leave the reader to determine: but however he came by it, it
strangely perplexed him how to regulate his conduct so as at once to
convey his affection to the lady, and to conceal it from her brother. He
at length resolved to take all private opportunities of making his
addresses; but in the presence of Mr Allworthy to be as reserved and as
much upon his guard as was possible; and this conduct was highly approved
by the brother.

He soon found means to make his addresses, in express terms, to his
mistress, from whom he received an answer in the proper form, viz.: the
answer which was first made some thousands of years ago, and which hath
been handed down by tradition from mother to daughter ever since. If I was
to translate this into Latin, I should render it by these two words, Nolo
Episcopari: a phrase likewise of immemorial use on another occasion.

The captain, however he came by his knowledge, perfectly well understood
the lady, and very soon after repeated his application with more warmth
and earnestness than before, and was again, according to due form,
rejected; but as he had increased in the eagerness of his desires, so the
lady, with the same propriety, decreased in the violence of her refusal.

Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene of this
courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain great author, it is
the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is, perhaps, as dull and
tiresome as any whatever to the audience), the captain made his advances
in form, the citadel was defended in form, and at length, in proper form,
surrendered at discretion.

During this whole time, which filled the space of near a month, the
captain preserved great distance of behaviour to his lady in the presence
of the brother; and the more he succeeded with her in private, the more
reserved was he in public. And as for the lady, she had no sooner secured
her lover than she behaved to him before company with the highest degree
of indifference; so that Mr Allworthy must have had the insight of the
devil (or perhaps some of his worse qualities) to have entertained the
least suspicion of what was going forward.

Chapter xii. — Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to
find in it.

In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning any other
such business, little previous ceremony is required to bring the matter to
an issue when both parties are really in earnest. This was the case at
present, and in less than a month the captain and his lady were man and
wife.

The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr Allworthy; and this
was undertaken by the doctor.

One day, then, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the doctor came to
him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all the concern which he could
possibly affect in his countenance, said, “I am come, sir, to impart
an affair to you of the utmost consequence; but how shall I mention to you
what it almost distracts me to think of!” He then launched forth
into the most bitter invectives both against men and women; accusing the
former of having no attachment but to their interest, and the latter of
being so addicted to vicious inclinations that they could never be safely
trusted with one of the other sex. “Could I,” said he, “sir,
have suspected that a lady of such prudence, such judgment, such learning,
should indulge so indiscreet a passion! or could I have imagined that my
brother—why do I call him so? he is no longer a brother of mine——”

“Indeed but he is,” said Allworthy, “and a brother of
mine too.”

“Bless me, sir!” said the doctor, “do you know the
shocking affair?”

“Look’ee, Mr Blifil,” answered the good man, “it hath
been my constant maxim in life to make the best of all matters which
happen. My sister, though many years younger than I, is at least old
enough to be at the age of discretion. Had he imposed on a child, I should
have been more averse to have forgiven him; but a woman upwards of thirty
must certainly be supposed to know what will make her most happy. She hath
married a gentleman, though perhaps not quite her equal in fortune; and if
he hath any perfections in her eye which can make up that deficiency, I
see no reason why I should object to her choice of her own happiness;
which I, no more than herself, imagine to consist only in immense wealth.
I might, perhaps, from the many declarations I have made of complying with
almost any proposal, have expected to have been consulted on this
occasion; but these matters are of a very delicate nature, and the
scruples of modesty, perhaps, are not to be overcome. As to your brother,
I have really no anger against him at all. He hath no obligations to me,
nor do I think he was under any necessity of asking my consent, since the
woman is, as I have said, sui juris, and of a proper age to be
entirely answerable only, to herself for her conduct.”

The doctor accused Mr Allworthy of too great lenity, repeated his
accusations against his brother, and declared that he should never more be
brought either to see, or to own him for his relation. He then launched
forth into a panegyric on Allworthy’s goodness; into the highest encomiums
on his friendship; and concluded by saying, he should never forgive his
brother for having put the place which he bore in that friendship to a
hazard.

Allworthy thus answered: “Had I conceived any displeasure against
your brother, I should never have carried that resentment to the innocent:
but I assure you I have no such displeasure. Your brother appears to me to
be a man of sense and honour. I do not disapprove the taste of my sister;
nor will I doubt but that she is equally the object of his inclinations. I
have always thought love the only foundation of happiness in a married
state, as it can only produce that high and tender friendship which should
always be the cement of this union; and, in my opinion, all those
marriages which are contracted from other motives are greatly criminal;
they are a profanation of a most holy ceremony, and generally end in
disquiet and misery: for surely we may call it a profanation to convert
this most sacred institution into a wicked sacrifice to lust or avarice:
and what better can be said of those matches to which men are induced
merely by the consideration of a beautiful person, or a great fortune?

“To deny that beauty is an agreeable object to the eye, and even
worthy some admiration, would be false and foolish. Beautiful is an
epithet often used in Scripture, and always mentioned with honour. It was
my own fortune to marry a woman whom the world thought handsome, and I can
truly say I liked her the better on that account. But to make this the
sole consideration of marriage, to lust after it so violently as to
overlook all imperfections for its sake, or to require it so absolutely as
to reject and disdain religion, virtue, and sense, which are qualities in
their nature of much higher perfection, only because an elegance of person
is wanting: this is surely inconsistent, either with a wise man or a good
Christian. And it is, perhaps, being too charitable to conclude that such
persons mean anything more by their marriage than to please their carnal
appetites; for the satisfaction of which, we are taught, it was not
ordained.

“In the next place, with respect to fortune. Worldly prudence,
perhaps, exacts some consideration on this head; nor will I absolutely and
altogether condemn it. As the world is constituted, the demands of a
married state, and the care of posterity, require some little regard to
what we call circumstances. Yet this provision is greatly increased,
beyond what is really necessary, by folly and vanity, which create
abundantly more wants than nature. Equipage for the wife, and large
fortunes for the children, are by custom enrolled in the list of
necessaries; and to procure these, everything truly solid and sweet, and
virtuous and religious, are neglected and overlooked.

“And this in many degrees; the last and greatest of which seems
scarce distinguishable from madness;—I mean where persons of immense
fortunes contract themselves to those who are, and must be, disagreeable
to them—to fools and knaves—in order to increase an estate
already larger even than the demands of their pleasures. Surely such
persons, if they will not be thought mad, must own, either that they are
incapable of tasting the sweets of the tenderest friendship, or that they
sacrifice the greatest happiness of which they are capable to the vain,
uncertain, and senseless laws of vulgar opinion, which owe as well their
force as their foundation to folly.”

Here Allworthy concluded his sermon, to which Blifil had listened with the
profoundest attention, though it cost him some pains to prevent now and
then a small discomposure of his muscles. He now praised every period of
what he had heard with the warmth of a young divine, who hath the honour
to dine with a bishop the same day in which his lordship hath mounted the
pulpit.

Chapter xiii. — Which concludes the first book; with an instance of
ingratitude, which, we hope, will appear unnatural.

The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the reconciliation
(if indeed it could be so called) was only matter of form; we shall
therefore pass it over, and hasten to what must surely be thought matter
of substance.

The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had past between Mr
Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, “I promise you I paid you
off; nay, I absolutely desired the good gentleman not to forgive you: for
you know after he had made a declaration in your favour, I might with
safety venture on such a request with a person of his temper; and I was
willing, as well for your sake as for my own, to prevent the least
possibility of a suspicion.”

Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time; but he
afterwards made a very notable use of it.

One of the maxims which the devil, in a late visit upon earth, left to his
disciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the stool from under you.
In plain English, when you have made your fortune by the good offices of a
friend, you are advised to discard him as soon as you can.

Whether the captain acted by this maxim, I will not positively determine:
so far we may confidently say, that his actions may be fairly derived from
this diabolical principle; and indeed it is difficult to assign any other
motive to them: for no sooner was he possessed of Miss Bridget, and
reconciled to Allworthy, than he began to show a coldness to his brother
which increased daily; till at length it grew into rudeness, and became
very visible to every one.

The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this behaviour, but
could obtain no other satisfaction than the following plain declaration:
“If you dislike anything in my brother’s house, sir, you know you
are at liberty to quit it.” This strange, cruel, and almost
unaccountable ingratitude in the captain, absolutely broke the poor
doctor’s heart; for ingratitude never so thoroughly pierces the human
breast as when it proceeds from those in whose behalf we have been guilty
of transgressions. Reflections on great and good actions, however they are
received or returned by those in whose favour they are performed, always
administer some comfort to us; but what consolation shall we receive under
so biting a calamity as the ungrateful behaviour of our friend, when our
wounded conscience at the same time flies in our face, and upbraids us
with having spotted it in the service of one so worthless!

Mr Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother’s behalf, and
desired to know what offence the doctor had committed; when the
hard-hearted villain had the baseness to say that he should never forgive
him for the injury which he had endeavoured to do him in his favour;
which, he said, he had pumped out of him, and was such a cruelty that it
ought not to be forgiven.

Allworthy spoke in very high terms upon this declaration, which, he said,
became not a human creature. He expressed, indeed, so much resentment
against an unforgiving temper, that the captain at last pretended to be
convinced by his arguments, and outwardly professed to be reconciled.

As for the bride, she was now in her honeymoon, and so passionately fond
of her new husband that he never appeared to her to be in the wrong; and
his displeasure against any person was a sufficient reason for her dislike
to the same.

The captain, at Mr Allworthy’s instance, was outwardly, as we have said,
reconciled to his brother; yet the same rancour remained in his heart; and
he found so many opportunities of giving him private hints of this, that
the house at last grew insupportable to the poor doctor; and he chose
rather to submit to any inconveniences which he might encounter in the
world, than longer to bear these cruel and ungrateful insults from a
brother for whom he had done so much.

He once intended to acquaint Allworthy with the whole; but he could not
bring himself to submit to the confession, by which he must take to his
share so great a portion of guilt. Besides, by how much the worse man he
represented his brother to be, so much the greater would his own offence
appear to Allworthy, and so much the greater, he had reason to imagine,
would be his resentment.

He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his departure, and
promised to return soon again; and took leave of his brother with so
well-dissembled content, that, as the captain played his part to the same
perfection, Allworthy remained well satisfied with the truth of the
reconciliation.

The doctor went directly to London, where he died soon after of a broken
heart; a distemper which kills many more than is generally imagined, and
would have a fair title to a place in the bill of mortality, did it not
differ in one instance from all other diseases—viz., that no
physician can cure it.

Now, upon the most diligent enquiry into the former lives of these two
brothers, I find, besides the cursed and hellish maxim of policy above
mentioned, another reason for the captain’s conduct: the captain, besides
what we have before said of him, was a man of great pride and fierceness,
and had always treated his brother, who was of a different complexion, and
greatly deficient in both these qualities, with the utmost air of
superiority. The doctor, however, had much the larger share of learning,
and was by many reputed to have the better understanding. This the captain
knew, and could not bear; for though envy is at best a very malignant
passion, yet is its bitterness greatly heightened by mixing with contempt
towards the same object; and very much afraid I am, that whenever an
obligation is joined to these two, indignation and not gratitude will be
the product of all three.

BOOK II. — CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT
DEGREES OF LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO YEARS
AFTER THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET ALLWORTHY.

Chapter i. — Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is
like, and what it is not like.

Though we have properly enough entitled this our work, a history, and not
a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion; yet we intend in
it rather to pursue the method of those writers, who profess to disclose
the revolutions of countries, than to imitate the painful and voluminous
historian, who, to preserve the regularity of his series, thinks himself
obliged to fill up as much paper with the detail of months and years in
which nothing remarkable happened, as he employs upon those notable aeras
when the greatest scenes have been transacted on the human stage.

Such histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a newspaper,
which consists of just the same number of words, whether there be any news
in it or not. They may likewise be compared to a stage coach, which
performs constantly the same course, empty as well as full. The writer,
indeed, seems to think himself obliged to keep even pace with time, whose
amanuensis he is; and, like his master, travels as slowly through
centuries of monkish dulness, when the world seems to have been asleep, as
through that bright and busy age so nobly distinguished by the excellent
Latin poet—

Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate translation
than that by Mr Creech—

Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a contrary method.
When any extraordinary scene presents itself (as we trust will often be
the case), we shall spare no pains nor paper to open it at large to our
reader; but if whole years should pass without producing anything worthy
his notice, we shall not be afraid of a chasm in our history; but shall
hasten on to matters of consequence, and leave such periods of time
totally unobserved.

These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand lottery of time.
We therefore, who are the registers of that lottery, shall imitate those
sagacious persons who deal in that which is drawn at Guildhall, and who
never trouble the public with the many blanks they dispose of; but when a
great prize happens to be drawn, the newspapers are presently filled with
it, and the world is sure to be informed at whose office it was sold:
indeed, commonly two or three different offices lay claim to the honour of
having disposed of it; by which, I suppose, the adventurers are given to
understand that certain brokers are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed
of her cabinet council.

My reader then is not to be surprized, if, in the course of this work, he
shall find some chapters very short, and others altogether as long; some
that contain only the time of a single day, and others that comprise
years; in a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand still, and
sometimes to fly. For all which I shall not look on myself as accountable
to any court of critical jurisdiction whatever: for as I am, in reality,
the founder of a new province of writing, so I am at liberty to make what
laws I please therein. And these laws, my readers, whom I consider as my
subjects, are bound to believe in and to obey; with which that they may
readily and cheerfully comply, I do hereby assure them that I shall
principally regard their ease and advantage in all such institutions: for
I do not, like a jure divino tyrant, imagine that they are my
slaves, or my commodity. I am, indeed, set over them for their own good
only, and was created for their use, and not they for mine. Nor do I
doubt, while I make their interest the great rule of my writings, they
will unanimously concur in supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all
the honour I shall deserve or desire.

Chapter ii. — Religious cautions against showing too much favour to
bastards; and a great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.

Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain Blifil
and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young lady of great beauty, merit, and
fortune, was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered of a fine boy.
The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but the midwife
discovered it was born a month before its full time.

Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a circumstance of
great joy to Mr Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his affections from the
little foundling, to whom he had been godfather, had given his own name of
Thomas, and whom he had hitherto seldom failed of visiting, at least once
a day, in his nursery.

He told his sister, if she pleased, the new-born infant should be bred up
together with little Tommy; to which she consented, though with some
little reluctance: for she had truly a great complacence for her brother;
and hence she had always behaved towards the foundling with rather more
kindness than ladies of rigid virtue can sometimes bring themselves to
show to these children, who, however innocent, may be truly called the
living monuments of incontinence.

The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what he condemned as
a fault in Mr Allworthy. He gave him frequent hints, that to adopt the
fruits of sin, was to give countenance to it. He quoted several texts (for
he was well read in Scripture), such as, He visits the sins of the
fathers upon the children; and the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the
children’s teeth are set on edge,&c. Whence he argued the legality
of punishing the crime of the parent on the bastard. He said, “Though
the law did not positively allow the destroying such base-born children,
yet it held them to be the children of nobody; that the Church considered
them as the children of nobody; and that at the best, they ought to be
brought up to the lowest and vilest offices of the commonwealth.”

Mr Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which the captain had
urged on this subject, “That, however guilty the parents might be,
the children were certainly innocent: that as to the texts he had quoted,
the former of them was a particular denunciation against the Jews, for the
sin of idolatry, of relinquishing and hating their heavenly King; and the
latter was parabolically spoken, and rather intended to denote the certain
and necessary consequences of sin, than any express judgment against it.
But to represent the Almighty as avenging the sins of the guilty on the
innocent, was indecent, if not blasphemous, as it was to represent him
acting against the first principles of natural justice, and against the
original notions of right and wrong, which he himself had implanted in our
minds; by which we were to judge not only in all matters which were not
revealed, but even of the truth of revelation itself. He said he knew many
held the same principles with the captain on this head; but he was himself
firmly convinced to the contrary, and would provide in the same manner for
this poor infant, as if a legitimate child had had fortune to have been
found in the same place.”

While the captain was taking all opportunities to press these and such
like arguments, to remove the little foundling from Mr Allworthy’s, of
whose fondness for him he began to be jealous, Mrs Deborah had made a
discovery, which, in its event, threatened at least to prove more fatal to
poor Tommy than all the reasonings of the captain.

Whether the insatiable curiosity of this good woman had carried her on to
that business, or whether she did it to confirm herself in the good graces
of Mrs Blifil, who, notwithstanding her outward behaviour to the
foundling, frequently abused the infant in private, and her brother too,
for his fondness to it, I will not determine; but she had now, as she
conceived, fully detected the father of the foundling.

Now, as this was a discovery of great consequence, it may be necessary to
trace it from the fountain-head. We shall therefore very minutely lay open
those previous matters by which it was produced; and for that purpose we
shall be obliged to reveal all the secrets of a little family with which
my reader is at present entirely unacquainted; and of which the oeconomy
was so rare and extraordinary, that I fear it will shock the utmost
credulity of many married persons.

Chapter iii. — The description of a domestic government founded upon
rules directly contrary to those of Aristotle.

My reader may please to remember he hath been informed that Jenny Jones
had lived some years with a certain schoolmaster, who had, at her earnest
desire, instructed her in Latin, in which, to do justice to her genius,
she had so improved herself, that she was become a better scholar than her
master.

Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession to which learning
must be allowed necessary, this was the least of his commendations. He was
one of the best-natured fellows in the world, and was, at the same time,
master of so much pleasantry and humour, that he was reputed the wit of
the country; and all the neighbouring gentlemen were so desirous of his
company, that as denying was not his talent, he spent much time at their
houses, which he might, with more emolument, have spent in his school.

It may be imagined that a gentleman so qualified and so disposed, was in
no danger of becoming formidable to the learned seminaries of Eton or
Westminster. To speak plainly, his scholars were divided into two classes:
in the upper of which was a young gentleman, the son of a neighbouring
squire, who, at the age of seventeen, was just entered into his Syntaxis;
and in the lower was a second son of the same gentleman, who, together
with seven parish-boys, was learning to read and write.

The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the schoolmaster in
the luxuries of life, had he not added to this office those of clerk and
barber, and had not Mr Allworthy added to the whole an annuity of ten
pounds, which the poor man received every Christmas, and with which he was
enabled to cheer his heart during that sacred festival.

Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom he had married
out of Mr Allworthy’s kitchen for her fortune, viz., twenty pounds, which
she had there amassed.

This woman was not very amiable in her person. Whether she sat to my
friend Hogarth, or no, I will not determine; but she exactly resembled the
young woman who is pouring out her mistress’s tea in the third picture of
the Harlot’s Progress. She was, besides, a profest follower of that noble
sect founded by Xantippe of old; by means of which she became more
formidable in the school than her husband; for, to confess the truth, he
was never master there, or anywhere else, in her presence.

Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweetness of temper,
yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a circumstance which generally
poisons matrimonial felicity; for children are rightly called the pledges
of love; and her husband, though they had been married nine years, had
given her no such pledges; a default for which he had no excuse, either
from age or health, being not yet thirty years old, and what they call a
jolly brisk young man.

Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness to the poor
pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant a jealousy, that he durst
hardly speak to one woman in the parish; for the least degree of civility,
or even correspondence, with any female, was sure to bring his wife upon
her back, and his own.

In order to guard herself against matrimonial injuries in her own house,
as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care to chuse her out of
that order of females whose faces are taken as a kind of security for
their virtue; of which number Jenny Jones, as the reader hath been before
informed, was one.

As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good security of
the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour had been always extremely
modest, which is the certain consequence of understanding in women; she
had passed above four years at Mr Partridge’s (for that was the
schoolmaster’s name) without creating the least suspicion in her mistress.
Nay, she had been treated with uncommon kindness, and her mistress had
permitted Mr Partridge to give her those instructions which have been
before commemorated.

But it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in the
blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and that
often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.

Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her
husband’s teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to neglect
her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one day, as the
girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the girl, I know not
for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair: and this was the
first time that suspicion ever entered into the head of her mistress. This
did not, however, at that time discover itself, but lay lurking in her
mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a reinforcement of additional
strength before he openly declares himself and proceeds upon hostile
operations: and such additional strength soon arrived to corroborate her
suspicion; for not long after, the husband and wife being at dinner, the
master said to his maid, Da mihi aliquid potum: upon which the poor
girl smiled, perhaps at the badness of the Latin, and, when her mistress
cast her eyes on her, blushed, possibly with a consciousness of having
laughed at her master. Mrs Partridge, upon this, immediately fell into a
fury, and discharged the trencher on which she was eating, at the head of
poor Jenny, crying out, “You impudent whore, do you play tricks with
my husband before my face?” and at the same instant rose from her
chair with a knife in her hand, with which, most probably, she would have
executed very tragical vengeance, had not the girl taken the advantage of
being nearer the door than her mistress, and avoided her fury by running
away: for, as to the poor husband, whether surprize had rendered him
motionless, or fear (which is full as probable) had restrained him from
venturing at any opposition, he sat staring and trembling in his chair;
nor did he once offer to move or speak, till his wife, returning from the
pursuit of Jenny, made some defensive measures necessary for his own
preservation; and he likewise was obliged to retreat, after the example of
the maid.

This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposition

With her, as well as him,

she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls and begone,
for that she was determined she should not sleep that night within her
walls.

Mr Partridge had profited too much by experience to interpose in a matter
of this nature. He therefore had recourse to his usual receipt of
patience, for, though he was not a great adept in Latin, he remembered,
and well understood, the advice contained in these words

in English:

which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the truth, he had
often occasion to experience the truth.

Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence; but the tempest was
too strong for her to be heard. She then betook herself to the business of
packing, for which a small quantity of brown paper sufficed, and, having
received her small pittance of wages, she returned home.

The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time unpleasantly enough
that evening, but something or other happened before the next morning,
which a little abated the fury of Mrs Partridge; and she at length
admitted her husband to make his excuses: to which she gave the readier
belief, as he had, instead of desiring her to recall Jenny, professed a
satisfaction in her being dismissed, saying, she was grown of little use
as a servant, spending all her time in reading, and was become, moreover,
very pert and obstinate; for, indeed, she and her master had lately had
frequent disputes in literature; in which, as hath been said, she was
become greatly his superior. This, however, he would by no means allow;
and as he called her persisting in the right, obstinacy, he began to hate
her with no small inveteracy.

Chapter iv. — Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather
duels, that were ever recorded in domestic history.

For the reasons mentioned in the preceding chapter, and from some other
matrimonial concessions, well known to most husbands, and which, like the
secrets of freemasonry, should be divulged to none who are not members of
that honourable fraternity, Mrs Partridge was pretty well satisfied that
she had condemned her husband without cause, and endeavoured by acts of
kindness to make him amends for her false suspicion. Her passions were
indeed equally violent, whichever way they inclined; for as she could be
extremely angry, so could she be altogether as fond.

But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and scarce
twenty-four hours ever passed in which the pedagogue was not, in some
degree, the object of both; yet, on extraordinary occasions, when the
passion of anger had raged very high, the remission was usually longer:
and so was the case at present; for she continued longer in a state of
affability, after this fit of jealousy was ended, than her husband had
ever known before: and, had it not been for some little exercises, which
all the followers of Xantippe are obliged to perform daily, Mr Partridge
would have enjoyed a perfect serenity of several months.

Perfect calms at sea are always suspected by the experienced mariner to be
the forerunners of a storm, and I know some persons, who, without being
generally the devotees of superstition, are apt to apprehend that great
and unusual peace or tranquillity will be attended with its opposite. For
which reason the antients used, on such occasions, to sacrifice to the
goddess Nemesis, a deity who was thought by them to look with an invidious
eye on human felicity, and to have a peculiar delight in overturning it.

As we are very far from believing in any such heathen goddess, or from
encouraging any superstition, so we wish Mr John Fr——, or some
other such philosopher, would bestir himself a little, in order to find
out the real cause of this sudden transition from good to bad fortune,
which hath been so often remarked, and of which we shall proceed to give
an instance; for it is our province to relate facts, and we shall leave
causes to persons of much higher genius.

Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and descanting on the
actions of others. Hence there have been, in all ages and nations, certain
places set apart for public rendezvous, where the curious might meet and
satisfy their mutual curiosity. Among these, the barbers’ shops have
justly borne the pre-eminence. Among the Greeks, barbers’ news was a
proverbial expression; and Horace, in one of his epistles, makes
honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same light.

Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their Greek or Roman
predecessors. You there see foreign affairs discussed in a manner little
inferior to that with which they are handled in the coffee-houses; and
domestic occurrences are much more largely and freely treated in the
former than in the latter. But this serves only for the men. Now, whereas
the females of this country, especially those of the lower order, do
associate themselves much more than those of other nations, our polity
would be highly deficient, if they had not some place set apart likewise
for the indulgence of their curiosity, seeing they are in this no way
inferior to the other half of the species.

In enjoying, therefore, such place of rendezvous, the British fair ought
to esteem themselves more happy than any of their foreign sisters; as I do
not remember either to have read in history, or to have seen in my
travels, anything of the like kind.

This place then is no other than the chandler’s shop, the known seat of
all the news; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossiping, in every parish in
England.

Mrs Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was asked by one
of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately of Jenny Jones? To
which she answered in the negative. Upon this the other replied, with a
smile, That the parish was very much obliged to her for having turned
Jenny away as she did.

Mrs Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, was long since
cured, and who had no other quarrel to her maid, answered boldly, She did
not know any obligation the parish had to her on that account; for she
believed Jenny had scarce left her equal behind her.

“No, truly,” said the gossip, “I hope not, though I
fancy we have sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that she
hath been brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are not born here,
my husband and the other overseer says we shall not be obliged to keep
them.”

“Two bastards!” answered Mrs Partridge hastily: “you
surprize me! I don’t know whether we must keep them; but I am sure they
must have been begotten here, for the wench hath not been nine months gone
away.”

Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the mind,
especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the two others are
but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred instantly to her, that Jenny
had scarce ever been out of her own house while she lived with her. The
leaning over the chair, the sudden starting up, the Latin, the smile, and
many other things, rushed upon her all at once. The satisfaction her
husband expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared now to be only
dissembled; again, in the same instant, to be real; but yet to confirm her
jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred other bad causes. In a
word, she was convinced of her husband’s guilt, and immediately left the
assembly in confusion.

As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline family,
degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of her house, and
though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness to the noble tiger
himself, when a little mouse, whom it hath long tormented in sport,
escapes from her clutches for a while, frets, scolds, growls, swears; but
if the trunk, or box, behind which the mouse lay hid be again removed, she
flies like lightning on her prey, and, with envenomed wrath, bites,
scratches, mumbles, and tears the little animal.

Not with less fury did Mrs Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her
tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an
instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face
descended five streams of blood, denoting the number of claws with which
nature had unhappily armed the enemy.

Mr Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; indeed he
attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but as he found that his
antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he thought he might, at least,
endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine her arms; in doing which her
cap fell off in the struggle, and her hair being too short to reach her
shoulders, erected itself on her head; her stays likewise, which were
laced through one single hole at the bottom, burst open; and her breasts,
which were much more redundant than her hair, hung down below her middle;
her face was likewise marked with the blood of her husband: her teeth
gnashed with rage; and fire, such as sparkles from a smith’s forge, darted
from her eyes. So that, altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been
an object of terror to a much bolder man than Mr Partridge.

He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession of her arms, to
render those weapons which she wore at the ends of her fingers useless;
which she no sooner perceived, than the softness of her sex prevailed over
her rage, and she presently dissolved in tears, which soon after concluded
in a fit.

That small share of sense which Mr Partridge had hitherto preserved
through this scene of fury, of the cause of which he was hitherto
ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran instantly into the street,
hallowing out that his wife was in the agonies of death, and beseeching
the neighbours to fly with the utmost haste to her assistance. Several
good women obeyed his summons, who entering his house, and applying the
usual remedies on such occasions, Mrs Partridge was at length, to the
great joy of her husband, brought to herself.

As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and somewhat composed
herself with a cordial, she began to inform the company of the manifold
injuries she had received from her husband; who, she said, was not
contented to injure her in her bed; but, upon her upbraiding him with it,
had treated her in the cruelest manner imaginable; had tore her cap and
hair from her head, and her stays from her body, giving her, at the same
time, several blows, the marks of which she should carry to the grave.

The poor man, who bore on his face many more visible marks of the
indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonishment at this accusation;
which the reader will, I believe, bear witness for him, had greatly
exceeded the truth; for indeed he had not struck her once; and this
silence being interpreted to be a confession of the charge by the whole
court, they all began at once, una voce, to rebuke and revile him,
repeating often, that none but a coward ever struck a woman.

Mr Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his wife appealed to the
blood on her face, as an evidence of his barbarity, he could not help
laying claim to his own blood, for so it really was; as he thought it very
unnatural, that this should rise up (as we are taught that of a murdered
person often doth) in vengeance against him.

To this the women made no other answer, than that it was a pity it had not
come from his heart, instead of his face; all declaring, that, if their
husbands should lift their hands against them, they would have their
hearts’ bloods out of their bodies.

After much admonition for what was past, and much good advice to Mr
Partridge for his future behaviour, the company at length departed, and
left the husband and wife to a personal conference together, in which Mr
Partridge soon learned the cause of all his sufferings.

Chapter v. — Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and
reflection of the reader.

I believe it is a true observation, that few secrets are divulged to one
person only; but certainly, it would be next to a miracle that a fact of
this kind should be known to a whole parish, and not transpire any
farther.

And, indeed, a very few days had past, before the country, to use a common
phrase, rung of the schoolmaster of Little Baddington; who was said to
have beaten his wife in the most cruel manner. Nay, in some places it was
reported he had murdered her; in others, that he had broke her arms; in
others, her legs: in short, there was scarce an injury which can be done
to a human creature, but what Mrs Partridge was somewhere or other
affirmed to have received from her husband.

The cause of this quarrel was likewise variously reported; for as some
people said that Mrs Partridge had caught her husband in bed with his
maid, so many other reasons, of a very different kind, went abroad. Nay,
some transferred the guilt to the wife, and the jealousy to the husband.

Mrs Wilkins had long ago heard of this quarrel; but, as a different cause
from the true one had reached her ears, she thought proper to conceal it;
and the rather, perhaps, as the blame was universally laid on Mr
Partridge; and his wife, when she was servant to Mr Allworthy, had in
something offended Mrs Wilkins, who was not of a very forgiving temper.

But Mrs Wilkins, whose eyes could see objects at a distance, and who could
very well look forward a few years into futurity, had perceived a strong
likelihood of Captain Blifil’s being hereafter her master; and as she
plainly discerned that the captain bore no great goodwill to the little
foundling, she fancied it would be rendering him an agreeable service, if
she could make any discoveries that might lessen the affection which Mr
Allworthy seemed to have contracted for this child, and which gave visible
uneasiness to the captain, who could not entirely conceal it even before
Allworthy himself; though his wife, who acted her part much better in
public, frequently recommended to him her own example, of conniving at the
folly of her brother, which, she said, she at least as well perceived, and
as much resented, as any other possibly could.

Mrs Wilkins having therefore, by accident, gotten a true scent of the
above story,—though long after it had happened, failed not to
satisfy herself thoroughly of all the particulars; and then acquainted the
captain, that she had at last discovered the true father of the little
bastard, which she was sorry, she said, to see her master lose his
reputation in the country, by taking so much notice of.

The captain chid her for the conclusion of her speech, as an improper
assurance in judging of her master’s actions: for if his honour, or his
understanding, would have suffered the captain to make an alliance with
Mrs Wilkins, his pride would by no means have admitted it. And to say the
truth, there is no conduct less politic, than to enter into any
confederacy with your friend’s servants against their master: for by these
means you afterwards become the slave of these very servants; by whom you
are constantly liable to be betrayed. And this consideration, perhaps it
was, which prevented Captain Blifil from being more explicit with Mrs
Wilkins, or from encouraging the abuse which she had bestowed on
Allworthy.

But though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs Wilkins at this discovery,
he enjoyed not a little from it in his own mind, and resolved to make the
best use of it he was able.

He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own breast, in hopes
that Mr Allworthy might hear it from some other person; but Mrs Wilkins,
whether she resented the captain’s behaviour, or whether his cunning was
beyond her, and she feared the discovery might displease him, never
afterwards opened her lips about the matter.

I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that the housekeeper
never acquainted Mrs Blifil with this news, as women are more inclined to
communicate all pieces of intelligence to their own sex, than to ours. The
only way, as it appears to me, of solving this difficulty, is, by imputing
it to that distance which was now grown between the lady and the
housekeeper: whether this arose from a jealousy in Mrs Blifil, that
Wilkins showed too great a respect to the foundling; for while she was
endeavouring to ruin the little infant, in order to ingratiate herself
with the captain, she was every day more and more commending it before
Allworthy, as his fondness for it every day increased. This,
notwithstanding all the care she took at other times to express the direct
contrary to Mrs Blifil, perhaps offended that delicate lady, who certainly
now hated Mrs Wilkins; and though she did not, or possibly could not,
absolutely remove her from her place, she found, however, the means of
making her life very uneasy. This Mrs Wilkins, at length, so resented,
that she very openly showed all manner of respect and fondness to little
Tommy, in opposition to Mrs Blifil.

The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perishing, at last
took an opportunity to reveal it himself.

He was one day engaged with Mr Allworthy in a discourse on charity: in
which the captain, with great learning, proved to Mr Allworthy, that the
word charity in Scripture nowhere means beneficence or generosity.

“The Christian religion,” he said, “was instituted for
much nobler purposes, than to enforce a lesson which many heathen
philosophers had taught us long before, and which, though it might perhaps
be called a moral virtue, savoured but little of that sublime,
Christian-like disposition, that vast elevation of thought, in purity
approaching to angelic perfection, to be attained, expressed, and felt
only by grace. Those,” he said, “came nearer to the Scripture
meaning, who understood by it candour, or the forming of a benevolent
opinion of our brethren, and passing a favourable judgment on their
actions; a virtue much higher, and more extensive in its nature, than a
pitiful distribution of alms, which, though we would never so much
prejudice, or even ruin our families, could never reach many; whereas
charity, in the other and truer sense, might be extended to all mankind.”

He said, “Considering who the disciples were, it would be absurd to
conceive the doctrine of generosity, or giving alms, to have been preached
to them. And, as we could not well imagine this doctrine should be
preached by its Divine Author to men who could not practise it, much less
should we think it understood so by those who can practise it, and do not.

“But though,” continued he, “there is, I am afraid,
little merit in these benefactions, there would, I must confess, be much
pleasure in them to a good mind, if it was not abated by one
consideration. I mean, that we are liable to be imposed upon, and to
confer our choicest favours often on the undeserving, as you must own was
your case in your bounty to that worthless fellow Partridge: for two or
three such examples must greatly lessen the inward satisfaction which a
good man would otherwise find in generosity; nay, may even make him
timorous in bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting vice, and
encouraging the wicked; a crime of a very black dye, and for which it will
by no means be a sufficient excuse, that we have not actually intended
such an encouragement; unless we have used the utmost caution in chusing
the objects of our beneficence. A consideration which, I make no doubt,
hath greatly checked the liberality of many a worthy and pious man.”

Mr Allworthy answered, “He could not dispute with the captain in the
Greek language, and therefore could say nothing as to the true sense of
the word which is translated charity; but that he had always thought it
was interpreted to consist in action, and that giving alms constituted at
least one branch of that virtue.

“As to the meritorious part,” he said, “he readily
agreed with the captain; for where could be the merit of barely
discharging a duty? which,” he said, “let the word charity
have what construction it would, it sufficiently appeared to be from the
whole tenor of the New Testament. And as he thought it an indispensable
duty, enjoined both by the Christian law, and by the law of nature itself;
so was it withal so pleasant, that if any duty could be said to be its own
reward, or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this.

“To confess the truth,” said he, “there is one degree of
generosity (of charity I would have called it), which seems to have some
show of merit, and that is, where, from a principle of benevolence and
Christian love, we bestow on another what we really want ourselves; where,
in order to lessen the distresses of another, we condescend to share some
part of them, by giving what even our own necessities cannot well spare.
This is, I think, meritorious; but to relieve our brethren only with our
superfluities; to be charitable (I must use the word) rather at the
expense of our coffers than ourselves; to save several families from
misery rather than hang up an extraordinary picture in our houses or
gratify any other idle ridiculous vanity—this seems to be only being
human creatures. Nay, I will venture to go farther, it is being in some
degree epicures: for what could the greatest epicure wish rather than to
eat with many mouths instead of one? which I think may be predicated of
any one who knows that the bread of many is owing to his own largesses.

“As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as may hereafter
prove unworthy objects, because many have proved such; surely it can never
deter a good man from generosity. I do not think a few or many examples of
ingratitude can justify a man’s hardening his heart against the distresses
of his fellow-creatures; nor do I believe it can ever have such effect on
a truly benevolent mind. Nothing less than a persuasion of universal
depravity can lock up the charity of a good man; and this persuasion must
lead him, I think, either into atheism, or enthusiasm; but surely it is
unfair to argue such universal depravity from a few vicious individuals;
nor was this, I believe, ever done by a man, who, upon searching his own
mind, found one certain exception to the general rule.” He then
concluded by asking, “who that Partridge was, whom he had called a
worthless fellow?”

“I mean,” said the captain, “Partridge the barber, the
schoolmaster, what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the little
child which you found in your bed.”

Mr Allworthy exprest great surprize at this account, and the captain as
great at his ignorance of it; for he said he had known it above a month:
and at length recollected with much difficulty that he was told it by Mrs
Wilkins.

Upon this, Wilkins was immediately summoned; who having confirmed what the
captain had said, was by Mr Allworthy, by and with the captain’s advice,
dispatched to Little Baddington, to inform herself of the truth of the
fact: for the captain exprest great dislike at all hasty proceedings in
criminal matters, and said he would by no means have Mr Allworthy take any
resolution either to the prejudice of the child or its father, before he
was satisfied that the latter was guilty; for though he had privately
satisfied himself of this from one of Partridge’s neighbours, yet he was
too generous to give any such evidence to Mr Allworthy.

Chapter vi. — The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for
incontinency; the evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the wisdom
of our law; with other grave matters, which those will like best who
understand them most.

It may be wondered that a story so well known, and which had furnished so
much matter of conversation, should never have been mentioned to Mr
Allworthy himself, who was perhaps the only person in that country who had
never heard of it.

To account in some measure for this to the reader, I think proper to
inform him, that there was no one in the kingdom less interested in
opposing that doctrine concerning the meaning of the word charity, which
hath been seen in the preceding chapter, than our good man. Indeed, he was
equally intitled to this virtue in either sense; for as no man was ever
more sensible of the wants, or more ready to relieve the distresses of
others, so none could be more tender of their characters, or slower to
believe anything to their disadvantage.

Scandal, therefore, never found any access to his table; for as it hath
been long since observed that you may know a man by his companions, so I
will venture to say, that, by attending to the conversation at a great
man’s table, you may satisfy yourself of his religion, his politics, his
taste, and indeed of his entire disposition: for though a few odd fellows
will utter their own sentiments in all places, yet much the greater part
of mankind have enough of the courtier to accommodate their conversation
to the taste and inclination of their superiors.

But to return to Mrs Wilkins, who, having executed her commission with
great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, brought back such a
confirmation of the schoolmaster’s guilt, that Mr Allworthy determined to
send for the criminal, and examine him viva voce. Mr Partridge,
therefore, was summoned to attend, in order to his defence (if he could
make any) against this accusation.

At the time appointed, before Mr Allworthy himself, at Paradise-hall, came
as well the said Partridge, with Anne, his wife, as Mrs Wilkins his
accuser.

And now Mr Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, Mr Partridge
was brought before him. Having heard his accusation from the mouth of Mrs
Wilkins, he pleaded not guilty, making many vehement protestations of his
innocence.

Mrs Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest apology for being
obliged to speak the truth against her husband, related all the
circumstances with which the reader hath already been acquainted; and at
last concluded with her husband’s confession of his guilt.

Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to determine; but
it is certain she was an unwilling witness in this cause; and it is
probable from certain other reasons, would never have been brought to
depose as she did, had not Mrs Wilkins, with great art, fished all out of
her at her own house, and had she not indeed made promises, in Mr
Allworthy’s name, that the punishment of her husband should not be such as
might anywise affect his family.

Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he admitted
he had made the above-mentioned confession; which he however endeavoured
to account for, by protesting that he was forced into it by the continued
importunity she used: who vowed, that, as she was sure of his guilt, she
would never leave tormenting him till he had owned it; and faithfully
promised, that, in such case, she would never mention it to him more.
Hence, he said, he had been induced falsely to confess himself guilty,
though he was innocent; and that he believed he should have confest a
murder from the same motive.

Mrs Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience; and having no
other remedy in the present place but tears, she called forth a plentiful
assistance from them, and then addressing herself to Mr Allworthy, she
said (or rather cried), “May it please your worship, there never was
any poor woman so injured as I am by that base man; for this is not the
only instance of his falsehood to me. No, may it please your worship, he
hath injured my bed many’s the good time and often. I could have put up
with his drunkenness and neglect of his business, if he had not broke one
of the sacred commandments. Besides, if it had been out of doors I had not
mattered it so much; but with my own servant, in my own house, under my
own roof, to defile my own chaste bed, which to be sure he hath, with his
beastly stinking whores. Yes, you villain, you have defiled my own bed,
you have; and then you have charged me with bullocking you into owning the
truth. It is very likely, an’t please your worship, that I should bullock
him? I have marks enow about my body to show of his cruelty to me. If you
had been a man, you villain, you would have scorned to injure a woman in
that manner. But you an’t half a man, you know it. Nor have you been half
a husband to me. You need run after whores, you need, when I’m sure—And
since he provokes me, I am ready, an’t please your worship, to take my
bodily oath that I found them a-bed together. What, you have forgot, I
suppose, when you beat me into a fit, and made the blood run down my
forehead, because I only civilly taxed you with adultery! but I can prove
it by all my neighbours. You have almost broke my heart, you have, you
have.”

Here Mr Allworthy interrupted, and begged her to be pacified, promising
her that she should have justice; then turning to Partridge, who stood
aghast, one half of his wits being hurried away by surprize and the other
half by fear, he said he was sorry to see there was so wicked a man in the
world. He assured him that his prevaricating and lying backward and
forward was a great aggravation of his guilt; for which the only atonement
he could make was by confession and repentance. He exhorted him,
therefore, to begin by immediately confessing the fact, and not to persist
in denying what was so plainly proved against him even by his own wife.

Here, reader, I beg your patience a moment, while I make a just compliment
to the great wisdom and sagacity of our law, which refuses to admit the
evidence of a wife for or against her husband. This, says a certain
learned author, who, I believe, was never quoted before in any but a
law-book, would be the means of creating an eternal dissension between
them. It would, indeed, be the means of much perjury, and of much
whipping, fining, imprisoning, transporting, and hanging.

Partridge stood a while silent, till, being bid to speak, he said he had
already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven for his innocence, and
lastly to the girl herself, whom he desired his worship immediately to
send for; for he was ignorant, or at least pretended to be so, that she
had left that part of the country.

Mr Allworthy, whose natural love of justice, joined to his coolness of
temper, made him always a most patient magistrate in hearing all the
witnesses which an accused person could produce in his defence, agreed to
defer his final determination of this matter till the arrival of Jenny,
for whom he immediately dispatched a messenger; and then having
recommended peace between Partridge and his wife (though he addressed
himself chiefly to the wrong person), he appointed them to attend again
the third day; for he had sent Jenny a whole day’s journey from his own
house.

At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the messenger
returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be found; for that she had
left her habitation a few days before, in company with a recruiting
officer.

Mr Allworthy then declared that the evidence of such a slut as she
appeared to be would have deserved no credit; but he said he could not
help thinking that, had she been present, and would have declared the
truth, she must have confirmed what so many circumstances, together with
his own confession, and the declaration of his wife that she had caught
her husband in the fact, did sufficiently prove. He therefore once more
exhorted Partridge to confess; but he still avowing his innocence, Mr
Allworthy declared himself satisfied of his guilt, and that he was too bad
a man to receive any encouragement from him. He therefore deprived him of
his annuity, and recommended repentance to him on account of another
world, and industry to maintain himself and his wife in this.

There were not, perhaps, many more unhappy persons than poor Partridge. He
had lost the best part of his income by the evidence of his wife, and yet
was daily upbraided by her for having, among other things, been the
occasion of depriving her of that benefit; but such was his fortune, and
he was obliged to submit to it.

Though I called him poor Partridge in the last paragraph, I would have the
reader rather impute that epithet to the compassion in my temper than
conceive it to be any declaration of his innocence. Whether he was
innocent or not will perhaps appear hereafter; but if the historic muse
hath entrusted me with any secrets, I will by no means be guilty of
discovering them till she shall give me leave.

Here therefore the reader must suspend his curiosity. Certain it is that,
whatever was the truth of the case, there was evidence more than
sufficient to convict him before Allworthy; indeed, much less would have
satisfied a bench of justices on an order of bastardy; and yet,
notwithstanding the positiveness of Mrs Partridge, who would have taken
the sacrament upon the matter, there is a possibility that the
schoolmaster was entirely innocent: for though it appeared clear on
comparing the time when Jenny departed from Little Baddington with that of
her delivery that she had there conceived this infant, yet it by no means
followed of necessity that Partridge must have been its father; for, to
omit other particulars, there was in the same house a lad near eighteen,
between whom and Jenny there had subsisted sufficient intimacy to found a
reasonable suspicion; and yet, so blind is jealousy, this circumstance
never once entered into the head of the enraged wife.

Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr Allworthy’s advice, is
not so apparent. Certain it is that his wife repented heartily of the
evidence she had given against him: especially when she found Mrs Deborah
had deceived her, and refused to make any application to Mr Allworthy on
her behalf. She had, however, somewhat better success with Mrs Blifil, who
was, as the reader must have perceived, a much better-tempered woman, and
very kindly undertook to solicit her brother to restore the annuity; in
which, though good-nature might have some share, yet a stronger and more
natural motive will appear in the next chapter.

These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful: for though Mr
Allworthy did not think, with some late writers, that mercy consists only
in punishing offenders; yet he was as far from thinking that it is proper
to this excellent quality to pardon great criminals wantonly, without any
reason whatever. Any doubtfulness of the fact, or any circumstance of
mitigation, was never disregarded: but the petitions of an offender, or
the intercessions of others, did not in the least affect him. In a word,
he never pardoned because the offender himself, or his friends, were
unwilling that he should be punished.

Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit to their
fate; which was indeed severe enough: for so far was he from doubling his
industry on the account of his lessened income, that he did in a manner
abandon himself to despair; and as he was by nature indolent, that vice
now increased upon him, by which means he lost the little school he had;
so that neither his wife nor himself would have had any bread to eat, had
not the charity of some good Christian interposed, and provided them with
what was just sufficient for their sustenance.

As this support was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, they imagined,
and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr Allworthy himself was their
secret benefactor; who, though he would not openly encourage vice, could
yet privately relieve the distresses of the vicious themselves, when these
became too exquisite and disproportionate to their demerit. In which light
their wretchedness appeared now to Fortune herself; for she at length took
pity on this miserable couple, and considerably lessened the wretched
state of Partridge, by putting a final end to that of his wife, who soon
after caught the small-pox, and died.

The justice which Mr Allworthy had executed on Partridge at first met with
universal approbation; but no sooner had he felt its consequences, than
his neighbours began to relent, and to compassionate his case; and
presently after, to blame that as rigour and severity which they before
called justice. They now exclaimed against punishing in cold blood, and
sang forth the praises of mercy and forgiveness.

These cries were considerably increased by the death of Mrs Partridge,
which, though owing to the distemper above mentioned, which is no
consequence of poverty or distress, many were not ashamed to impute to Mr
Allworthy’s severity, or, as they now termed it, cruelty.

Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and the
unknown person having now discontinued the last-mentioned charity,
resolved to change the scene, and left the country, where he was in danger
of starving, with the universal compassion of all his neighbours.

Chapter vii. — A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples
may extract from hatred: with a short apology for those people who
overlook imperfections in their friends.

Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Partridge, yet had he
not reaped the harvest he hoped for, which was to turn the foundling out
of Mr Allworthy’s house.

On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder of little Tommy, as
if he intended to counterbalance his severity to the father with
extraordinary fondness and affection towards the son.

This a good deal soured the captain’s temper, as did all the other daily
instances of Mr Allworthy’s generosity; for he looked on all such
largesses to be diminutions of his own wealth.

In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife; nor, indeed, in
anything else: for though an affection placed on the understanding is, by
many wise persons, thought more durable than that which is founded on
beauty, yet it happened otherwise in the present case. Nay, the
understandings of this couple were their principal bone of contention, and
one great cause of many quarrels, which from time to time arose between
them; and which at last ended, on the side of the lady, in a sovereign
contempt for her husband; and on the husband’s, in an utter abhorrence of
his wife.

As these had both exercised their talents chiefly in the study of
divinity, this was, from their first acquaintance, the most common topic
of conversation between them. The captain, like a well-bred man, had,
before marriage, always given up his opinion to that of the lady; and
this, not in the clumsy awkward manner of a conceited blockhead, who,
while he civilly yields to a superior in an argument, is desirous of being
still known to think himself in the right. The captain, on the contrary,
though one of the proudest fellows in the world, so absolutely yielded the
victory to his antagonist, that she, who had not the least doubt of his
sincerity, retired always from the dispute with an admiration of her own
understanding and a love for his.

But though this complacence to one whom the captain thoroughly despised,
was not so uneasy to him as it would have been had any hopes of preferment
made it necessary to show the same submission to a Hoadley, or to some
other of great reputation in the science, yet even this cost him too much
to be endured without some motive. Matrimony, therefore, having removed
all such motives, he grew weary of this condescension, and began to treat
the opinions of his wife with that haughtiness and insolence, which none
but those who deserve some contempt themselves can bestow, and those only
who deserve no contempt can bear.

When the first torrent of tenderness was over, and when, in the calm and
long interval between the fits, reason began to open the eyes of the lady,
and she saw this alteration of behaviour in the captain, who at length
answered all her arguments only with pish and pshaw, she was far from
enduring the indignity with a tame submission. Indeed, it at first so
highly provoked her, that it might have produced some tragical event, had
it not taken a more harmless turn, by filling her with the utmost contempt
for her husband’s understanding, which somewhat qualified her hatred
towards him; though of this likewise she had a pretty moderate share.

The captain’s hatred to her was of a purer kind: for as to any
imperfections in her knowledge or understanding, he no more despised her
for them, than for her not being six feet high. In his opinion of the
female sex, he exceeded the moroseness of Aristotle himself: he looked on
a woman as on an animal of domestic use, of somewhat higher consideration
than a cat, since her offices were of rather more importance; but the
difference between these two was, in his estimation, so small, that, in
his marriage contracted with Mr Allworthy’s lands and tenements, it would
have been pretty equal which of them he had taken into the bargain. And
yet so tender was his pride, that it felt the contempt which his wife now
began to express towards him; and this, added to the surfeit he had before
taken of her love, created in him a degree of disgust and abhorrence,
perhaps hardly to be exceeded.

One situation only of the married state is excluded from pleasure: and
that is, a state of indifference: but as many of my readers, I hope, know
what an exquisite delight there is in conveying pleasure to a beloved
object, so some few, I am afraid, may have experienced the satisfaction of
tormenting one we hate. It is, I apprehend, to come at this latter
pleasure, that we see both sexes often give up that ease in marriage which
they might otherwise possess, though their mate was never so disagreeable
to them. Hence the wife often puts on fits of love and jealousy, nay, even
denies herself any pleasure, to disturb and prevent those of her husband;
and he again, in return, puts frequent restraints on himself, and stays at
home in company which he dislikes, in order to confine his wife to what
she equally detests. Hence, too, must flow those tears which a widow
sometimes so plentifully sheds over the ashes of a husband with whom she
led a life of constant disquiet and turbulency, and whom now she can never
hope to torment any more.

But if ever any couple enjoyed this pleasure, it was at present
experienced by the captain and his lady. It was always a sufficient reason
to either of them to be obstinate in any opinion, that the other had
previously asserted the contrary. If the one proposed any amusement, the
other constantly objected to it: they never loved or hated, commended or
abused, the same person. And for this reason, as the captain looked with
an evil eye on the little foundling, his wife began now to caress it
almost equally with her own child.

The reader will be apt to conceive, that this behaviour between the
husband and wife did not greatly contribute to Mr Allworthy’s repose, as
it tended so little to that serene happiness which he had designed for all
three from this alliance; but the truth is, though he might be a little
disappointed in his sanguine expectations, yet he was far from being
acquainted with the whole matter; for, as the captain was, from certain
obvious reasons, much on his guard before him, the lady was obliged, for
fear of her brother’s displeasure, to pursue the same conduct. In fact, it
is possible for a third person to be very intimate, nay even to live long
in the same house, with a married couple, who have any tolerable
discretion, and not even guess at the sour sentiments which they bear to
each other: for though the whole day may be sometimes too short for
hatred, as well as for love; yet the many hours which they naturally spend
together, apart from all observers, furnish people of tolerable moderation
with such ample opportunity for the enjoyment of either passion, that, if
they love, they can support being a few hours in company without toying,
or if they hate, without spitting in each other’s faces.

It is possible, however, that Mr Allworthy saw enough to render him a
little uneasy; for we are not always to conclude, that a wise man is not
hurt, because he doth not cry out and lament himself, like those of a
childish or effeminate temper. But indeed it is possible he might see some
faults in the captain without any uneasiness at all; for men of true
wisdom and goodness are contented to take persons and things as they are,
without complaining of their imperfections, or attempting to amend them.
They can see a fault in a friend, a relation, or an acquaintance, without
ever mentioning it to the parties themselves, or to any others; and this
often without lessening their affection. Indeed, unless great discernment
be tempered with this overlooking disposition, we ought never to contract
friendship but with a degree of folly which we can deceive; for I hope my
friends will pardon me when I declare, I know none of them without a
fault; and I should be sorry if I could imagine I had any friend who could
not see mine. Forgiveness of this kind we give and demand in turn. It is
an exercise of friendship, and perhaps none of the least pleasant. And
this forgiveness we must bestow, without desire of amendment. There is,
perhaps, no surer mark of folly, than an attempt to correct the natural
infirmities of those we love. The finest composition of human nature, as
well as the finest china, may have a flaw in it; and this, I am afraid, in
either case, is equally incurable; though, nevertheless, the pattern may
remain of the highest value.

Upon the whole, then, Mr Allworthy certainly saw some imperfections in the
captain; but as this was a very artful man, and eternally upon his guard
before him, these appeared to him no more than blemishes in a good
character, which his goodness made him overlook, and his wisdom prevented
him from discovering to the captain himself. Very different would have
been his sentiments had he discovered the whole; which perhaps would in
time have been the case, had the husband and wife long continued this kind
of behaviour to each other; but this kind Fortune took effectual means to
prevent, by forcing the captain to do that which rendered him again dear
to his wife, and restored all her tenderness and affection towards him.

Chapter viii. — A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife,
which hath never been known to fail in the most desperate cases.

The captain was made large amends for the unpleasant minutes which he
passed in the conversation of his wife (and which were as few as he could
contrive to make them), by the pleasant meditations he enjoyed when alone.

These meditations were entirely employed on Mr Allworthy’s fortune; for,
first, he exercised much thought in calculating, as well as he could, the
exact value of the whole: which calculations he often saw occasion to
alter in his own favour: and, secondly and chiefly, he pleased himself
with intended alterations in the house and gardens, and in projecting many
other schemes, as well for the improvement of the estate as of the
grandeur of the place: for this purpose he applied himself to the studies
of architecture and gardening, and read over many books on both these
subjects; for these sciences, indeed, employed his whole time, and formed
his only amusement. He at last completed a most excellent plan: and very
sorry we are, that it is not in our power to present it to our reader,
since even the luxury of the present age, I believe, would hardly match
it. It had, indeed, in a superlative degree, the two principal ingredients
which serve to recommend all great and noble designs of this nature; for
it required an immoderate expense to execute, and a vast length of time to
bring it to any sort of perfection. The former of these, the immense
wealth of which the captain supposed Mr Allworthy possessed, and which he
thought himself sure of inheriting, promised very effectually to supply;
and the latter, the soundness of his own constitution, and his time of
life, which was only what is called middle-age, removed all apprehension
of his not living to accomplish.

Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the immediate execution of
this plan, but the death of Mr Allworthy; in calculating which he had
employed much of his own algebra, besides purchasing every book extant
that treats of the value of lives, reversions, &c. From all which he
satisfied himself, that as he had every day a chance of this happening, so
had he more than an even chance of its happening within a few years.

But while the captain was one day busied in deep contemplations of this
kind, one of the most unlucky as well as unseasonable accidents happened
to him. The utmost malice of Fortune could, indeed, have contrived nothing
so cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely destructive to all his schemes.
In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense, just at the very
instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on the happiness which
would accrue to him by Mr Allworthy’s death, he himself—died of an
apoplexy.

This unfortunately befel the captain as he was taking his evening walk by
himself, so that nobody was present to lend him any assistance, if indeed,
any assistance could have preserved him. He took, therefore, measure of
that proportion of soil which was now become adequate to all his future
purposes, and he lay dead on the ground, a great (though not a living)
example of the truth of that observation of Horace:

Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader: “You
provide the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and a spade are
only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred feet,
forgetting that of six by two.”

Chapter ix. — A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt,
in the lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of
death, such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.

Mr Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were assembled at the
accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having waited a considerable
time longer than usual, Mr Allworthy first declared he began to grow
uneasy at the captain’s stay (for he was always most punctual at his
meals); and gave orders that the bell should be rung without the doors,
and especially towards those walks which the captain was wont to use.

All these summons proving ineffectual (for the captain had, by perverse
accident, betaken himself to a new walk that evening), Mrs Blifil declared
she was seriously frightened. Upon which the other lady, who was one of
her most intimate acquaintance, and who well knew the true state of her
affections, endeavoured all she could to pacify her, telling her—To
be sure she could not help being uneasy; but that she should hope the
best. That, perhaps the sweetness of the evening had inticed the captain
to go farther than his usual walk: or he might be detained at some
neighbour’s. Mrs Blifil answered, No; she was sure some accident had
befallen him; for that he would never stay out without sending her word,
as he must know how uneasy it would make her. The other lady, having no
other arguments to use, betook herself to the entreaties usual on such
occasions, and begged her not to frighten herself, for it might be of very
ill consequence to her own health; and, filling out a very large glass of
wine, advised, and at last prevailed with her to drink it.

Mr Allworthy now returned into the parlour; for he had been himself in
search after the captain. His countenance sufficiently showed the
consternation he was under, which, indeed, had a good deal deprived him of
speech; but as grief operates variously on different minds, so the same
apprehension which depressed his voice, elevated that of Mrs Blifil. She
now began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and floods of tears
accompanied her lamentations; which the lady, her companion, declared she
could not blame, but at the same time dissuaded her from indulging;
attempting to moderate the grief of her friend by philosophical
observations on the many disappointments to which human life is daily
subject, which, she said, was a sufficient consideration to fortify our
minds against any accidents, how sudden or terrible soever. She said her
brother’s example ought to teach her patience, who, though indeed he could
not be supposed as much concerned as herself, yet was, doubtless, very
uneasy, though his resignation to the Divine will had restrained his grief
within due bounds.

“Mention not my brother,” said Mrs Blifil; “I alone am
the object of your pity. What are the terrors of friendship to what a wife
feels on these occasions? Oh, he is lost! Somebody hath murdered him—I
shall never see him more!”—Here a torrent of tears had the
same consequence with what the suppression had occasioned to Mr Allworthy,
and she remained silent.

At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, and cried out,
The captain was found; and, before he could proceed farther, he was
followed by two more, bearing the dead body between them.

Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the operations of
grief: for as Mr Allworthy had been before silent, from the same cause
which had made his sister vociferous; so did the present sight, which drew
tears from the gentleman, put an entire stop to those of the lady; who
first gave a violent scream, and presently after fell into a fit.

The room was soon full of servants, some of whom, with the lady visitant,
were employed in care of the wife; and others, with Mr Allworthy, assisted
in carrying off the captain to a warm bed; where every method was tried,
in order to restore him to life.

And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that both these bodies
had been attended with equal success; for those who undertook the care of
the lady succeeded so well, that, after the fit had continued a decent
time, she again revived, to their great satisfaction: but as to the
captain, all experiments of bleeding, chafing, dropping, &c., proved
ineffectual. Death, that inexorable judge, had passed sentence on him, and
refused to grant him a reprieve, though two doctors who arrived, and were
fee’d at one and the same instant, were his counsel.

These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applications, we shall
distinguish by the names of Dr Y. and Dr Z., having felt his pulse; to
wit, Dr Y. his right arm, and Dr Z. his left; both agreed that he was
absolutely dead; but as to the distemper, or cause of his death, they
differed; Dr Y. holding that he died of an apoplexy, and Dr Z. of an
epilepsy.

Hence arose a dispute between the learned men, in which each delivered the
reasons of their several opinions. These were of such equal force, that
they served both to confirm either doctor in his own sentiments, and made
not the least impression on his adversary.

To say the truth, every physician almost hath his favourite disease, to
which he ascribes all the victories obtained over human nature. The gout,
the rheumatism, the stone, the gravel, and the consumption, have all their
several patrons in the faculty; and none more than the nervous fever, or
the fever on the spirits. And here we may account for those disagreements
in opinion, concerning the cause of a patient’s death, which sometimes
occur, between the most learned of the college; and which have greatly
surprized that part of the world who have been ignorant of the fact we
have above asserted.

The reader may perhaps be surprized, that, instead of endeavouring to
revive the patient, the learned gentlemen should fall immediately into a
dispute on the occasion of his death; but in reality all such experiments
had been made before their arrival: for the captain was put into a warm
bed, had his veins scarified, his forehead chafed, and all sorts of strong
drops applied to his lips and nostrils.

The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in everything
they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that portion of time which it is
usual and decent to remain for their fee, and were therefore necessitated
to find some subject or other for discourse; and what could more naturally
present itself than that before mentioned?

Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr Allworthy, having
given over the captain, and acquiesced in the Divine will, began to
enquire after his sister, whom he desired them to visit before their
departure.

This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the common phrase, as
well as could be expected for one in her condition. The doctors,
therefore, all previous ceremonies being complied with, as this was a new
patient, attended, according to desire, and laid hold on each of her
hands, as they had before done on those of the corpse.

The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her husband:
for as he was past all the assistance of physic, so in reality she
required none.

There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by which physicians
are misrepresented, as friends to death. On the contrary, I believe, if
the number of those who recover by physic could be opposed to that of the
martyrs to it, the former would rather exceed the latter. Nay, some are so
cautious on this head, that, to avoid a possibility of killing the
patient, they abstain from all methods of curing, and prescribe nothing
but what can neither do good nor harm. I have heard some of these, with
great gravity, deliver it as a maxim, “That Nature should be left to
do her own work, while the physician stands by as it were to clap her on
the back, and encourage her when she doth well.”

So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they discharged the
corpse after a single fee; but they were not so disgusted with their
living patient; concerning whose case they immediately agreed, and fell to
prescribing with great diligence.

Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded her physicians to believe her
ill, they had now, in return, persuaded her to believe herself so, I will
not determine; but she continued a whole month with all the decorations of
sickness. During this time she was visited by physicians, attended by
nurses, and received constant messages from her acquaintance to enquire
after her health.

At length the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief being expired,
the doctors were discharged, and the lady began to see company; being
altered only from what she was before, by that colour of sadness in which
she had dressed her person and countenance.

The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a
large progress towards oblivion, had not the friendship of Mr Allworthy
taken care to preserve his memory, by the following epitaph, which was
written by a man of as great genius as integrity, and one who perfectly
well knew the captain.

BOOK III. — CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED
IN THE FAMILY OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT
THE AGE OF FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS BOOK

THE READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN.

Chapter i. — Containing little or nothing.

The reader will be pleased to remember, that, at the beginning of the
second book of this history, we gave him a hint of our intention to pass
over several large periods of time, in which nothing happened worthy of
being recorded in a chronicle of this kind.

In so doing, we do not only consult our own dignity and ease, but the good
and advantage of the reader: for besides that by these means we prevent
him from throwing away his time, in reading without either pleasure or
emolument, we give him, at all such seasons, an opportunity of employing
that wonderful sagacity, of which he is master, by filling up these vacant
spaces of time with his own conjectures; for which purpose we have taken
care to qualify him in the preceding pages.

For instance, what reader but knows that Mr Allworthy felt, at first, for
the loss of his friend, those emotions of grief, which on such occasions
enter into all men whose hearts are not composed of flint, or their heads
of as solid materials? Again, what reader doth not know that philosophy
and religion in time moderated, and at last extinguished, this grief? The
former of these teaching the folly and vanity of it, and the latter
correcting it as unlawful, and at the same time assuaging it, by raising
future hopes and assurances, which enable a strong and religious mind to
take leave of a friend, on his deathbed, with little less indifference
than if he was preparing for a long journey; and, indeed, with little less
hope of seeing him again.

Nor can the judicious reader be at a greater loss on account of Mrs
Bridget Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted herself through the
whole season in which grief is to make its appearance on the outside of
the body, with the strictest regard to all the rules of custom and
decency, suiting the alterations of her countenance to the several
alterations of her habit: for as this changed from weeds to black, from
black to grey, from grey to white, so did her countenance change from
dismal to sorrowful, from sorrowful to sad, and from sad to serious, till
the day came in which she was allowed to return to her former serenity.

We have mentioned these two, as examples only of the task which may be
imposed on readers of the lowest class. Much higher and harder exercises
of judgment and penetration may reasonably be expected from the upper
graduates in criticism. Many notable discoveries will, I doubt not, be
made by such, of the transactions which happened in the family of our
worthy man, during all the years which we have thought proper to pass
over: for though nothing worthy of a place in this history occurred within
that period, yet did several incidents happen of equal importance with
those reported by the daily and weekly historians of the age; in reading
which great numbers of persons consume a considerable part of their time,
very little, I am afraid, to their emolument. Now, in the conjectures here
proposed, some of the most excellent faculties of the mind may be employed
to much advantage, since it is a more useful capacity to be able to
foretel the actions of men, in any circumstance, from their characters,
than to judge of their characters from their actions. The former, I own,
requires the greater penetration; but may be accomplished by true sagacity
with no less certainty than the latter.

As we are sensible that much the greatest part of our readers are very
eminently possessed of this quality, we have left them a space of twelve
years to exert it in; and shall now bring forth our heroe, at about
fourteen years of age, not questioning that many have been long impatient
to be introduced to his acquaintance.

Chapter ii. — The heroe of this great history appears with very bad
omens. A little tale of so LOW a kind that some may think it not worth
their notice. A word or two concerning a squire, and more relating to a
gamekeeper and a schoolmaster.

As we determined, when we first sat down to write this history, to flatter
no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the directions of truth, we are
obliged to bring our heroe on the stage in a much more disadvantageous
manner than we could wish; and to declare honestly, even at his first
appearance, that it was the universal opinion of all Mr Allworthy’s family
that he was certainly born to be hanged.

Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this conjecture;
the lad having from his earliest years discovered a propensity to many
vices, and especially to one which hath as direct a tendency as any other
to that fate which we have just now observed to have been prophetically
denounced against him: he had been already convicted of three robberies,
viz., of robbing an orchard, of stealing a duck out of a farmer’s yard,
and of picking Master Blifil’s pocket of a ball.

The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by the
disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed to the virtues
of Master Blifil, his companion; a youth of so different a cast from
little Jones, that not only the family but all the neighbourhood resounded
his praises. He was, indeed, a lad of a remarkable disposition; sober,
discreet, and pious beyond his age; qualities which gained him the love of
every one who knew him: while Tom Jones was universally disliked; and many
expressed their wonder that Mr Allworthy would suffer such a lad to be
educated with his nephew, lest the morals of the latter should be
corrupted by his example.

An incident which happened about this time will set the characters of
these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader than is in the
power of the longest dissertation.

Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the heroe of this history,
had only one friend among all the servants of the family; for as to Mrs
Wilkins, she had long since given him up, and was perfectly reconciled to
her mistress. This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow of a loose kind of
disposition, and who was thought not to entertain much stricter notions
concerning the difference of meum and tuum than the young
gentleman himself. And hence this friendship gave occasion to many
sarcastical remarks among the domestics, most of which were either
proverbs before, or at least are become so now; and, indeed, the wit of
them all may be comprised in that short Latin proverb, “Noscitur
a socio;” which, I think, is thus expressed in English, “You
may know him by the company he keeps.”

To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, of which we
have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps be derived from the
encouragement he had received from this fellow, who, in two or three
instances, had been what the law calls an accessary after the fact: for
the whole duck, and great part of the apples, were converted to the use of
the gamekeeper and his family; though, as Jones alone was discovered, the
poor lad bore not only the whole smart, but the whole blame; both which
fell again to his lot on the following occasion.

Contiguous to Mr Allworthy’s estate was the manor of one of those
gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This species of men, from
the great severity with which they revenge the death of a hare or
partridge, might be thought to cultivate the same superstition with the
Bannians in India; many of whom, we are told, dedicate their whole lives
to the preservation and protection of certain animals; was it not that our
English Bannians, while they preserve them from other enemies, will most
unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads themselves; so that they stand
clearly acquitted of any such heathenish superstition.

I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men than is
entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order of Nature, and the
good purposes for which they were ordained, in a more ample manner than
many others. Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of human beings

“Born to consume the fruits of the earth;” so I make no manner
of doubt but that there are others

“Born to consume the beasts of the field;” or, as it is
commonly called, the game; and none, I believe, will deny but that those
squires fulfil this end of their creation.

Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; when happening
to spring a covey of partridges near the border of that manor over which
Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of Nature, had planted one of the
game consumers, the birds flew into it, and were marked (as it is called)
by the two sportsmen, in some furze bushes, about two or three hundred
paces beyond Mr Allworthy’s dominions.

Mr Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of forfeiting his
place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours; no more on those who
were less rigid in this matter than on the lord of this manor. With regard
to others, indeed, these orders had not been always very scrupulously
kept; but as the disposition of the gentleman with whom the partridges had
taken sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper had never yet attempted to
invade his territories. Nor had he done it now, had not the younger
sportsman, who was excessively eager to pursue the flying game,
over-persuaded him; but Jones being very importunate, the other, who was
himself keen enough after the sport, yielded to his persuasions, entered
the manor, and shot one of the partridges.

The gentleman himself was at that time on horse-back, at a little distance
from them; and hearing the gun go off, he immediately made towards the
place, and discovered poor Tom; for the gamekeeper had leapt into the
thickest part of the furze-brake, where he had happily concealed himself.

The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the partridge upon him,
denounced great vengeance, swearing he would acquaint Mr Allworthy. He was
as good as his word: for he rode immediately to his house, and complained
of the trespass on his manor in as high terms and as bitter language as if
his house had been broken open, and the most valuable furniture stole out
of it. He added, that some other person was in his company, though he
could not discover him; for that two guns had been discharged almost in
the same instant. And, says he, “We have found only this partridge,
but the Lord knows what mischief they have done.”

At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr Allworthy. He
owned the fact, and alledged no other excuse but what was really true,
viz., that the covey was originally sprung in Mr Allworthy’s own manor.

Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr Allworthy declared he
was resolved to know, acquainting the culprit with the circumstance of the
two guns, which had been deposed by the squire and both his servants; but
Tom stoutly persisted in asserting that he was alone; yet, to say the
truth, he hesitated a little at first, which would have confirmed Mr
Allworthy’s belief, had what the squire and his servants said wanted any
further confirmation.

The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent for, and the
question put to him; but he, relying on the promise which Tom had made
him, to take all upon himself, very resolutely denied being in company
with the young gentleman, or indeed having seen him the whole afternoon.

Mr Allworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than usual anger in his
countenance, and advised him to confess who was with him; repeating, that
he was resolved to know. The lad, however, still maintained his
resolution, and was dismissed with much wrath by Mr Allworthy, who told
him he should have to the next morning to consider of it, when he should
be questioned by another person, and in another manner.

Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night; and the more so, as he was
without his usual companion; for Master Blifil was gone abroad on a visit
with his mother. Fear of the punishment he was to suffer was on this
occasion his least evil; his chief anxiety being, lest his constancy
should fail him, and he should be brought to betray the gamekeeper, whose
ruin he knew must now be the consequence.

Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had the same
apprehensions with the youth; for whose honour he had likewise a much
tenderer regard than for his skin.

In the morning, when Tom attended the reverend Mr Thwackum, the person to
whom Mr Allworthy had committed the instruction of the two boys, he had
the same questions put to him by that gentleman which he had been asked
the evening before, to which he returned the same answers. The consequence
of this was, so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell little short of
the torture with which confessions are in some countries extorted from
criminals.

Tom bore his punishment with great resolution; and though his master asked
him, between every stroke, whether he would not confess, he was contented
to be flead rather than betray his friend, or break the promise he had
made.

The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr Allworthy himself
began to be concerned at Tom’s sufferings: for besides that Mr Thwackum,
being highly enraged that he was not able to make the boy say what he
himself pleased, had carried his severity much beyond the good man’s
intention, this latter began now to suspect that the squire had been
mistaken; which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make probable;
and as for what the servants had said in confirmation of their master’s
account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as cruelty and injustice
were two ideas of which Mr Allworthy could by no means support the
consciousness a single moment, he sent for Tom, and after many kind and
friendly exhortations, said, “I am convinced, my dear child, that my
suspicions have wronged you; I am sorry that you have been so severely
punished on this account.” And at last gave him a little horse to
make him amends; again repeating his sorrow for what had past.

Tom’s guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could make it. He
could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum, than the generosity of
Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and he fell upon his knees,
crying, “Oh, sir, you are too good to me. Indeed you are. Indeed I
don’t deserve it.” And at that very instant, from the fulness of his
heart, had almost betrayed the secret; but the good genius of the
gamekeeper suggested to him what might be the consequence to the poor
fellow, and this consideration sealed his lips.

Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from showing any
compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, “He had persisted in an
untruth;” and gave some hints, that a second whipping might probably
bring the matter to light.

But Mr Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experiment. He said,
the boy had suffered enough already for concealing the truth, even if he
was guilty, seeing that he could have no motive but a mistaken point of
honour for so doing.

“Honour!” cryed Thwackum, with some warmth, “mere
stubbornness and obstinacy! Can honour teach any one to tell a lie, or can
any honour exist independent of religion?”

This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended; and there
were present Mr Allworthy, Mr Thwackum, and a third gentleman, who now
entered into the debate, and whom, before we proceed any further, we shall
briefly introduce to our reader’s acquaintance.

Chapter iii. — The character of Mr Square the philosopher, and of Mr
Thwackum the divine; with a dispute concerning——

The name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time at Mr
Allworthy’s house, was Mr Square. His natural parts were not of the first
rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned education. He was
deeply read in the antients, and a profest master of all the works of
Plato and Aristotle. Upon which great models he had principally formed
himself; sometimes according with the opinion of the one, and sometimes
with that of the other. In morals he was a profest Platonist, and in
religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.

But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on the Platonic
model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of Aristotle, in
considering that great man rather in the quality of a philosopher or a
speculatist, than as a legislator. This sentiment he carried a great way;
indeed, so far, as to regard all virtue as matter of theory only. This, it
is true, he never affirmed, as I have heard, to any one; and yet upon the
least attention to his conduct, I cannot help thinking it was his real
opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile some contradictions which might
otherwise appear in his character.

This gentleman and Mr Thwackum scarce ever met without a disputation; for
their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite to each other. Square held
human nature to be the perfection of all virtue, and that vice was a
deviation from our nature, in the same manner as deformity of body is.
Thwackum, on the contrary, maintained that the human mind, since the fall,
was nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by grace.
In one point only they agreed, which was, in all their discourses on
morality never to mention the word goodness. The favourite phrase of the
former, was the natural beauty of virtue; that of the latter, was the
divine power of grace. The former measured all actions by the unalterable
rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all
matters by authority; but in doing this, he always used the scriptures and
their commentators, as the lawyer doth his Coke upon Lyttleton, where the
comment is of equal authority with the text.

After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to remember,
that the parson had concluded his speech with a triumphant question, to
which he had apprehended no answer; viz., Can any honour exist independent
on religion?

To this Square answered; that it was impossible to discourse
philosophically concerning words, till their meaning was first
established: that there were scarce any two words of a more vague and
uncertain signification, than the two he had mentioned; for that there
were almost as many different opinions concerning honour, as concerning
religion. “But,” says he, “if by honour you mean the
true natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may exist independent of
any religion whatever. Nay,” added he, “you yourself will
allow it may exist independent of all but one: so will a Mahometan, a Jew,
and all the maintainers of all the different sects in the world.”

Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice of all the
enemies to the true Church. He said, he doubted not but that all the
infidels and hereticks in the world would, if they could, confine honour
to their own absurd errors and damnable deceptions; “but honour,”
says he, “is not therefore manifold, because there are many absurd
opinions about it; nor is religion manifold, because there are various
sects and heresies in the world. When I mention religion, I mean the
Christian religion; and not only the Christian religion, but the
Protestant religion; and not only the Protestant religion, but the Church
of England. And when I mention honour, I mean that mode of Divine grace
which is not only consistent with, but dependent upon, this religion; and
is consistent with and dependent upon no other. Now to say that the honour
I here mean, and which was, I thought, all the honour I could be supposed
to mean, will uphold, much less dictate an untruth, is to assert an
absurdity too shocking to be conceived.”

“I purposely avoided,” says Square, “drawing a
conclusion which I thought evident from what I have said; but if you
perceived it, I am sure you have not attempted to answer it. However, to
drop the article of religion, I think it is plain, from what you have
said, that we have different ideas of honour; or why do we not agree in
the same terms of its explanation? I have asserted, that true honour and
true virtue are almost synonymous terms, and they are both founded on the
unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which an
untruth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that true
honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think we are
agreed; but that this honour can be said to be founded on religion, to
which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant any positive law—”

“I agree,” answered Thwackum, with great warmth, “with a
man who asserts honour to be antecedent to religion! Mr Allworthy, did I
agree—?”

He was proceeding when Mr Allworthy interposed, telling them very coldly,
they had both mistaken his meaning; for that he had said nothing of true
honour.—It is possible, however, he would not have easily quieted
the disputants, who were growing equally warm, had not another matter now
fallen out, which put a final end to the conversation at present.

Chapter iv. — Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a
childish incident, which perhaps requires an apology likewise.

Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some
misconstructions into which the zeal of some few readers may lead them;
for I would not willingly give offence to any, especially to men who are
warm in the cause of virtue or religion.

I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunderstanding or
perversion of my meaning, misrepresent me, as endeavouring to cast any
ridicule on the greatest perfections of human nature; and which do,
indeed, alone purify and ennoble the heart of man, and raise him above the
brute creation. This, reader, I will venture to say (and by how much the
better man you are yourself, by so much the more will you be inclined to
believe me), that I would rather have buried the sentiments of these two
persons in eternal oblivion, than have done any injury to either of these
glorious causes.

On the contrary, it is with a view to their service, that I have taken
upon me to record the lives and actions of two of their false and
pretended champions. A treacherous friend is the most dangerous enemy; and
I will say boldly, that both religion and virtue have received more real
discredit from hypocrites than the wittiest profligates or infidels could
ever cast upon them: nay, farther, as these two, in their purity, are
rightly called the bands of civil society, and are indeed the greatest of
blessings; so when poisoned and corrupted with fraud, pretence, and
affectation, they have become the worst of civil curses, and have enabled
men to perpetrate the most cruel mischiefs to their own species.

Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be allowed: my chief
apprehension is, as many true and just sentiments often came from the
mouths of these persons, lest the whole should be taken together, and I
should be conceived to ridicule all alike. Now the reader will be pleased
to consider, that, as neither of these men were fools, they could not be
supposed to have holden none but wrong principles, and to have uttered
nothing but absurdities; what injustice, therefore, must I have done to
their characters, had I selected only what was bad! And how horribly
wretched and maimed must their arguments have appeared!

Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want of them, which
is here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much neglected virtue, and Square,
religion, in the composition of their several systems, and had not both
utterly discarded all natural goodness of heart, they had never been
represented as the objects of derision in this history; in which we will
now proceed.

This matter then, which put an end to the debate mentioned in the last
chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master Blifil and Tom Jones,
the consequence of which had been a bloody nose to the former; for though
Master Blifil, notwithstanding he was the younger, was in size above the
other’s match, yet Tom was much his superior at the noble art of boxing.

Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that youth; for
besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad amidst all his roguery,
and really loved Blifil, Mr Thwackum being always the second of the
latter, would have been sufficient to deter him.

But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours; it is
therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference arising at play
between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom a beggarly bastard. Upon
which the latter, who was somewhat passionate in his disposition,
immediately caused that phenomenon in the face of the former, which we
have above remembered.

Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and the tears
galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his uncle and the
tremendous Thwackum. In which court an indictment of assault, battery, and
wounding, was instantly preferred against Tom; who in his excuse only
pleaded the provocation, which was indeed all the matter that Master
Blifil had omitted.

It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped his
memory; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, that he had made use of
no such appellation; adding, “Heaven forbid such naughty words
should ever come out of his mouth!”

Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance of the words.
Upon which Master Blifil said, “It is no wonder. Those who will tell
one fib, will hardly stick at another. If I had told my master such a
wicked fib as you have done, I should be ashamed to show my face.”

“What fib, child?” cries Thwackum pretty eagerly.

“Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting when he killed
the partridge; but he knows” (here he burst into a flood of tears),
“yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that Black George the
gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said—yes you did—deny it if you
can, that you would not have confest the truth, though master had cut you
to pieces.”

At this the fire flashed from Thwackum’s eyes, and he cried out in triumph—“Oh!
ho! this is your mistaken notion of honour! This is the boy who was not to
be whipped again!” But Mr Allworthy, with a more gentle aspect,
turned towards the lad, and said, “Is this true, child? How came you
to persist so obstinately in a falsehood?”

Tom said, “He scorned a lie as much as any one: but he thought his
honour engaged him to act as he did; for he had promised the poor fellow
to conceal him: which,” he said, “he thought himself farther
obliged to, as the gamekeeper had begged him not to go into the
gentleman’s manor, and had at last gone himself, in compliance with his
persuasions.” He said, “This was the whole truth of the
matter, and he would take his oath of it;” and concluded with very
passionately begging Mr Allworthy “to have compassion on the poor
fellow’s family, especially as he himself only had been guilty, and the
other had been very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did. Indeed,
sir,” said he, “it could hardly be called a lie that I told;
for the poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I should
have gone alone after the birds; nay, I did go at first, and he only
followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, pray, sir, let me be punished;
take my little horse away again; but pray, sir, forgive poor George.”

Mr Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed the boys,
advising them to live more friendly and peaceably together.

Chapter v. — The opinions of the divine and the philosopher
concerning the two boys; with some reasons for their opinions, and other
matters.

It is probable, that by disclosing this secret, which had been
communicated in the utmost confidence to him, young Blifil preserved his
companion from a good lashing; for the offence of the bloody nose would
have been of itself sufficient cause for Thwackum to have proceeded to
correction; but now this was totally absorbed in the consideration of the
other matter; and with regard to this, Mr Allworthy declared privately, he
thought the boy deserved reward rather than punishment, so that Thwackum’s
hand was withheld by a general pardon.

Thwackum, whose meditations were full of birch, exclaimed against this
weak, and, as he said he would venture to call it, wicked lenity. To remit
the punishment of such crimes was, he said, to encourage them. He enlarged
much on the correction of children, and quoted many texts from Solomon,
and others; which being to be found in so many other books, shall not be
found here. He then applied himself to the vice of lying, on which head he
was altogether as learned as he had been on the other.

Square said, he had been endeavouring to reconcile the behaviour of Tom
with his idea of perfect virtue, but could not. He owned there was
something which at first sight appeared like fortitude in the action; but
as fortitude was a virtue, and falsehood a vice, they could by no means
agree or unite together. He added, that as this was in some measure to
confound virtue and vice, it might be worth Mr Thwackum’s consideration,
whether a larger castigation might not be laid on upon the account.

As both these learned men concurred in censuring Jones, so were they no
less unanimous in applauding Master Blifil. To bring truth to light, was
by the parson asserted to be the duty of every religious man; and by the
philosopher this was declared to be highly conformable with the rule of
right, and the eternal and unalterable fitness of things.

All this, however, weighed very little with Mr Allworthy. He could not be
prevailed on to sign the warrant for the execution of Jones. There was
something within his own breast with which the invincible fidelity which
that youth had preserved, corresponded much better than it had done with
the religion of Thwackum, or with the virtue of Square. He therefore
strictly ordered the former of these gentlemen to abstain from laying
violent hands on Tom for what had past. The pedagogue was obliged to obey
those orders; but not without great reluctance, and frequent mutterings
that the boy would be certainly spoiled.

Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more severity. He
presently summoned that poor fellow before him, and after many bitter
remonstrances, paid him his wages, and dismist him from his service; for
Mr Allworthy rightly observed, that there was a great difference between
being guilty of a falsehood to excuse yourself, and to excuse another. He
likewise urged, as the principal motive to his inflexible severity against
this man, that he had basely suffered Tom Jones to undergo so heavy a
punishment for his sake, whereas he ought to have prevented it by making
the discovery himself.

When this story became public, many people differed from Square and
Thwackum, in judging the conduct of the two lads on the occasion. Master
Blifil was generally called a sneaking rascal, a poor-spirited wretch,
with other epithets of the like kind; whilst Tom was honoured with the
appellations of a brave lad, a jolly dog, and an honest fellow. Indeed,
his behaviour to Black George much ingratiated him with all the servants;
for though that fellow was before universally disliked, yet he was no
sooner turned away than he was as universally pitied; and the friendship
and gallantry of Tom Jones was celebrated by them all with the highest
applause; and they condemned Master Blifil as openly as they durst,
without incurring the danger of offending his mother. For all this,
however, poor Tom smarted in the flesh; for though Thwackum had been
inhibited to exercise his arm on the foregoing account, yet, as the
proverb says, It is easy to find a stick, &c. So was it easy to find a
rod; and, indeed, the not being able to find one was the only thing which
could have kept Thwackum any long time from chastising poor Jones.

Had the bare delight in the sport been the only inducement to the
pedagogue, it is probable Master Blifil would likewise have had his share;
but though Mr Allworthy had given him frequent orders to make no
difference between the lads, yet was Thwackum altogether as kind and
gentle to this youth, as he was harsh, nay even barbarous, to the other.
To say the truth, Blifil had greatly gained his master’s affections;
partly by the profound respect he always showed his person, but much more
by the decent reverence with which he received his doctrine; for he had
got by heart, and frequently repeated, his phrases, and maintained all his
master’s religious principles with a zeal which was surprizing in one so
young, and which greatly endeared him to the worthy preceptor.

Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in outward tokens of
respect, often forgetting to pull off his hat, or to bow at his master’s
approach; but was altogether as unmindful both of his master’s precepts
and example. He was indeed a thoughtless, giddy youth, with little
sobriety in his manners, and less in his countenance; and would often very
impudently and indecently laugh at his companion for his serious
behaviour.

Mr Square had the same reason for his preference of the former lad; for
Tom Jones showed no more regard to the learned discourses which this
gentleman would sometimes throw away upon him, than to those of Thwackum.
He once ventured to make a jest of the rule of right; and at another time
said, he believed there was no rule in the world capable of making such a
man as his father (for so Mr Allworthy suffered himself to be called).

Master Blifil, on the contrary, had address enough at sixteen to recommend
himself at one and the same time to both these opposites. With one he was
all religion, with the other he was all virtue. And when both were
present, he was profoundly silent, which both interpreted in his favour
and in their own.

Nor was Blifil contented with flattering both these gentlemen to their
faces; he took frequent occasions of praising them behind their backs to
Allworthy; before whom, when they two were alone, and his uncle commended
any religious or virtuous sentiment (for many such came constantly from
him) he seldom failed to ascribe it to the good instructions he had
received from either Thwackum or Square; for he knew his uncle repeated
all such compliments to the persons for whose use they were meant; and he
found by experience the great impressions which they made on the
philosopher, as well as on the divine: for, to say the truth, there is no
kind of flattery so irresistible as this, at second hand.

The young gentleman, moreover, soon perceived how extremely grateful all
those panegyrics on his instructors were to Mr Allworthy himself, as they
so loudly resounded the praise of that singular plan of education which he
had laid down; for this worthy man having observed the imperfect
institution of our public schools, and the many vices which boys were
there liable to learn, had resolved to educate his nephew, as well as the
other lad, whom he had in a manner adopted, in his own house; where he
thought their morals would escape all that danger of being corrupted to
which they would be unavoidably exposed in any public school or
university.

Having, therefore, determined to commit these boys to the tuition of a
private tutor, Mr Thwackum was recommended to him for that office, by a
very particular friend, of whose understanding Mr Allworthy had a great
opinion, and in whose integrity he placed much confidence. This Thwackum
was fellow of a college, where he almost entirely resided; and had a great
reputation for learning, religion, and sobriety of manners. And these were
doubtless the qualifications by which Mr Allworthy’s friend had been
induced to recommend him; though indeed this friend had some obligations
to Thwackum’s family, who were the most considerable persons in a borough
which that gentleman represented in parliament.

Thwackum, at his first arrival, was extremely agreeable to Allworthy; and
indeed he perfectly answered the character which had been given of him.
Upon longer acquaintance, however, and more intimate conversation, this
worthy man saw infirmities in the tutor, which he could have wished him to
have been without; though as those seemed greatly overbalanced by his good
qualities, they did not incline Mr Allworthy to part with him: nor would
they indeed have justified such a proceeding; for the reader is greatly
mistaken, if he conceives that Thwackum appeared to Mr Allworthy in the
same light as he doth to him in this history; and he is as much deceived,
if he imagines that the most intimate acquaintance which he himself could
have had with that divine, would have informed him of those things which
we, from our inspiration, are enabled to open and discover. Of readers
who, from such conceits as these, condemn the wisdom or penetration of Mr
Allworthy, I shall not scruple to say, that they make a very bad and
ungrateful use of that knowledge which we have communicated to them.

These apparent errors in the doctrine of Thwackum served greatly to
palliate the contrary errors in that of Square, which our good man no less
saw and condemned. He thought, indeed, that the different exuberancies of
these gentlemen would correct their different imperfections; and that from
both, especially with his assistance, the two lads would derive sufficient
precepts of true religion and virtue. If the event happened contrary to
his expectations, this possibly proceeded from some fault in the plan
itself; which the reader hath my leave to discover, if he can: for we do
not pretend to introduce any infallible characters into this history;
where we hope nothing will be found which hath never yet been seen in
human nature.

To return therefore: the reader will not, I think, wonder that the
different behaviour of the two lads above commemorated, produced the
different effects of which he hath already seen some instance; and besides
this, there was another reason for the conduct of the philosopher and the
pedagogue; but this being matter of great importance, we shall reveal it
in the next chapter.

Chapter vi. — Containing a better reason still for the
before-mentioned opinions.

It is to be known then, that those two learned personages, who have lately
made a considerable figure on the theatre of this history, had, from their
first arrival at Mr Allworthy’s house, taken so great an affection, the
one to his virtue, the other to his religion, that they had meditated the
closest alliance with him.

For this purpose they had cast their eyes on that fair widow, whom, though
we have not for some time made any mention of her, the reader, we trust,
hath not forgot. Mrs Blifil was indeed the object to which they both
aspired.

It may seem remarkable, that, of four persons whom we have commemorated at
Mr Allworthy’s house, three of them should fix their inclinations on a
lady who was never greatly celebrated for her beauty, and who was,
moreover, now a little descended into the vale of years; but in reality
bosom friends, and intimate acquaintance, have a kind of natural
propensity to particular females at the house of a friend—viz., to
his grandmother, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, niece, or cousin, when
they are rich; and to his wife, sister, daughter, niece, cousin, mistress,
or servant-maid, if they should be handsome.

We would not, however, have our reader imagine, that persons of such
characters as were supported by Thwackum and Square, would undertake a
matter of this kind, which hath been a little censured by some rigid
moralists, before they had thoroughly examined it, and considered whether
it was (as Shakespear phrases it) “Stuff o’ th’ conscience,”
or no. Thwackum was encouraged to the undertaking by reflecting that to
covet your neighbour’s sister is nowhere forbidden: and he knew it was a
rule in the construction of all laws, that “Expressum facit
cessare tacitum.” The sense of which is, “When a lawgiver
sets down plainly his whole meaning, we are prevented from making him mean
what we please ourselves.” As some instances of women, therefore,
are mentioned in the divine law, which forbids us to covet our neighbour’s
goods, and that of a sister omitted, he concluded it to be lawful. And as
to Square, who was in his person what is called a jolly fellow, or a
widow’s man, he easily reconciled his choice to the eternal fitness of
things.

Now, as both of these gentlemen were industrious in taking every
opportunity of recommending themselves to the widow, they apprehended one
certain method was, by giving her son the constant preference to the other
lad; and as they conceived the kindness and affection which Mr Allworthy
showed the latter, must be highly disagreeable to her, they doubted not
but the laying hold on all occasions to degrade and vilify him, would be
highly pleasing to her; who, as she hated the boy, must love all those who
did him any hurt. In this Thwackum had the advantage; for while Square
could only scarify the poor lad’s reputation, he could flea his skin; and,
indeed, he considered every lash he gave him as a compliment paid to his
mistress; so that he could, with the utmost propriety, repeat this old
flogging line, “Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed quod
AMEM. I chastise thee not out of hatred, but out of love.” And this,
indeed, he often had in his mouth, or rather, according to the old phrase,
never more properly applied, at his fingers’ ends.

For this reason, principally, the two gentlemen concurred, as we have seen
above, in their opinion concerning the two lads; this being, indeed,
almost the only instance of their concurring on any point; for, beside the
difference of their principles, they had both long ago strongly suspected
each other’s design, and hated one another with no little degree of
inveteracy.

This mutual animosity was a good deal increased by their alternate
successes; for Mrs Blifil knew what they would be at long before they
imagined it; or, indeed, intended she should: for they proceeded with
great caution, lest she should be offended, and acquaint Mr Allworthy. But
they had no reason for any such fear; she was well enough pleased with a
passion, of which she intended none should have any fruits but herself.
And the only fruits she designed for herself were, flattery and courtship;
for which purpose she soothed them by turns, and a long time equally. She
was, indeed, rather inclined to favour the parson’s principles; but
Square’s person was more agreeable to her eye, for he was a comely man;
whereas the pedagogue did in countenance very nearly resemble that
gentleman, who, in the Harlot’s Progress, is seen correcting the ladies in
Bridewell.

Whether Mrs Blifil had been surfeited with the sweets of marriage, or
disgusted by its bitters, or from what other cause it proceeded, I will
not determine; but she could never be brought to listen to any second
proposals. However, she at last conversed with Square with such a degree
of intimacy that malicious tongues began to whisper things of her, to
which, as well for the sake of the lady, as that they were highly
disagreeable to the rule of right and the fitness of things, we will give
no credit, and therefore shall not blot our paper with them. The
pedagogue, ’tis certain, whipped on, without getting a step nearer to his
journey’s end.

Indeed he had committed a great error, and that Square discovered much
sooner than himself. Mrs Blifil (as, perhaps, the reader may have formerly
guessed) was not over and above pleased with the behaviour of her husband;
nay, to be honest, she absolutely hated him, till his death at last a
little reconciled him to her affections. It will not be therefore greatly
wondered at, if she had not the most violent regard to the offspring she
had by him. And, in fact, she had so little of this regard, that in his
infancy she seldom saw her son, or took any notice of him; and hence she
acquiesced, after a little reluctance, in all the favours which Mr
Allworthy showered on the foundling; whom the good man called his own boy,
and in all things put on an entire equality with Master Blifil. This
acquiescence in Mrs Blifil was considered by the neighbours, and by the
family, as a mark of her condescension to her brother’s humour, and she
was imagined by all others, as well as Thwackum and Square, to hate the
foundling in her heart; nay, the more civility she showed him, the more
they conceived she detested him, and the surer schemes she was laying for
his ruin: for as they thought it her interest to hate him, it was very
difficult for her to persuade them she did not.

Thwackum was the more confirmed in his opinion, as she had more than once
slily caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr Allworthy, who was an enemy to
this exercise, was abroad; whereas she had never given any such orders
concerning young Blifil. And this had likewise imposed upon Square. In
reality, though she certainly hated her own son—of which, however
monstrous it appears, I am assured she is not a singular instance—she
appeared, notwithstanding all her outward compliance, to be in her heart
sufficiently displeased with all the favour shown by Mr Allworthy to the
foundling. She frequently complained of this behind her brother’s back,
and very sharply censured him for it, both to Thwackum and Square; nay,
she would throw it in the teeth of Allworthy himself, when a little
quarrel, or miff, as it is vulgarly called, arose between them.

However, when Tom grew up, and gave tokens of that gallantry of temper
which greatly recommends men to women, this disinclination which she had
discovered to him when a child, by degrees abated, and at last she so
evidently demonstrated her affection to him to be much stronger than what
she bore her own son, that it was impossible to mistake her any longer.
She was so desirous of often seeing him, and discovered such satisfaction
and delight in his company, that before he was eighteen years old he was
become a rival to both Square and Thwackum; and what is worse, the whole
country began to talk as loudly of her inclination to Tom, as they had
before done of that which she had shown to Square: on which account the
philosopher conceived the most implacable hatred for our poor heroe.

Chapter vii. — In which the author himself makes his appearance on
the stage.

Though Mr Allworthy was not of himself hasty to see things in a
disadvantageous light, and was a stranger to the public voice, which
seldom reaches to a brother or a husband, though it rings in the ears of
all the neighbourhood; yet was this affection of Mrs Blifil to Tom, and
the preference which she too visibly gave him to her own son, of the
utmost disadvantage to that youth.

For such was the compassion which inhabited Mr Allworthy’s mind, that
nothing but the steel of justice could ever subdue it. To be unfortunate
in any respect was sufficient, if there was no demerit to counterpoise it,
to turn the scale of that good man’s pity, and to engage his friendship
and his benefaction.

When therefore he plainly saw Master Blifil was absolutely detested (for
that he was) by his own mother, he began, on that account only, to look
with an eye of compassion upon him; and what the effects of compassion
are, in good and benevolent minds, I need not here explain to most of my
readers.

Henceforward he saw every appearance of virtue in the youth through the
magnifying end, and viewed all his faults with the glass inverted, so that
they became scarce perceptible. And this perhaps the amiable temper of
pity may make commendable; but the next step the weakness of human nature
alone must excuse; for he no sooner perceived that preference which Mrs
Blifil gave to Tom, than that poor youth (however innocent) began to sink
in his affections as he rose in hers. This, it is true, would of itself
alone never have been able to eradicate Jones from his bosom; but it was
greatly injurious to him, and prepared Mr Allworthy’s mind for those
impressions which afterwards produced the mighty events that will be
contained hereafter in this history; and to which, it must be confest, the
unfortunate lad, by his own wantonness, wildness, and want of caution, too
much contributed.

In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly understood,
afford a very useful lesson to those well-disposed youths who shall
hereafter be our readers; for they may here find, that goodness of heart,
and openness of temper, though these may give them great comfort within,
and administer to an honest pride in their own minds, will by no means,
alas! do their business in the world. Prudence and circumspection are
necessary even to the best of men. They are indeed, as it were, a guard to
Virtue, without which she can never be safe. It is not enough that your
designs, nay, that your actions, are intrinsically good; you must take
care they shall appear so. If your inside be never so beautiful, you must
preserve a fair outside also. This must be constantly looked to, or malice
and envy will take care to blacken it so, that the sagacity and goodness
of an Allworthy will not be able to see through it, and to discern the
beauties within. Let this, my young readers, be your constant maxim, that
no man can be good enough to enable him to neglect the rules of prudence;
nor will Virtue herself look beautiful, unless she be bedecked with the
outward ornaments of decency and decorum. And this precept, my worthy
disciples, if you read with due attention, you will, I hope, find
sufficiently enforced by examples in the following pages.

I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on the stage. It
is in reality for my own sake, that, while I am discovering the rocks on
which innocence and goodness often split, I may not be misunderstood to
recommend the very means to my worthy readers, by which I intend to show
them they will be undone. And this, as I could not prevail on any of my
actors to speak, I myself was obliged to declare.

Chapter viii. — A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a
good-natured disposition in Tom Jones.

The reader may remember that Mr Allworthy gave Tom Jones a little horse,
as a kind of smart-money for the punishment which he imagined he had
suffered innocently.

This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him to a neighbouring
fair, and sold him.

At his return, being questioned by Thwackum what he had done with the
money for which the horse was sold, he frankly declared he would not tell
him.

“Oho!” says Thwackum, “you will not! then I will have it
out of your br—h;” that being the place to which he always
applied for information on every doubtful occasion.

Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and everything prepared for
execution, when Mr Allworthy, entering the room, gave the criminal a
reprieve, and took him with him into another apartment; where, being alone
with Tom, he put the same question to him which Thwackum had before asked
him.

Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing; but as for that
tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other answer than with a
cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be able to pay him for all his
barbarities.

Mr Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his indecent and
disrespectful expressions concerning his master; but much more for his
avowing an intention of revenge. He threatened him with the entire loss of
his favour, if he ever heard such another word from his mouth; for, he
said, he would never support or befriend a reprobate. By these and the
like declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in which that
youth was not over-sincere; for he really meditated some return for all
the smarting favours he had received at the hands of the pedagogue. He
was, however, brought by Mr Allworthy to express a concern for his
resentment against Thwackum; and then the good man, after some wholesome
admonition, permitted him to proceed, which he did as follows:—

“Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all the world:
I know the great obligations I have to you, and should detest myself if I
thought my heart was capable of ingratitude. Could the little horse you
gave me speak, I am sure he could tell you how fond I was of your present;
for I had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him. Indeed, sir, it
went to my heart to part with him; nor would I have sold him upon any
other account in the world than what I did. You yourself, sir, I am
convinced, in my case, would have done the same: for none ever so sensibly
felt the misfortunes of others. What would you feel, dear sir, if you
thought yourself the occasion of them? Indeed, sir, there never was any
misery like theirs.”

“Like whose, child?” says Allworthy: “What do you mean?”

“Oh, sir!” answered Tom, “your poor gamekeeper, with all
his large family, ever since your discarding him, have been perishing with
all the miseries of cold and hunger: I could not bear to see these poor
wretches naked and starving, and at the same time know myself to have been
the occasion of all their sufferings. I could not bear it, sir; upon my
soul, I could not.” [Here the tears ran down his cheeks, and he thus
proceeded.] “It was to save them from absolute destruction I parted
with your dear present, notwithstanding all the value I had for it: I sold
the horse for them, and they have every farthing of the money.”

Mr Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and before he spoke the
tears started from his eyes. He at length dismissed Tom with a gentle
rebuke, advising him for the future to apply to him in cases of distress,
rather than to use extraordinary means of relieving them himself.

This affair was afterwards the subject of much debate between Thwackum and
Square. Thwackum held, that this was flying in Mr Allworthy’s face, who
had intended to punish the fellow for his disobedience. He said, in some
instances, what the world called charity appeared to him to be opposing
the will of the Almighty, which had marked some particular persons for
destruction; and that this was in like manner acting in opposition to Mr
Allworthy; concluding, as usual, with a hearty recommendation of birch.

Square argued strongly on the other side, in opposition perhaps to
Thwackum, or in compliance with Mr Allworthy, who seemed very much to
approve what Jones had done. As to what he urged on this occasion, as I am
convinced most of my readers will be much abler advocates for poor Jones,
it would be impertinent to relate it. Indeed it was not difficult to
reconcile to the rule of right an action which it would have been
impossible to deduce from the rule of wrong.

Chapter ix. — Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with
the comments of Thwackum and Square.

It hath been observed by some man of much greater reputation for wisdom
than myself, that misfortunes seldom come single. An instance of this may,
I believe, be seen in those gentlemen who have the misfortune to have any
of their rogueries detected; for here discovery seldom stops till the
whole is come out. Thus it happened to poor Tom; who was no sooner
pardoned for selling the horse, than he was discovered to have some time
before sold a fine Bible which Mr Allworthy gave him, the money arising
from which sale he had disposed of in the same manner. This Bible Master
Blifil had purchased, though he had already such another of his own,
partly out of respect for the book, and partly out of friendship to Tom,
being unwilling that the Bible should be sold out of the family at
half-price. He therefore deposited the said half-price himself; for he was
a very prudent lad, and so careful of his money, that he had laid up
almost every penny which he had received from Mr Allworthy.

Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book but their own.
On the contrary, from the time when Master Blifil was first possessed of
this Bible, he never used any other. Nay, he was seen reading in it much
oftener than he had before been in his own. Now, as he frequently asked
Thwackum to explain difficult passages to him, that gentleman
unfortunately took notice of Tom’s name, which was written in many parts
of the book. This brought on an inquiry, which obliged Master Blifil to
discover the whole matter.

Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called sacrilege,
should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded immediately to
castigation: and not contented with that he acquainted Mr Allworthy, at
their next meeting, with this monstrous crime, as it appeared to him:
inveighing against Tom in the most bitter terms, and likening him to the
buyers and sellers who were driven out of the temple.

Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, he could not
perceive any higher crime in selling one book than in selling another.
That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by all laws both Divine and human,
and consequently there was no unfitness in it. He told Thwackum, that his
great concern on this occasion brought to his mind the story of a very
devout woman, who, out of pure regard to religion, stole Tillotson’s
Sermons from a lady of her acquaintance.

This story caused a vast quantity of blood to rush into the parson’s face,
which of itself was none of the palest; and he was going to reply with
great warmth and anger, had not Mrs Blifil, who was present at this
debate, interposed. That lady declared herself absolutely of Mr Square’s
side. She argued, indeed, very learnedly in support of his opinion; and
concluded with saying, if Tom had been guilty of any fault, she must
confess her own son appeared to be equally culpable; for that she could
see no difference between the buyer and the seller; both of whom were
alike to be driven out of the temple.

Mrs Blifil having declared her opinion, put an end to the debate. Square’s
triumph would almost have stopt his words, had he needed them; and
Thwackum, who, for reasons before-mentioned, durst not venture at
disobliging the lady, was almost choaked with indignation. As to Mr
Allworthy, he said, since the boy had been already punished he would not
deliver his sentiments on the occasion; and whether he was or was not
angry with the lad, I must leave to the reader’s own conjecture.

Soon after this, an action was brought against the gamekeeper by Squire
Western (the gentleman in whose manor the partridge was killed), for
depredations of the like kind. This was a most unfortunate circumstance
for the fellow, as it not only of itself threatened his ruin, but actually
prevented Mr Allworthy from restoring him to his favour: for as that
gentleman was walking out one evening with Master Blifil and young Jones,
the latter slily drew him to the habitation of Black George; where the
family of that poor wretch, namely, his wife and children, were found in
all the misery with which cold, hunger, and nakedness, can affect human
creatures: for as to the money they had received from Jones, former debts
had consumed almost the whole.

Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of Mr
Allworthy. He immediately gave the mother a couple of guineas, with which
he bid her cloath her children. The poor woman burst into tears at this
goodness, and while she was thanking him, could not refrain from
expressing her gratitude to Tom; who had, she said, long preserved both
her and hers from starving. “We have not,” says she, “had
a morsel to eat, nor have these poor children had a rag to put on, but
what his goodness hath bestowed on us.” For, indeed, besides the
horse and the Bible, Tom had sacrificed a night-gown, and other things, to
the use of this distressed family.

On their return home, Tom made use of all his eloquence to display the
wretchedness of these people, and the penitence of Black George himself;
and in this he succeeded so well, that Mr Allworthy said, he thought the
man had suffered enough for what was past; that he would forgive him, and
think of some means of providing for him and his family.

Jones was so delighted with this news, that, though it was dark when they
returned home, he could not help going back a mile, in a shower of rain,
to acquaint the poor woman with the glad tidings; but, like other hasty
divulgers of news, he only brought on himself the trouble of contradicting
it: for the ill fortune of Black George made use of the very opportunity
of his friend’s absence to overturn all again.

Chapter x. — In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different
lights.

Master Blifil fell very short of his companion in the amiable quality of
mercy; but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a much higher kind,
namely, in justice: in which he followed both the precepts and example of
Thwackum and Square; for though they would both make frequent use of the
word mercy, yet it was plain that in reality Square held it to be
inconsistent with the rule of right; and Thwackum was for doing justice,
and leaving mercy to heaven. The two gentlemen did indeed somewhat differ
in opinion concerning the objects of this sublime virtue; by which
Thwackum would probably have destroyed one half of mankind, and Square the
other half.

Master Blifil then, though he had kept silence in the presence of Jones,
yet, when he had better considered the matter, could by no means endure
the thought of suffering his uncle to confer favours on the undeserving.
He therefore resolved immediately to acquaint him with the fact which we
have above slightly hinted to the readers. The truth of which was as
follows:

The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from Mr Allworthy’s
service, and before Tom’s selling the horse, being in want of bread,
either to fill his own mouth or those of his family, as he passed through
a field belonging to Mr Western espied a hare sitting in her form. This
hare he had basely and barbarously knocked on the head, against the laws
of the land, and no less against the laws of sportsmen.

The higgler to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately taken many
months after with a quantity of game upon him, was obliged to make his
peace with the squire, by becoming evidence against some poacher. And now
Black George was pitched upon by him, as being a person already obnoxious
to Mr Western, and one of no good fame in the country. He was, besides,
the best sacrifice the higgler could make, as he had supplied him with no
game since; and by this means the witness had an opportunity of screening
his better customers: for the squire, being charmed with the power of
punishing Black George, whom a single transgression was sufficient to
ruin, made no further enquiry.

Had this fact been truly laid before Mr Allworthy, it might probably have
done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But there is no zeal blinder
than that which is inspired with the love of justice against offenders.
Master Blifil had forgot the distance of the time. He varied likewise in
the manner of the fact: and by the hasty addition of the single letter S
he considerably altered the story; for he said that George had wired
hares. These alterations might probably have been set right, had not
Master Blifil unluckily insisted on a promise of secrecy from Mr Allworthy
before he revealed the matter to him; but by that means the poor
gamekeeper was condemned without having an opportunity to defend himself:
for as the fact of killing the hare, and of the action brought, were
certainly true, Mr Allworthy had no doubt concerning the rest.

Short-lived then was the joy of these poor people; for Mr Allworthy the
next morning declared he had fresh reason, without assigning it, for his
anger, and strictly forbad Tom to mention George any more: though as for
his family, he said he would endeavour to keep them from starving; but as
to the fellow himself, he would leave him to the laws, which nothing could
keep him from breaking.

Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr Allworthy, for of Master
Blifil he had not the least suspicion. However, as his friendship was to
be tired out by no disappointments, he now determined to try another
method of preserving the poor gamekeeper from ruin.

Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr Western. He had so greatly
recommended himself to that gentleman, by leaping over five-barred gates,
and by other acts of sportsmanship, that the squire had declared Tom would
certainly make a great man if he had but sufficient encouragement. He
often wished he had himself a son with such parts; and one day very
solemnly asserted at a drinking bout, that Tom should hunt a pack of
hounds for a thousand pound of his money, with any huntsman in the whole
country.

By such kind of talents he had so ingratiated himself with the squire,
that he was a most welcome guest at his table, and a favourite companion
in his sport: everything which the squire held most dear, to wit, his
guns, dogs, and horses, were now as much at the command of Jones, as if
they had been his own. He resolved therefore to make use of this favour on
behalf of his friend Black George, whom he hoped to introduce into Mr
Western’s family, in the same capacity in which he had before served Mr
Allworthy.

The reader, if he considers that this fellow was already obnoxious to Mr
Western, and if he considers farther the weighty business by which that
gentleman’s displeasure had been incurred, will perhaps condemn this as a
foolish and desperate undertaking; but if he should totally condemn young
Jones on that account, he will greatly applaud him for strengthening
himself with all imaginable interest on so arduous an occasion.

For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr Western’s daughter, a young lady
of about seventeen years of age, whom her father, next after those
necessary implements of sport just before mentioned, loved and esteemed
above all the world. Now, as she had some influence on the squire, so Tom
had some little influence on her. But this being the intended heroine of
this work, a lady with whom we ourselves are greatly in love, and with
whom many of our readers will probably be in love too, before we part, it
is by no means proper she should make her appearance at the end of a book.

BOOK IV. — CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.

Chapter i. — Containing five pages of paper.

As truth distinguishes our writings from those idle romances which are
filled with monsters, the productions, not of nature, but of distempered
brains; and which have been therefore recommended by an eminent critic to
the sole use of the pastry-cook; so, on the other hand, we would avoid any
resemblance to that kind of history which a celebrated poet seems to think
is no less calculated for the emolument of the brewer, as the reading it
should be always attended with a tankard of good ale—

For as this is the liquor of modern historians, nay, perhaps their muse,
if we may believe the opinion of Butler, who attributes inspiration to
ale, it ought likewise to be the potation of their readers, since every
book ought to be read with the same spirit and in the same manner as it is
writ. Thus the famous author of Hurlothrumbo told a learned bishop, that
the reason his lordship could not taste the excellence of his piece was,
that he did not read it with a fiddle in his hand; which instrument he
himself had always had in his own, when he composed it.

That our work, therefore, might be in no danger of being likened to the
labours of these historians, we have taken every occasion of interspersing
through the whole sundry similes, descriptions, and other kind of poetical
embellishments. These are, indeed, designed to supply the place of the
said ale, and to refresh the mind, whenever those slumbers, which in a
long work are apt to invade the reader as well as the writer, shall begin
to creep upon him. Without interruptions of this kind, the best narrative
of plain matter of fact must overpower every reader; for nothing but the
ever lasting watchfulness, which Homer has ascribed only to Jove himself,
can be proof against a newspaper of many volumes.

We shall leave to the reader to determine with what judgment we have
chosen the several occasions for inserting those ornamental parts of our
work. Surely it will be allowed that none could be more proper than the
present, where we are about to introduce a considerable character on the
scene; no less, indeed, than the heroine of this heroic, historical,
prosaic poem. Here, therefore, we have thought proper to prepare the mind
of the reader for her reception, by filling it with every pleasing image
which we can draw from the face of nature. And for this method we plead
many precedents. First, this is an art well known to, and much practised
by, our tragick poets, who seldom fail to prepare their audience for the
reception of their principal characters.

Thus the heroe is always introduced with a flourish of drums and trumpets,
in order to rouse a martial spirit in the audience, and to accommodate
their ears to bombast and fustian, which Mr Locke’s blind man would not
have grossly erred in likening to the sound of a trumpet. Again, when
lovers are coming forth, soft music often conducts them on the stage,
either to soothe the audience with the softness of the tender passion, or
to lull and prepare them for that gentle slumber in which they will most
probably be composed by the ensuing scene.

And not only the poets, but the masters of these poets, the managers of
playhouses, seem to be in this secret; for, besides the aforesaid
kettle-drums, &c., which denote the heroe’s approach, he is generally
ushered on the stage by a large troop of half a dozen scene-shifters; and
how necessary these are imagined to his appearance, may be concluded from
the following theatrical story:—

King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an ale-house bordering on the theatre, when
he was summoned to go on the stage. The heroe, being unwilling to quit his
shoulder of mutton, and as unwilling to draw on himself the indignation of
Mr Wilks (his brother-manager) for making the audience wait, had bribed
these his harbingers to be out of the way. While Mr Wilks, therefore, was
thundering out, “Where are the carpenters to walk on before King
Pyrrhus?” that monarch very quietly eat his mutton, and the
audience, however impatient, were obliged to entertain themselves with
music in his absence.

To be plain, I much question whether the politician, who hath generally a
good nose, hath not scented out somewhat of the utility of this practice.
I am convinced that awful magistrate my lord-mayor contracts a good deal
of that reverence which attends him through the year, by the several
pageants which precede his pomp. Nay, I must confess, that even I myself,
who am not remarkably liable to be captivated with show, have yielded not
a little to the impressions of much preceding state. When I have seen a
man strutting in a procession, after others whose business was only to
walk before him, I have conceived a higher notion of his dignity than I
have felt on seeing him in a common situation. But there is one instance,
which comes exactly up to my purpose. This is the custom of sending on a
basket-woman, who is to precede the pomp at a coronation, and to strew the
stage with flowers, before the great personages begin their procession.
The antients would certainly have invoked the goddess Flora for this
purpose, and it would have been no difficulty for their priests, or
politicians to have persuaded the people of the real presence of the
deity, though a plain mortal had personated her and performed her office.
But we have no such design of imposing on our reader; and therefore those
who object to the heathen theology, may, if they please, change our
goddess into the above-mentioned basket-woman. Our intention, in short, is
to introduce our heroine with the utmost solemnity in our power, with an
elevation of stile, and all other circumstances proper to raise the
veneration of our reader.—Indeed we would, for certain causes,
advise those of our male readers who have any hearts, to read no farther,
were we not well assured, that how amiable soever the picture of our
heroine will appear, as it is really a copy from nature, many of our fair
countrywomen will be found worthy to satisfy any passion, and to answer
any idea of female perfection which our pencil will be able to raise.

And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our next chapter.

Chapter ii. — A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a
description of Miss Sophia Western.

Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the winds confine
in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy Boreas, and the sharp-pointed
nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy
fragrant bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those delicious gales,
the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora from her chamber, perfumed
with pearly dews, when on the 1st of June, her birth-day, the blooming
maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over the verdant mead, where every
flower rises to do her homage, till the whole field becomes enamelled, and
colours contend with sweets which shall ravish her most.

So charming may she now appear! and you the feathered choristers of
nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can excell, tune your
melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. From love proceeds your
music, and to love it returns. Awaken therefore that gentle passion in
every swain: for lo! adorned with all the charms in which nature can array
her; bedecked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, and
tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and darting brightness
from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes!

Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus de Medicis.
Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties at Hampton Court.
Thou may’st remember each bright Churchill of the galaxy, and all the
toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their reign was before thy times, at least
thou hast seen their daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of the
present age; whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they would
fill the whole volume.

Now if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude answer which
Lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen many things. No. If thou
hast seen all these without knowing what beauty is, thou hast no eyes; if
without feeling its power, thou hast no heart.

Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all these
without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia; for she did not
exactly resemble any of them. She was most like the picture of Lady
Ranelagh: and, I have heard, more still to the famous dutchess of
Mazarine; but most of all she resembled one whose image never can depart
from my breast, and whom, if thou dost remember, thou hast then, my
friend, an adequate idea of Sophia.

But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will endeavour with our
utmost skill to describe this paragon, though we are sensible that our
highest abilities are very inadequate to the task.

Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr Western, was a middle-sized woman;
but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was not only exact, but extremely
delicate: and the nice proportion of her arms promised the truest symmetry
in her limbs. Her hair, which was black, was so luxuriant, that it reached
her middle, before she cut it to comply with the modern fashion; and it
was now curled so gracefully in her neck, that few could believe it to be
her own. If envy could find any part of the face which demanded less
commendation than the rest, it might possibly think her forehead might
have been higher without prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even,
and arched beyond the power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre
in them, which all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose was exactly
regular, and her mouth, in which were two rows of ivory, exactly answered
Sir John Suckling’s description in those lines:—

Her cheeks were of the oval kind; and in her right she had a dimple, which
the least smile discovered. Her chin had certainly its share in forming
the beauty of her face; but it was difficult to say it was either large or
small, though perhaps it was rather of the former kind. Her complexion had
rather more of the lily than of the rose; but when exercise or modesty
increased her natural colour, no vermilion could equal it. Then one might
indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr Donne:

Her neck was long and finely turned: and here, if I was not afraid of
offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest beauties of the
famous Venus de Medicis were outdone. Here was whiteness which no
lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. The finest cambric might indeed
be supposed from envy to cover that bosom which was much whiter than
itself.—It was indeed,

Such was the outside of Sophia; nor was this beautiful frame disgraced by
an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every way equal to her person;
nay, the latter borrowed some charms from the former; for when she smiled,
the sweetness of her temper diffused that glory over her countenance which
no regularity of features can give. But as there are no perfections of the
mind which do not discover themselves in that perfect intimacy to which we
intend to introduce our reader with this charming young creature, so it is
needless to mention them here: nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our
reader’s understanding, and may also rob him of that pleasure which he
will receive in forming his own judgment of her character.

It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental accomplishments
she had derived from nature, they were somewhat improved and cultivated by
art: for she had been educated under the care of an aunt, who was a lady
of great discretion, and was thoroughly acquainted with the world, having
lived in her youth about the court, whence she had retired some years
since into the country. By her conversation and instructions, Sophia was
perfectly well bred, though perhaps she wanted a little of that ease in
her behaviour which is to be acquired only by habit, and living within
what is called the polite circle. But this, to say the truth, is often too
dearly purchased; and though it hath charms so inexpressible, that the
French, perhaps, among other qualities, mean to express this, when they
declare they know not what it is; yet its absence is well compensated by
innocence; nor can good sense and a natural gentility ever stand in need
of it.

Chapter iii. — Wherein the history goes back to commemorate a
trifling incident that happened some years since; but which, trifling as
it was, had some future consequences.

The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when she is introduced
into this history. Her father, as hath been said, was fonder of her than
of any other human creature. To her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in
order to engage her interest on the behalf of his friend the gamekeeper.

But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation of some
previous matters may be necessary.

Though the different tempers of Mr Allworthy and of Mr Western did not
admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet they lived upon what is
called a decent footing together; by which means the young people of both
families had been acquainted from their infancy; and as they were all near
of the same age, had been frequent playmates together.

The gaiety of Tom’s temper suited better with Sophia, than the grave and
sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the preference which she gave the
former of these, would often appear so plainly, that a lad of a more
passionate turn than Master Blifil was, might have shown some displeasure
at it.

As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would be an
ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his mind, as
some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of their
friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to discover
their poverty and meanness to the world.

However, as persons who suspect they have given others cause of offence,
are apt to conclude they are offended; so Sophia imputed an action of
Master Blifil to his anger, which the superior sagacity of Thwackum and
Square discerned to have arisen from a much better principle.

Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a little bird, which
he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, and taught to sing.

Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so extremely
fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, and her chief
pleasure to play with it. By these means little Tommy, for so the bird was
called, was become so tame, that it would feed out of the hand of its
mistress, would perch upon the finger, and lie contented in her bosom,
where it seemed almost sensible of its own happiness; though she always
kept a small string about its leg, nor would ever trust it with the
liberty of flying away.

One day, when Mr Allworthy and his whole family dined at Mr Western’s,
Master Blifil, being in the garden with little Sophia, and observing the
extreme fondness that she showed for her little bird, desired her to trust
it for a moment in his hands. Sophia presently complied with the young
gentleman’s request, and after some previous caution, delivered him her
bird; of which he was no sooner in possession, than he slipt the string
from its leg and tossed it into the air.

The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than forgetting
all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew directly from her,
and perched on a bough at some distance.

Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that Tom Jones, who
was at a little distance, immediately ran to her assistance.

He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he cursed Blifil for
a pitiful malicious rascal; and then immediately stripping off his coat he
applied himself to climbing the tree to which the bird escaped.

Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the branch on which it
was perched, and that hung over a canal, broke, and the poor lad plumped
over head and ears into the water.

Sophia’s concern now changed its object. And as she apprehended the boy’s
life was in danger, she screamed ten times louder than before; and indeed
Master Blifil himself now seconded her with all the vociferation in his
power.

The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, were instantly
alarmed, and came all forth; but just as they reached the canal, Tom (for
the water was luckily pretty shallow in that part) arrived safely on
shore.

Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping and shivering
before him, when Mr Allworthy desired him to have patience; and turning to
Master Blifil, said, “Pray, child, what is the reason of all this
disturbance?”

Master Blifil answered, “Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for what I
have done; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. I had Miss
Sophia’s bird in my hand, and thinking the poor creature languished for
liberty, I own I could not forbear giving it what it desired; for I always
thought there was something very cruel in confining anything. It seemed to
be against the law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty;
nay, it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be done by;
but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been so much concerned at it,
I am sure I never would have done it; nay, if I had known what would have
happened to the bird itself: for when Master Jones, who climbed up that
tree after it, fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, and
presently a nasty hawk carried it away.”

Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy’s fate (for her
concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when it happened), shed
a shower of tears. These Mr Allworthy endeavoured to assuage, promising
her a much finer bird: but she declared she would never have another. Her
father chid her for crying so for a foolish bird; but could not help
telling young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his backside should be well
flead.

Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentlemen were sent
home, and the rest of the company returned to their bottle; where a
conversation ensued on the subject of the bird, so curious, that we think
it deserves a chapter by itself.

Chapter iv. — Containing such very deep and grave matters, that some
readers, perhaps, may not relish it.

Square had no sooner lighted his pipe, than, addressing himself to
Allworthy, he thus began: “Sir, I cannot help congratulating you on
your nephew; who, at an age when few lads have any ideas but of sensible
objects, is arrived at a capacity of distinguishing right from wrong. To
confine anything, seems to me against the law of nature, by which
everything hath a right to liberty. These were his words; and the
impression they have made on me is never to be eradicated. Can any man
have a higher notion of the rule of right, and the eternal fitness of
things? I cannot help promising myself, from such a dawn, that the
meridian of this youth will be equal to that of either the elder or the
younger Brutus.”

Here Thwackum hastily interrupted, and spilling some of his wine, and
swallowing the rest with great eagerness, answered, “From another
expression he made use of, I hope he will resemble much better men. The
law of nature is a jargon of words, which means nothing. I know not of any
such law, nor of any right which can be derived from it. To do as we would
be done by, is indeed a Christian motive, as the boy well expressed
himself; and I am glad to find my instructions have borne such good fruit.”

“If vanity was a thing fit,” says Square, “I might
indulge some on the same occasion; for whence only he can have learnt his
notions of right or wrong, I think is pretty apparent. If there be no law
of nature, there is no right nor wrong.”

“How!” says the parson, “do you then banish revelation?
Am I talking with a deist or an atheist?”

“Drink about,” says Western. “Pox of your laws of
nature! I don’t know what you mean, either of you, by right and wrong. To
take away my girl’s bird was wrong, in my opinion; and my neighbour
Allworthy may do as he pleases; but to encourage boys in such practices,
is to breed them up to the gallows.”

Allworthy answered, “That he was sorry for what his nephew had done,
but could not consent to punish him, as he acted rather from a generous
than unworthy motive.” He said, “If the boy had stolen the
bird, none would have been more ready to vote for a severe chastisement
than himself; but it was plain that was not his design:” and,
indeed, it was as apparent to him, that he could have no other view but
what he had himself avowed. (For as to that malicious purpose which Sophia
suspected, it never once entered into the head of Mr Allworthy.) He at
length concluded with again blaming the action as inconsiderate, and
which, he said, was pardonable only in a child.

Square had delivered his opinion so openly, that if he was now silent, he
must submit to have his judgment censured. He said, therefore, with some
warmth, “That Mr Allworthy had too much respect to the dirty
consideration of property. That in passing our judgments on great and
mighty actions, all private regards should be laid aside; for by adhering
to those narrow rules, the younger Brutus had been condemned of
ingratitude, and the elder of parricide.”

“And if they had been hanged too for those crimes,” cried
Thwackum, “they would have had no more than their deserts. A couple
of heathenish villains! Heaven be praised we have no Brutuses now-a-days!
I wish, Mr Square, you would desist from filling the minds of my pupils
with such antichristian stuff; for the consequence must be, while they are
under my care, its being well scourged out of them again. There is your
disciple Tom almost spoiled already. I overheard him the other day
disputing with Master Blifil that there was no merit in faith without
works. I know that is one of your tenets, and I suppose he had it from
you.”

“Don’t accuse me of spoiling him,” says Square. “Who
taught him to laugh at whatever is virtuous and decent, and fit and right
in the nature of things? He is your own scholar, and I disclaim him. No,
no, Master Blifil is my boy. Young as he is, that lad’s notions of moral
rectitude I defy you ever to eradicate.”

Thwackum put on a contemptuous sneer at this, and replied, “Ay, ay,
I will venture him with you. He is too well grounded for all your
philosophical cant to hurt. No, no, I have taken care to instil such
principles into him—”

“And I have instilled principles into him too,” cries Square.
“What but the sublime idea of virtue could inspire a human mind with
the generous thought of giving liberty? And I repeat to you again, if it
was a fit thing to be proud, I might claim the honour of having infused
that idea.”—

“And if pride was not forbidden,” said Thwackum, “I
might boast of having taught him that duty which he himself assigned as
his motive.”

“So between you both,” says the squire, “the young
gentleman hath been taught to rob my daughter of her bird. I find I must
take care of my partridge-mew. I shall have some virtuous religious man or
other set all my partridges at liberty.” Then slapping a gentleman
of the law, who was present, on the back, he cried out, “What say
you to this, Mr Counsellor? Is not this against law?”

The lawyer with great gravity delivered himself as follows:—

“If the case be put of a partridge, there can be no doubt but an
action would lie; for though this be ferae naturae, yet being
reclaimed, property vests: but being the case of a singing bird, though
reclaimed, as it is a thing of base nature, it must be considered as nullius
in bonis. In this case, therefore, I conceive the plaintiff must be
non-suited; and I should disadvise the bringing any such action.”

“Well,” says the squire, “if it be nullus bonus,
let us drink about, and talk a little of the state of the nation, or some
such discourse that we all understand; for I am sure I don’t understand a
word of this. It may be learning and sense for aught I know: but you shall
never persuade me into it. Pox! you have neither of you mentioned a word
of that poor lad who deserves to be commended: to venture breaking his
neck to oblige my girl was a generous-spirited action: I have learning
enough to see that. D—n me, here’s Tom’s health! I shall love the
boy for it the longest day I have to live.”

Thus was the debate interrupted; but it would probably have been soon
resumed, had not Mr Allworthy presently called for his coach, and carried
off the two combatants.

Such was the conclusion of this adventure of the bird, and of the dialogue
occasioned by it; which we could not help recounting to our reader, though
it happened some years before that stage or period of time at which our
history is now arrived.

Chapter v. — Containing matter accommodated to every taste.

“Parva leves capiunt animos—Small things affect light minds,”
was the sentiment of a great master of the passion of love. And certain it
is, that from this day Sophia began to have some little kindness for Tom
Jones, and no little aversion for his companion.

Many accidents from time to time improved both these passions in her
breast; which, without our recounting, the reader may well conclude, from
what we have before hinted of the different tempers of these lads, and how
much the one suited with her own inclinations more than the other. To say
the truth, Sophia, when very young, discerned that Tom, though an idle,
thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody’s enemy but his own; and that
Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet, sober young gentleman, was at
the same time strongly attached to the interest only of one single person;
and who that single person was the reader will be able to divine without
any assistance of ours.

These two characters are not always received in the world with the
different regard which seems severally due to either; and which one would
imagine mankind, from self-interest, should show towards them. But perhaps
there may be a political reason for it: in finding one of a truly
benevolent disposition, men may very reasonably suppose they have found a
treasure, and be desirous of keeping it, like all other good things, to
themselves. Hence they may imagine, that to trumpet forth the praises of
such a person, would, in the vulgar phrase, be crying Roast-meat, and
calling in partakers of what they intend to apply solely to their own use.
If this reason does not satisfy the reader, I know no other means of
accounting for the little respect which I have commonly seen paid to a
character which really does great honour to human nature, and is
productive of the highest good to society. But it was otherwise with
Sophia. She honoured Tom Jones, and scorned Master Blifil, almost as soon
as she knew the meaning of those two words.

Sophia had been absent upwards of three years with her aunt; during all
which time she had seldom seen either of these young gentlemen. She dined,
however, once, together with her aunt, at Mr Allworthy’s. This was a few
days after the adventure of the partridge, before commemorated. Sophia
heard the whole story at table, where she said nothing: nor indeed could
her aunt get many words from her as she returned home; but her maid, when
undressing her, happening to say, “Well, miss, I suppose you have
seen young Master Blifil to-day?” she answered with much passion,
“I hate the name of Master Blifil, as I do whatever is base and
treacherous: and I wonder Mr Allworthy would suffer that old barbarous
schoolmaster to punish a poor boy so cruelly for what was only the effect
of his good-nature.” She then recounted the story to her maid, and
concluded with saying, “Don’t you think he is a boy of noble spirit?”

This young lady was now returned to her father; who gave her the command
of his house, and placed her at the upper end of his table, where Tom (who
for his great love of hunting was become a great favourite of the squire)
often dined. Young men of open, generous dispositions are naturally
inclined to gallantry, which, if they have good understandings, as was in
reality Tom’s case, exerts itself in an obliging complacent behaviour to
all women in general. This greatly distinguished Tom from the boisterous
brutality of mere country squires on the one hand, and from the solemn and
somewhat sullen deportment of Master Blifil on the other; and he began
now, at twenty, to have the name of a pretty fellow among all the women in
the neighbourhood.

Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps by showing her
a higher respect than he paid to any other. This distinction her beauty,
fortune, sense, and amiable carriage, seemed to demand; but as to design
upon her person he had none; for which we shall at present suffer the
reader to condemn him of stupidity; but perhaps we shall be able
indifferently well to account for it hereafter.

Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, had a remarkable
sprightliness in her temper. This was so greatly increased whenever she
was in company with Tom, that had he not been very young and thoughtless,
he must have observed it: or had not Mr Western’s thoughts been generally
either in the field, the stable, or the dog-kennel, it might have perhaps
created some jealousy in him: but so far was the good gentleman from
entertaining any such suspicions, that he gave Tom every opportunity with
his daughter which any lover could have wished; and this Tom innocently
improved to better advantage, by following only the dictates of his
natural gallantry and good-nature, than he might perhaps have done had he
had the deepest designs on the young lady.

But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter escaped the
observation of others, since poor Sophia herself never remarked it; and
her heart was irretrievably lost before she suspected it was in danger.

Matters were in this situation, when Tom, one afternoon, finding Sophia
alone, began, after a short apology, with a very serious face, to acquaint
her that he had a favour to ask of her which he hoped her goodness would
comply with.

Though neither the young man’s behaviour, nor indeed his manner of opening
this business, were such as could give her any just cause of suspecting he
intended to make love to her; yet whether Nature whispered something into
her ear, or from what cause it arose I will not determine; certain it is,
some idea of that kind must have intruded itself; for her colour forsook
her cheeks, her limbs trembled, and her tongue would have faltered, had
Tom stopped for an answer; but he soon relieved her from her perplexity,
by proceeding to inform her of his request; which was to solicit her
interest on behalf of the gamekeeper, whose own ruin, and that of a large
family, must be, he said, the consequence of Mr Western’s pursuing his
action against him.

Sophia presently recovered her confusion, and, with a smile full of
sweetness, said, “Is this the mighty favour you asked with so much
gravity? I will do it with all my heart. I really pity the poor fellow,
and no longer ago than yesterday sent a small matter to his wife.”
This small matter was one of her gowns, some linen, and ten shillings in
money, of which Tom had heard, and it had, in reality, put this
solicitation into his head.

Our youth, now, emboldened with his success, resolved to push the matter
farther, and ventured even to beg her recommendation of him to her
father’s service; protesting that he thought him one of the honestest
fellows in the country, and extremely well qualified for the place of a
gamekeeper, which luckily then happened to be vacant.

Sophia answered, “Well, I will undertake this too; but I cannot
promise you as much success as in the former part, which I assure you I
will not quit my father without obtaining. However, I will do what I can
for the poor fellow; for I sincerely look upon him and his family as
objects of great compassion. And now, Mr Jones, I must ask you a favour.”

“A favour, madam!” cries Tom: “if you knew the pleasure
you have given me in the hopes of receiving a command from you, you would
think by mentioning it you did confer the greatest favour on me; for by
this dear hand I would sacrifice my life to oblige you.”

He then snatched her hand, and eagerly kissed it, which was the first time
his lips had ever touched her. The blood, which before had forsaken her
cheeks, now made her sufficient amends, by rushing all over her face and
neck with such violence, that they became all of a scarlet colour. She now
first felt a sensation to which she had been before a stranger, and which,
when she had leisure to reflect on it, began to acquaint her with some
secrets, which the reader, if he doth not already guess them, will know in
due time.

Sophia, as soon as she could speak (which was not instantly), informed him
that the favour she had to desire of him was, not to lead her father
through so many dangers in hunting; for that, from what she had heard, she
was terribly frightened every time they went out together, and expected
some day or other to see her father brought home with broken limbs. She
therefore begged him, for her sake, to be more cautious; and as he well
knew Mr Western would follow him, not to ride so madly, nor to take those
dangerous leaps for the future.

Tom promised faithfully to obey her commands; and after thanking her for
her kind compliance with his request, took his leave, and departed highly
charmed with his success.

Poor Sophia was charmed too, but in a very different way. Her sensations,
however, the reader’s heart (if he or she have any) will better represent
than I can, if I had as many mouths as ever poet wished for, to eat, I
suppose, those many dainties with which he was so plentifully provided.

It was Mr Western’s custom every afternoon, as soon as he was drunk, to
hear his daughter play on the harpsichord; for he was a great lover of
music, and perhaps, had he lived in town, might have passed for a
connoisseur; for he always excepted against the finest compositions of Mr
Handel. He never relished any music but what was light and airy; and
indeed his most favourite tunes were Old Sir Simon the King, St George he
was for England, Bobbing Joan, and some others.

His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, and would never
willingly have played any but Handel’s, was so devoted to her father’s
pleasure, that she learnt all those tunes to oblige him. However, she
would now and then endeavour to lead him into her own taste; and when he
required the repetition of his ballads, would answer with a “Nay,
dear sir;” and would often beg him to suffer her to play something
else.

This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from his bottle, she
played all his favourites three times over without any solicitation. This
so pleased the good squire, that he started from his couch, gave his
daughter a kiss, and swore her hand was greatly improved. She took this
opportunity to execute her promise to Tom; in which she succeeded so well,
that the squire declared, if she would give him t’other bout of Old Sir
Simon, he would give the gamekeeper his deputation the next morning. Sir
Simon was played again and again, till the charms of the music soothed Mr
Western to sleep. In the morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his
engagement; and his attorney was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any
further proceedings in the action, and to make out the deputation.

Tom’s success in this affair soon began to ring over the country, and
various were the censures passed upon it; some greatly applauding it as an
act of good nature; others sneering, and saying, “No wonder that one
idle fellow should love another.” Young Blifil was greatly enraged
at it. He had long hated Black George in the same proportion as Jones
delighted in him; not from any offence which he had ever received, but
from his great love to religion and virtue;—for Black George had the
reputation of a loose kind of a fellow. Blifil therefore represented this
as flying in Mr Allworthy’s face; and declared, with great concern, that
it was impossible to find any other motive for doing good to such a
wretch.

Thwackum and Square likewise sung to the same tune. They were now
(especially the latter) become greatly jealous of young Jones with the
widow; for he now approached the age of twenty, was really a fine young
fellow, and that lady, by her encouragements to him, seemed daily more and
more to think him so.

Allworthy was not, however, moved with their malice. He declared himself
very well satisfied with what Jones had done. He said the perseverance and
integrity of his friendship was highly commendable, and he wished he could
see more frequent instances of that virtue.

But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such sparks as my friend Tom,
perhaps because they do not pay more ardent addresses to her, gave now a
very different turn to all his actions, and showed them to Mr Allworthy in
a light far less agreeable than that gentleman’s goodness had hitherto
seen them in.

Chapter vi. — An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all
the charms of the lovely Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a
considerable degree, lower his character in the estimation of those men of
wit and gallantry who approve the heroes in most of our modern comedies.

There are two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have already conceived
some contempt for my heroe, on account of his behaviour to Sophia. The
former of these will blame his prudence in neglecting an opportunity to
possess himself of Mr Western’s fortune; and the latter will no less
despise him for his backwardness to so fine a girl, who seemed ready to
fly into his arms, if he would open them to receive her.

Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit him of either
of these charges (for want of prudence admits of no excuse; and what I
shall produce against the latter charge will, I apprehend, be scarce
satisfactory); yet, as evidence may sometimes be offered in mitigation, I
shall set forth the plain matter of fact, and leave the whole to the
reader’s determination.

Mr Jones had somewhat about him, which, though I think writers are not
thoroughly agreed in its name, doth certainly inhabit some human breasts;
whose use is not so properly to distinguish right from wrong, as to prompt
and incite them to the former, and to restrain and withhold them from the
latter.

This somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous trunk-maker in the
playhouse; for, whenever the person who is possessed of it doth what is
right, no ravished or friendly spectator is so eager or so loud in his
applause: on the contrary, when he doth wrong, no critic is so apt to hiss
and explode him.

To give a higher idea of the principle I mean, as well as one more
familiar to the present age; it may be considered as sitting on its throne
in the mind, like the Lord High Chancellor of this kingdom in his court;
where it presides, governs, directs, judges, acquits, and condemns
according to merit and justice, with a knowledge which nothing escapes, a
penetration which nothing can deceive, and an integrity which nothing can
corrupt.

This active principle may perhaps be said to constitute the most essential
barrier between us and our neighbours the brutes; for if there be some in
the human shape who are not under any such dominion, I choose rather to
consider them as deserters from us to our neighbours; among whom they will
have the fate of deserters, and not be placed in the first rank.

Our heroe, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square I will not
determine, was very strongly under the guidance of this principle; for
though he did not always act rightly, yet he never did otherwise without
feeling and suffering for it. It was this which taught him, that to repay
the civilities and little friendships of hospitality by robbing the house
where you have received them, is to be the basest and meanest of thieves.
He did not think the baseness of this offence lessened by the height of
the injury committed; on the contrary, if to steal another’s plate
deserved death and infamy, it seemed to him difficult to assign a
punishment adequate to the robbing a man of his whole fortune, and of his
child into the bargain.

This principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought of making his
fortune by such means (for this, as I have said, is an active principle,
and doth not content itself with knowledge or belief only). Had he been
greatly enamoured of Sophia, he possibly might have thought otherwise; but
give me leave to say, there is great difference between running away with
a man’s daughter from the motive of love, and doing the same thing from
the motive of theft.

Now, though this young gentleman was not insensible of the charms of
Sophia; though he greatly liked her beauty, and esteemed all her other
qualifications, she had made, however, no deep impression on his heart;
for which, as it renders him liable to the charge of stupidity, or at
least of want of taste, we shall now proceed to account.

The truth then is, his heart was in the possession of another woman. Here
I question not but the reader will be surprized at our long taciturnity as
to this matter; and quite at a loss to divine who this woman was, since we
have hitherto not dropt a hint of any one likely to be a rival to Sophia;
for as to Mrs Blifil, though we have been obliged to mention some
suspicions of her affection for Tom, we have not hitherto given the least
latitude for imagining that he had any for her; and, indeed, I am sorry to
say it, but the youth of both sexes are too apt to be deficient in their
gratitude for that regard with which persons more advanced in years are
sometimes so kind to honour them.

That the reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be pleased to
remember, that we have often mentioned the family of George Seagrim
(commonly called Black George, the gamekeeper), which consisted at present
of a wife and five children.

The second of these children was a daughter, whose name was Molly, and who
was esteemed one of the handsomest girls in the whole country.

Congreve well says there is in true beauty something which vulgar souls
cannot admire; so can no dirt or rags hide this something from those souls
which are not of the vulgar stamp.

The beauty of this girl made, however, no impression on Tom, till she grew
towards the age of sixteen, when Tom, who was near three years older,
began first to cast the eyes of affection upon her. And this affection he
had fixed on the girl long before he could bring himself to attempt the
possession of her person: for though his constitution urged him greatly to
this, his principles no less forcibly restrained him. To debauch a young
woman, however low her condition was, appeared to him a very heinous
crime; and the good-will he bore the father, with the compassion he had
for his family, very strongly corroborated all such sober reflections; so
that he once resolved to get the better of his inclinations, and he
actually abstained three whole months without ever going to Seagrim’s
house, or seeing his daughter.

Now, though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought a very fine
girl, and in reality she was so, yet her beauty was not of the most
amiable kind. It had, indeed, very little of feminine in it, and would
have become a man at least as well as a woman; for, to say the truth,
youth and florid health had a very considerable share in the composition.

Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and
robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had she of modesty, that
Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as most
probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she perceived his
backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward; and when she saw he
had entirely deserted the house, she found means of throwing herself in
his way, and behaved in such a manner that the youth must have had very
much or very little of the heroe if her endeavours had proved
unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over all the virtuous
resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last with all decent
reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in
fact, it was her design which succeeded.

In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part, that
Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered the
young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his passion.
He likewise imputed her yielding to the ungovernable force of her love
towards him; and this the reader will allow to have been a very natural
and probable supposition, as we have more than once mentioned the uncommon
comeliness of his person: and, indeed, he was one of the handsomest young
fellows in the world.

As there are some minds whose affections, like Master Blifil’s, are solely
placed on one single person, whose interest and indulgence alone they
consider on every occasion; regarding the good and ill of all others as
merely indifferent, any farther than as they contribute to the pleasure or
advantage of that person: so there is a different temper of mind which
borrows a degree of virtue even from self-love. Such can never receive any
kind of satisfaction from another, without loving the creature to whom
that satisfaction is owing, and without making its well-being in some sort
necessary to their own ease.

Of this latter species was our heroe. He considered this poor girl as one
whose happiness or misery he had caused to be dependent on himself. Her
beauty was still the object of desire, though greater beauty, or a fresher
object, might have been more so; but the little abatement which fruition
had occasioned to this was highly overbalanced by the considerations of
the affection which she visibly bore him, and of the situation into which
he had brought her. The former of these created gratitude, the latter
compassion; and both, together with his desire for her person, raised in
him a passion which might, without any great violence to the word, be
called love; though, perhaps, it was at first not very judiciously placed.

This, then, was the true reason of that insensibility which he had shown
to the charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in her which might have been
reasonably enough interpreted as an encouragement to his addresses; for as
he could not think of abandoning his Molly, poor and destitute as she was,
so no more could he entertain a notion of betraying such a creature as
Sophia. And surely, had he given the least encouragement to any passion
for that young lady, he must have been absolutely guilty of one or other
of those crimes; either of which would, in my opinion, have very justly
subjected him to that fate, which, at his first introduction into this
history, I mentioned to have been generally predicted as his certain
destiny.

Chapter vii. — Being the shortest chapter in this book.

Her mother first perceived the alteration in the shape of Molly; and in
order to hide it from her neighbours, she foolishly clothed her in that
sack which Sophia had sent her; though, indeed, that young lady had little
apprehension that the poor woman would have been weak enough to let any of
her daughters wear it in that form.

Molly was charmed with the first opportunity she ever had of showing her
beauty to advantage; for though she could very well bear to contemplate
herself in the glass, even when dressed in rags; and though she had in
that dress conquered the heart of Jones, and perhaps of some others; yet
she thought the addition of finery would much improve her charms, and
extend her conquests.

Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, with a new
laced cap, and some other ornaments which Tom had given her, repairs to
church with her fan in her hand the very next Sunday. The great are
deceived if they imagine they have appropriated ambition and vanity to
themselves. These noble qualities flourish as notably in a country church
and churchyard as in the drawing-room, or in the closet. Schemes have
indeed been laid in the vestry which would hardly disgrace the conclave.
Here is a ministry, and here is an opposition. Here are plots and
circumventions, parties and factions, equal to those which are to be found
in courts.

Nor are the women here less practised in the highest feminine arts than
their fair superiors in quality and fortune. Here are prudes and
coquettes. Here are dressing and ogling, falsehood, envy, malice, scandal;
in short, everything which is common to the most splendid assembly, or
politest circle. Let those of high life, therefore, no longer despise the
ignorance of their inferiors; nor the vulgar any longer rail at the vices
of their betters.

Molly had seated herself some time before she was known by her neighbours.
And then a whisper ran through the whole congregation, “Who is she?”
but when she was discovered, such sneering, gigling, tittering, and
laughing ensued among the women, that Mr Allworthy was obliged to exert
his authority to preserve any decency among them.

Chapter viii. — A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style,
and which none but the classical reader can taste.

Mr Western had an estate in this parish; and as his house stood at little
greater distance from this church than from his own, he very often came to
Divine Service here; and both he and the charming Sophia happened to be
present at this time.

Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom she pitied for
her simplicity in having dressed herself in that manner, as she saw the
envy which it had occasioned among her equals. She no sooner came home
than she sent for the gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring his daughter to
her; saying she would provide for her in the family, and might possibly
place the girl about her own person, when her own maid, who was now going
away, had left her.

Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no stranger to the
fault in the shape of his daughter. He answered, in a stammering voice,
“That he was afraid Molly would be too awkward to wait on her
ladyship, as she had never been at service.” “No matter for
that,” says Sophia; “she will soon improve. I am pleased with
the girl, and am resolved to try her.”

Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent counsel he
depended to extricate him out of this dilemma; but when he came thither he
found his house in some confusion. So great envy had this sack occasioned,
that when Mr Allworthy and the other gentry were gone from church, the
rage, which had hitherto been confined, burst into an uproar; and, having
vented itself at first in opprobrious words, laughs, hisses, and gestures,
betook itself at last to certain missile weapons; which, though from their
plastic nature they threatened neither the loss of life or of limb, were
however sufficiently dreadful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much
spirit to bear this treatment tamely. Having therefore—but hold, as
we are diffident of our own abilities, let us here invite a superior power
to our assistance.

Ye Muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and principally
thou who whilom didst recount the slaughter in those fields where Hudibras
and Trulla fought, if thou wert not starved with thy friend Butler, assist
me on this great occasion. All things are not in the power of all.

As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer’s yard, if, while they are milked,
they hear their calves at a distance, lamenting the robbery which is then
committing, roar and bellow; so roared forth the Somersetshire mob an
hallaloo, made up of almost as many squalls, screams, and other different
sounds as there were persons, or indeed passions among them: some were
inspired by rage, others alarmed by fear, and others had nothing in their
heads but the love of fun; but chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan, and his
constant companion, rushed among the crowd, and blew up the fury of the
women; who no sooner came up to Molly than they pelted her with dirt and
rubbish.

Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome retreat, faced about;
and laying hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front of the enemy,
she at one blow felled her to the ground. The whole army of the enemy
(though near a hundred in number), seeing the fate of their general, gave
back many paces, and retired behind a new-dug grave; for the churchyard
was the field of battle, where there was to be a funeral that very
evening. Molly pursued her victory, and catching up a skull which lay on
the side of the grave, discharged it with such fury, that having hit a
taylor on the head, the two skulls sent equally forth a hollow sound at
their meeting, and the taylor took presently measure of his length on the
ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful which was
the more valuable of the two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her hand,
fell in among the flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great
liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty heroe
and heroine.

Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day. First,
Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder head the direful bone. Him the pleasant
banks of sweetly-winding Stour had nourished, where he first learnt the
vocal art, with which, wandering up and down at wakes and fairs, he
cheered the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green they interweaved
the sprightly dance; while he himself stood fiddling and jumping to his
own music. How little now avails his fiddle! He thumps the verdant floor
with his carcass. Next, old Echepole, the sowgelder, received a blow in
his forehead from our Amazonian heroine, and immediately fell to the
ground. He was a swinging fat fellow, and fell with almost as much noise
as a house. His tobacco-box dropped at the same time from his pocket,
which Molly took up as lawful spoils. Then Kate of the Mill tumbled
unfortunately over a tombstone, which catching hold of her ungartered
stocking inverted the order of nature, and gave her heels the superiority
to her head. Betty Pippin, with young Roger her lover, fell both to the
ground; where, oh perverse fate! she salutes the earth, and he the sky.
Tom Freckle, the smith’s son, was the next victim to her rage. He was an
ingenious workman, and made excellent pattens; nay, the very patten with
which he was knocked down was his own workmanship. Had he been at that
time singing psalms in the church, he would have avoided a broken head.
Miss Crow, the daughter of a farmer; John Giddish, himself a farmer; Nan
Slouch, Esther Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter,
whose father keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack
Ostler, and many others of inferior note, lay rolling among the graves.

Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for many of them in
their flight overthrew each other.

But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, and had inclined
too long to the same side, especially as it was the right side, hastily
turned about: for now Goody Brown—whom Zekiel Brown caressed in his
arms; nor he alone, but half the parish besides; so famous was she in the
fields of Venus, nor indeed less in those of Mars. The trophies of both
these her husband always bore about on his head and face; for if ever
human head did by its horns display the amorous glories of a wife,
Zekiel’s did; nor did his well-scratched face less denote her talents (or
rather talons) of a different kind.

No longer bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. She stopt
short, and, calling aloud to all who fled, spoke as follows: “Ye
Somersetshire men, or rather ye Somersetshire women, are ye not ashamed
thus to fly from a single woman? But if no other will oppose her, I myself
and Joan Top here will have the honour of the victory.” Having thus
said, she flew at Molly Seagrim, and easily wrenched the thigh-bone from
her hand, at the same time clawing off her cap from her head. Then laying
hold of the hair of Molly with her left hand, she attacked her so
furiously in the face with the right, that the blood soon began to trickle
from her nose. Molly was not idle this while. She soon removed the clout
from the head of Goody Brown, and then fastening on her hair with one
hand, with the other she caused another bloody stream to issue forth from
the nostrils of the enemy.

When each of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils of hair from
the head of her antagonist, the next rage was against the garments. In
this attack they exerted so much violence, that in a very few minutes they
were both naked to the middle.

It is lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuff war is not the same
with them as among men; but though they may seem a little to deviate from
their sex, when they go forth to battle, yet I have observed, they never
so far forget, as to assail the bosoms of each other; where a few blows
would be fatal to most of them. This, I know, some derive from their being
of a more bloody inclination than the males. On which account they apply
to the nose, as to the part whence blood may most easily be drawn; but
this seems a far-fetched as well as ill-natured supposition.

Goody Brown had great advantage of Molly in this particular; for the
former had indeed no breasts, her bosom (if it may be so called), as well
in colour as in many other properties, exactly resembling an antient piece
of parchment, upon which any one might have drummed a considerable while
without doing her any great damage.

Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was differently formed in
those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted the envy of Brown to give
her a fatal blow, had not the lucky arrival of Tom Jones at this instant
put an immediate end to the bloody scene.

This accident was luckily owing to Mr Square; for he, Master Blifil, and
Jones, had mounted their horses, after church, to take the air, and had
ridden about a quarter of a mile, when Square, changing his mind (not
idly, but for a reason which we shall unfold as soon as we have leisure),
desired the young gentlemen to ride with him another way than they had at
first purposed. This motion being complied with, brought them of necessity
back again to the churchyard.

Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, and two women
in the posture in which we left the combatants, stopt his horse to enquire
what was the matter. A country fellow, scratching his head, answered him:
“I don’t know, measter, un’t I; an’t please your honour, here hath
been a vight, I think, between Goody Brown and Moll Seagrim.”

“Who, who?” cries Tom; but without waiting for an answer,
having discovered the features of his Molly through all the discomposure
in which they now were, he hastily alighted, turned his horse loose, and,
leaping over the wall, ran to her. She now first bursting into tears, told
him how barbarously she had been treated. Upon which, forgetting the sex
of Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing it in his rage—for, in
reality, she had no feminine appearance but a petticoat, which he might
not observe—he gave her a lash or two with his horsewhip; and then
flying at the mob, who were all accused by Moll, he dealt his blows so
profusely on all sides, that unless I would again invoke the muse (which
the good-natured reader may think a little too hard upon her, as she hath
so lately been violently sweated), it would be impossible for me to
recount the horse-whipping of that day.

Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of Homer’s
heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote or any knight-errant in the world could
have done, he returned to Molly, whom he found in a condition which must
give both me and my reader pain, was it to be described here. Tom raved
like a madman, beat his breast, tore his hair, stamped on the ground, and
vowed the utmost vengeance on all who had been concerned. He then pulled
off his coat, and buttoned it round her, put his hat upon her head, wiped
the blood from her face as well as he could with his handkerchief, and
called out to the servant to ride as fast as possible for a side-saddle,
or a pillion, that he might carry her safe home.

Master Blifil objected to the sending away the servant, as they had only
one with them; but as Square seconded the order of Jones, he was obliged
to comply.

The servant returned in a very short time with the pillion, and Molly,
having collected her rags as well as she could, was placed behind him. In
which manner she was carried home, Square, Blifil, and Jones attending.

Here Jones having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, and whispered
her, that he would return in the evening, quitted his Molly, and rode on
after his companions.

Chapter ix. — Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.

Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed rags, than her
sisters began to fall violently upon her, particularly her eldest sister,
who told her she was well enough served. “How had she the assurance
to wear a gown which young Madam Western had given to mother! If one of us
was to wear it, I think,” says she, “I myself have the best
right; but I warrant you think it belongs to your beauty. I suppose you
think yourself more handsomer than any of us.”—“Hand her
down the bit of glass from over the cupboard,” cries another;
“I’d wash the blood from my face before I talked of my beauty.”—“You’d
better have minded what the parson says,” cries the eldest, “and
not a harkened after men voke.”—“Indeed, child, and so
she had,” says the mother, sobbing: “she hath brought a
disgrace upon us all. She’s the vurst of the vamily that ever was a whore.”

“You need not upbraid me with that, mother,” cries Molly;
“you yourself was brought-to-bed of sister there, within a week
after you was married.”

“Yes, hussy,” answered the enraged mother, “so I was,
and what was the mighty matter of that? I was made an honest woman then;
and if you was to be made an honest woman, I should not be angry; but you
must have to doing with a gentleman, you nasty slut; you will have a
bastard, hussy, you will; and that I defy any one to say of me.”

In this situation Black George found his family, when he came home for the
purpose before mentioned. As his wife and three daughters were all of them
talking together, and most of them crying, it was some time before he
could get an opportunity of being heard; but as soon as such an interval
occurred, he acquainted the company with what Sophia had said to him.

Goody Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. “Here,”
says she, “you have brought us into a fine quandary indeed. What
will madam say to that big belly? Oh that ever I should live to see this
day!”

Molly answered with great spirit, “And what is this mighty place
which you have got for me, father?” (for he had not well understood
the phrase used by Sophia of being about her person). “I suppose it
is to be under the cook; but I shan’t wash dishes for anybody. My
gentleman will provide better for me. See what he hath given me this
afternoon. He hath promised I shall never want money; and you shan’t want
money neither, mother, if you will hold your tongue, and know when you are
well.” And so saying, she pulled out several guineas, and gave her
mother one of them.

The good woman no sooner felt the gold within her palm, than her temper
began (such is the efficacy of that panacea) to be mollified. “Why,
husband,” says she, “would any but such a blockhead as you not
have enquired what place this was before he had accepted it? Perhaps, as
Molly says, it may be in the kitchen; and truly I don’t care my daughter
should be a scullion wench; for, poor as I am, I am a gentlewoman. And
thof I was obliged, as my father, who was a clergyman, died worse than
nothing, and so could not give me a shilling of potion, to
undervalue myself by marrying a poor man; yet I would have you to know, I
have a spirit above all them things. Marry come up! it would better become
Madam Western to look at home, and remember who her own grandfather was.
Some of my family, for aught I know, might ride in their coaches, when the
grandfathers of some voke walked a-voot. I warrant she fancies she did a
mighty matter, when she sent us that old gownd; some of my family would
not have picked up such rags in the street; but poor people are always
trampled upon.—The parish need not have been in such a fluster with
Molly. You might have told them, child, your grandmother wore better
things new out of the shop.”

“Well, but consider,” cried George, “what answer shall I
make to madam?”

“I don’t know what answer,” says she; “you are always
bringing your family into one quandary or other. Do you remember when you
shot the partridge, the occasion of all our misfortunes? Did not I advise
you never to go into Squire Western’s manor? Did not I tell you many a
good year ago what would come of it? But you would have your own
headstrong ways; yes, you would, you villain.”

Black George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, and nothing
choleric nor rash; yet did he bear about him something of what the
antients called the irascible, and which his wife, if she had been endowed
with much wisdom, would have feared. He had long experienced, that when
the storm grew very high, arguments were but wind, which served rather to
increase, than to abate it. He was therefore seldom unprovided with a
small switch, a remedy of wonderful force, as he had often essayed, and
which the word villain served as a hint for his applying.

No sooner, therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he had immediate
recourse to the said remedy, which though, as it is usual in all very
efficacious medicines, it at first seemed to heighten and inflame the
disease, soon produced a total calm, and restored the patient to perfect
ease and tranquillity.

This is, however, a kind of horse-medicine, which requires a very robust
constitution to digest, and is therefore proper only for the vulgar,
unless in one single instance, viz., where superiority of birth breaks
out; in which case, we should not think it very improperly applied by any
husband whatever, if the application was not in itself so base, that, like
certain applications of the physical kind which need not be mentioned, it
so much degrades and contaminates the hand employed in it, that no
gentleman should endure the thought of anything so low and detestable.

The whole family were soon reduced to a state of perfect quiet; for the
virtue of this medicine, like that of electricity, is often communicated
through one person to many others, who are not touched by the instrument.
To say the truth, as they both operate by friction, it may be doubted
whether there is not something analogous between them, of which Mr Freke
would do well to enquire, before he publishes the next edition of his
book.

A council was now called, in which, after many debates, Molly still
persisting that she would not go to service, it was at length resolved,
that Goody Seagrim herself should wait on Miss Western, and endeavour to
procure the place for her eldest daughter, who declared great readiness to
accept it: but Fortune, who seems to have been an enemy of this little
family, afterwards put a stop to her promotion.

Chapter x. — A story told by Mr Supple, the curate. The penetration
of Squire Western. His great love for his daughter, and the return to it
made by her.

The next morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr Western, and was at his return
invited by that gentleman to dinner.

The lovely Sophia shone forth that day with more gaiety and sprightliness
than usual. Her battery was certainly levelled at our heroe; though, I
believe, she herself scarce yet knew her own intention; but if she had any
design of charming him, she now succeeded.

Mr Supple, the curate of Mr Allworthy’s parish, made one of the company.
He was a good-natured worthy man; but chiefly remarkable for his great
taciturnity at table, though his mouth was never shut at it. In short, he
had one of the best appetites in the world. However, the cloth was no
sooner taken away, than he always made sufficient amends for his silence:
for he was a very hearty fellow; and his conversation was often
entertaining, never offensive.

At his first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance of the
roast-beef, he had given an intimation that he had brought some news with
him, and was beginning to tell, that he came that moment from Mr
Allworthy’s, when the sight of the roast-beef struck him dumb, permitting
him only to say grace, and to declare he must pay his respect to the
baronet, for so he called the sirloin.

When dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his news, he began as
follows: “I believe, lady, your ladyship observed a young woman at
church yesterday at even-song, who was drest in one of your outlandish
garments; I think I have seen your ladyship in such a one. However, in the
country, such dresses are

That is, madam, as much as to say, ‘A rare bird upon the earth, and very
like a black swan.’ The verse is in Juvenal. But to return to what I was
relating. I was saying such garments are rare sights in the country; and
perchance, too, it was thought the more rare, respect being had to the
person who wore it, who, they tell me, is the daughter of Black George,
your worship’s gamekeeper, whose sufferings, I should have opined, might
have taught him more wit, than to dress forth his wenches in such gaudy
apparel. She created so much confusion in the congregation, that if Squire
Allworthy had not silenced it, it would have interrupted the service: for
I was once about to stop in the middle of the first lesson. Howbeit,
nevertheless, after prayer was over, and I was departed home, this
occasioned a battle in the churchyard, where, amongst other mischief, the
head of a travelling fidler was very much broken. This morning the fidler
came to Squire Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought before
him. The squire was inclined to have compounded matters; when, lo! on a
sudden the wench appeared (I ask your ladyship’s pardon) to be, as it
were, at the eve of bringing forth a bastard. The squire demanded of her
who was the father? But she pertinaciously refused to make any response.
So that he was about to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I departed.”

“And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?” cries
Western; “I thought it might have been some public matter, something
about the nation.”

“I am afraid it is too common, indeed,” answered the parson;
“but I thought the whole story altogether deserved commemorating. As
to national matters, your worship knows them best. My concerns extend no
farther than my own parish.”

“Why, ay,” says the squire, “I believe I do know a
little of that matter, as you say. But, come, Tommy, drink about; the
bottle stands with you.”

Tom begged to be excused, for that he had particular business; and getting
up from table, escaped the clutches of the squire, who was rising to stop
him, and went off with very little ceremony.

The squire gave him a good curse at his departure; and then turning to the
parson, he cried out, “I smoke it: I smoke it. Tom is certainly the
father of this bastard. Zooks, parson, you remember how he recommended the
veather o’ her to me. D—n un, what a sly b—ch ’tis. Ay, ay, as
sure as two-pence, Tom is the veather of the bastard.”

“I should be very sorry for that,” says the parson.

“Why sorry,” cries the squire: “Where is the mighty
matter o’t? What, I suppose dost pretend that thee hast never got a
bastard? Pox! more good luck’s thine? for I warrant hast a done a therefore
many’s the good time and often.”

“Your worship is pleased to be jocular,” answered the parson;
“but I do not only animadvert on the sinfulness of the action—though
that surely is to be greatly deprecated—but I fear his
unrighteousness may injure him with Mr Allworthy. And truly I must say,
though he hath the character of being a little wild, I never saw any harm
in the young man; nor can I say I have heard any, save what your worship
now mentions. I wish, indeed, he was a little more regular in his
responses at church; but altogether he seems

That is a classical line, young lady; and, being rendered into English,
is, `a lad of an ingenuous countenance, and of an ingenuous modesty;’ for
this was a virtue in great repute both among the Latins and Greeks. I must
say, the young gentleman (for so I think I may call him, notwithstanding
his birth) appears to me a very modest, civil lad, and I should be sorry
that he should do himself any injury in Squire Allworthy’s opinion.”

“Poogh!” says the squire: “Injury, with Allworthy! Why,
Allworthy loves a wench himself. Doth not all the country know whose son
Tom is? You must talk to another person in that manner. I remember
Allworthy at college.”

“I thought,” said the parson, “he had never been at the
university.”

“Yes, yes, he was,” says the squire: “and many a wench
have we two had together. As arrant a whore-master as any within five
miles o’un. No, no. It will do’n no harm with he, assure yourself; nor
with anybody else. Ask Sophy there—You have not the worse opinion of
a young fellow for getting a bastard, have you, girl? No, no, the women
will like un the better for’t.”

This was a cruel question to poor Sophia. She had observed Tom’s colour
change at the parson’s story; and that, with his hasty and abrupt
departure, gave her sufficient reason to think her father’s suspicion not
groundless. Her heart now at once discovered the great secret to her which
it had been so long disclosing by little and little; and she found herself
highly interested in this matter. In such a situation, her father’s
malapert question rushing suddenly upon her, produced some symptoms which
might have alarmed a suspicious heart; but, to do the squire justice, that
was not his fault. When she rose therefore from her chair, and told him a
hint from him was always sufficient to make her withdraw, he suffered her
to leave the room, and then with great gravity of countenance remarked,
“That it was better to see a daughter over-modest than over-forward;”—a
sentiment which was highly applauded by the parson.

There now ensued between the squire and the parson a most excellent
political discourse, framed out of newspapers and political pamphlets; in
which they made a libation of four bottles of wine to the good of their
country: and then, the squire being fast asleep, the parson lighted his
pipe, mounted his horse, and rode home.

When the squire had finished his half-hour’s nap, he summoned his daughter
to her harpsichord; but she begged to be excused that evening, on account
of a violent head-ache. This remission was presently granted; for indeed
she seldom had occasion to ask him twice, as he loved her with such ardent
affection, that, by gratifying her, he commonly conveyed the highest
gratification to himself. She was really, what he frequently called her,
his little darling, and she well deserved to be so; for she returned all
his affection in the most ample manner. She had preserved the most
inviolable duty to him in all things; and this her love made not only
easy, but so delightful, that when one of her companions laughed at her
for placing so much merit in such scrupulous obedience, as that young lady
called it, Sophia answered, “You mistake me, madam, if you think I
value myself upon this account; for besides that I am barely discharging
my duty, I am likewise pleasing myself. I can truly say I have no delight
equal to that of contributing to my father’s happiness; and if I value
myself, my dear, it is on having this power, and not on executing it.”

This was a satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was incapable of
tasting this evening. She therefore not only desired to be excused from
her attendance at the harpsichord, but likewise begged that he would
suffer her to absent herself from supper. To this request likewise the
squire agreed, though not without some reluctance; for he scarce ever
permitted her to be out of his sight, unless when he was engaged with his
horses, dogs, or bottle. Nevertheless he yielded to the desire of his
daughter, though the poor man was at the same time obliged to avoid his
own company (if I may so express myself), by sending for a neighbouring
farmer to sit with him.

Chapter xi. — The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some
observations for which we have been forced to dive pretty deep into
nature.

Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr Western’s horses that morning in the chase;
so that having no horse of his own in the squire’s stable, he was obliged
to go home on foot: this he did so expeditiously that he ran upwards of
three miles within the half-hour.

Just as he arrived at Mr Allworthy’s outward gate, he met the constable
and company with Molly in their possession, whom they were conducting to
that house where the inferior sort of people may learn one good lesson,
viz., respect and deference to their superiors; since it must show them
the wide distinction Fortune intends between those persons who are to be
corrected for their faults, and those who are not; which lesson if they do
not learn, I am afraid they very rarely learn any other good lesson, or
improve their morals, at the house of correction.

A lawyer may perhaps think Mr Allworthy exceeded his authority a little in
this instance. And, to say the truth, I question, as here was no regular
information before him, whether his conduct was strictly regular. However,
as his intention was truly upright, he ought to be excused in foro
conscientiae; since so many arbitrary acts are daily committed by
magistrates who have not this excuse to plead for themselves.

Tom was no sooner informed by the constable whither they were proceeding
(indeed he pretty well guessed it of himself), than he caught Molly in his
arms, and embracing her tenderly before them all, swore he would murder
the first man who offered to lay hold of her. He bid her dry her eyes and
be comforted; for, wherever she went, he would accompany her. Then turning
to the constable, who stood trembling with his hat off, he desired him, in
a very mild voice, to return with him for a moment only to his father (for
so he now called Allworthy); for he durst, he said, be assured, that, when
he had alledged what he had to say in her favour, the girl would be
discharged.

The constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surrendered his prisoner
had Tom demanded her, very readily consented to this request. So back they
all went into Mr Allworthy’s hall; where Tom desired them to stay till his
return, and then went himself in pursuit of the good man. As soon as he
was found, Tom threw himself at his feet, and having begged a patient
hearing, confessed himself to be the father of the child of which Molly
was then big. He entreated him to have compassion on the poor girl, and to
consider, if there was any guilt in the case, it lay principally at his
door.

“If there is any guilt in the case!” answered Allworthy
warmly: “Are you then so profligate and abandoned a libertine to
doubt whether the breaking the laws of God and man, the corrupting and
ruining a poor girl be guilt? I own, indeed, it doth lie principally upon
you; and so heavy it is, that you ought to expect it should crush you.”

“Whatever may be my fate,” says Tom, “let me succeed in
my intercessions for the poor girl. I confess I have corrupted her! but
whether she shall be ruined, depends on you. For Heaven’s sake, sir,
revoke your warrant, and do not send her to a place which must unavoidably
prove her destruction.”

Allworthy bid him immediately call a servant. Tom answered there was no
occasion; for he had luckily met them at the gate, and relying upon his
goodness, had brought them all back into his hall, where they now waited
his final resolution, which upon his knees he besought him might be in
favour of the girl; that she might be permitted to go home to her parents,
and not be exposed to a greater degree of shame and scorn than must
necessarily fall upon her. “I know,” said he, “that is
too much. I know I am the wicked occasion of it. I will endeavour to make
amends, if possible; and if you shall have hereafter the goodness to
forgive me, I hope I shall deserve it.”

Allworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, “Well, I will
discharge my mittimus.—You may send the constable to me.” He
was instantly called, discharged, and so was the girl.

It will be believed that Mr Allworthy failed not to read Tom a very severe
lecture on this occasion; but it is unnecessary to insert it here, as we
have faithfully transcribed what he said to Jenny Jones in the first book,
most of which may be applied to the men, equally with the women. So
sensible an effect had these reproofs on the young man, who was no
hardened sinner, that he retired to his own room, where he passed the
evening alone, in much melancholy contemplation.

Allworthy was sufficiently offended by this transgression of Jones; for
notwithstanding the assertions of Mr Western, it is certain this worthy
man had never indulged himself in any loose pleasures with women, and
greatly condemned the vice of incontinence in others. Indeed, there is
much reason to imagine that there was not the least truth in what Mr
Western affirmed, especially as he laid the scene of those impurities at
the university, where Mr Allworthy had never been. In fact, the good
squire was a little too apt to indulge that kind of pleasantry which is
generally called rhodomontade: but which may, with as much propriety, be
expressed by a much shorter word; and perhaps we too often supply the use
of this little monosyllable by others; since very much of what frequently
passes in the world for wit and humour, should, in the strictest purity of
language, receive that short appellation, which, in conformity to the
well-bred laws of custom, I here suppress.

But whatever detestation Mr Allworthy had to this or to any other vice, he
was not so blinded by it but that he could discern any virtue in the
guilty person, as clearly indeed as if there had been no mixture of vice
in the same character. While he was angry therefore with the incontinence
of Jones, he was no less pleased with the honour and honesty of his
self-accusation. He began now to form in his mind the same opinion of this
young fellow, which, we hope, our reader may have conceived. And in
balancing his faults with his perfections, the latter seemed rather to
preponderate.

It was to no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was immediately
charged by Mr Blifil with the story, unbended all his rancour against poor
Tom. Allworthy gave a patient hearing to their invectives, and then
answered coldly: “That young men of Tom’s complexion were too
generally addicted to this vice; but he believed that youth was sincerely
affected with what he had said to him on the occasion, and he hoped he
would not transgress again.” So that, as the days of whipping were
at an end, the tutor had no other vent but his own mouth for his gall, the
usual poor resource of impotent revenge.

But Square, who was a less violent, was a much more artful man; and as he
hated Jones more perhaps than Thwackum himself did, so he contrived to do
him more mischief in the mind of Mr Allworthy.

The reader must remember the several little incidents of the partridge,
the horse, and the Bible, which were recounted in the second book. By all
which Jones had rather improved than injured the affection which Mr
Allworthy was inclined to entertain for him. The same, I believe, must
have happened to him with every other person who hath any idea of
friendship, generosity, and greatness of spirit, that is to say, who hath
any traces of goodness in his mind.

Square himself was not unacquainted with the true impression which those
several instances of goodness had made on the excellent heart of
Allworthy; for the philosopher very well knew what virtue was, though he
was not always perhaps steady in its pursuit; but as for Thwackum, from
what reason I will not determine, no such thoughts ever entered into his
head: he saw Jones in a bad light, and he imagined Allworthy saw him in
the same, but that he was resolved, from pride and stubbornness of spirit,
not to give up the boy whom he had once cherished; since by so doing, he
must tacitly acknowledge that his former opinion of him had been wrong.

Square therefore embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones in the
tenderest part, by giving a very bad turn to all these before-mentioned
occurrences. “I am sorry, sir,” said he, “to own I have
been deceived as well as yourself. I could not, I confess, help being
pleased with what I ascribed to the motive of friendship, though it was
carried to an excess, and all excess is faulty and vicious: but in this I
made allowance for youth. Little did I suspect that the sacrifice of
truth, which we both imagined to have been made to friendship, was in
reality a prostitution of it to a depraved and debauched appetite. You now
plainly see whence all the seeming generosity of this young man to the
family of the gamekeeper proceeded. He supported the father in order to
corrupt the daughter, and preserved the family from starving, to bring one
of them to shame and ruin. This is friendship! this is generosity! As Sir
Richard Steele says, `Gluttons who give high prices for delicacies, are
very worthy to be called generous.’ In short I am resolved, from this
instance, never to give way to the weakness of human nature more, nor to
think anything virtue which doth not exactly quadrate with the unerring
rule of right.”

The goodness of Allworthy had prevented those considerations from
occurring to himself; yet were they too plausible to be absolutely and
hastily rejected, when laid before his eyes by another. Indeed what Square
had said sunk very deeply into his mind, and the uneasiness which it there
created was very visible to the other; though the good man would not
acknowledge this, but made a very slight answer, and forcibly drove off
the discourse to some other subject. It was well perhaps for poor Tom,
that no such suggestions had been made before he was pardoned; for they
certainly stamped in the mind of Allworthy the first bad impression
concerning Jones.

Chapter xii. — Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed
from the same fountain with those in the preceding chapter.

The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia. She
passed the night, after we saw her last, in no very agreeable manner.
Sleep befriended her but little, and dreams less. In the morning, when Mrs
Honour, her maid, attended her at the usual hour, she was found already up
and drest.

Persons who live two or three miles’ distance in the country are
considered as next-door neighbours, and transactions at the one house fly
with incredible celerity to the other. Mrs Honour, therefore, had heard
the whole story of Molly’s shame; which she, being of a very communicative
temper, had no sooner entered the apartment of her mistress, than she
began to relate in the following manner:—

“La, ma’am, what doth your la’ship think? the girl that your la’ship
saw at church on Sunday, whom you thought so handsome; though you would
not have thought her so handsome neither, if you had seen her nearer, but
to be sure she hath been carried before the justice for being big with
child. She seemed to me to look like a confident slut: and to be sure she
hath laid the child to young Mr Jones. And all the parish says Mr
Allworthy is so angry with young Mr Jones, that he won’t see him. To be
sure, one can’t help pitying the poor young man, and yet he doth not
deserve much pity neither, for demeaning himself with such kind of
trumpery. Yet he is so pretty a gentleman, I should be sorry to have him
turned out of doors. I dares to swear the wench was as willing as he; for
she was always a forward kind of body. And when wenches are so coming,
young men are not so much to be blamed neither; for to be sure they do no
more than what is natural. Indeed it is beneath them to meddle with such
dirty draggle-tails; and whatever happens to them, it is good enough for
them. And yet, to be sure, the vile baggages are most in fault. I wishes,
with all my heart, they were well to be whipped at the cart’s tail; for it
is pity they should be the ruin of a pretty young gentleman; and nobody
can deny but that Mr Jones is one of the most handsomest young men that
ever——”

She was running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish voice than she
had ever spoken to her in before, cried, “Prithee, why dost thou
trouble me with all this stuff? What concern have I in what Mr Jones doth?
I suppose you are all alike. And you seem to me to be angry it was not
your own case.”

“I, ma’am!” answered Mrs Honour, “I am sorry your
ladyship should have such an opinion of me. I am sure nobody can say any
such thing of me. All the young fellows in the world may go to the divil
for me. Because I said he was a handsome man? Everybody says it as well as
I. To be sure, I never thought as it was any harm to say a young man was
handsome; but to be sure I shall never think him so any more now; for
handsome is that handsome does. A beggar wench!—”

“Stop thy torrent of impertinence,” cries Sophia, “and
see whether my father wants me at breakfast.”

Mrs Honour then flung out of the room, muttering much to herself, of which
“Marry come up, I assure you,” was all that could be plainly
distinguished.

Whether Mrs Honour really deserved that suspicion, of which her mistress
gave her a hint, is a matter which we cannot indulge our reader’s
curiosity by resolving. We will, however, make him amends in disclosing
what passed in the mind of Sophia.

The reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affection for Mr
Jones had insensibly stolen into the bosom of this young lady. That it had
there grown to a pretty great height before she herself had discovered it.
When she first began to perceive its symptoms, the sensations were so
sweet and pleasing, that she had not resolution sufficient to check or
repel them; and thus she went on cherishing a passion of which she never
once considered the consequences.

This incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She now first
perceived the weakness of which she had been guilty; and though it caused
the utmost perturbation in her mind, yet it had the effect of other
nauseous physic, and for the time expelled her distemper. Its operation
indeed was most wonderfully quick; and in the short interval, while her
maid was absent, so entirely removed all symptoms, that when Mrs Honour
returned with a summons from her father, she was become perfectly easy,
and had brought herself to a thorough indifference for Mr Jones.

The diseases of the mind do in almost every particular imitate those of
the body. For which reason, we hope, that learned faculty, for whom we
have so profound a respect, will pardon us the violent hands we have been
necessitated to lay on several words and phrases, which of right belong to
them, and without which our descriptions must have been often
unintelligible.

Now there is no one circumstance in which the distempers of the mind bear
a more exact analogy to those which are called bodily, than that aptness
which both have to a relapse. This is plain in the violent diseases of
ambition and avarice. I have known ambition, when cured at court by
frequent disappointments (which are the only physic for it), to break out
again in a contest for foreman of the grand jury at an assizes; and have
heard of a man who had so far conquered avarice, as to give away many a
sixpence, that comforted himself, at last, on his deathbed, by making a
crafty and advantageous bargain concerning his ensuing funeral, with an
undertaker who had married his only child.

In the affair of love, which, out of strict conformity with the Stoic
philosophy, we shall here treat as a disease, this proneness to relapse is
no less conspicuous. Thus it happened to poor Sophia; upon whom, the very
next time she saw young Jones, all the former symptoms returned, and from
that time cold and hot fits alternately seized her heart.

The situation of this young lady was now very different from what it had
ever been before. That passion which had formerly been so exquisitely
delicious, became now a scorpion in her bosom. She resisted it therefore
with her utmost force, and summoned every argument her reason (which was
surprisingly strong for her age) could suggest, to subdue and expel it. In
this she so far succeeded, that she began to hope from time and absence a
perfect cure. She resolved therefore to avoid Tom Jones as much as
possible; for which purpose she began to conceive a design of visiting her
aunt, to which she made no doubt of obtaining her father’s consent.

But Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an immediate stop to
any such proceeding, by introducing an accident, which will be related in
the next chapter.

Chapter xiii. — A dreadful accident which befel Sophia. The gallant
behaviour of Jones, and the more dreadful consequence of that behaviour to
the young lady; with a short digression in favour of the female sex.
—

Mr Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, insomuch that his
beloved dogs themselves almost gave place to her in his affections; but as
he could not prevail on himself to abandon these, he contrived very
cunningly to enjoy their company, together with that of his daughter, by
insisting on her riding a hunting with him.

Sophia, to whom her father’s word was a law, readily complied with his
desires, though she had not the least delight in a sport, which was of too
rough and masculine a nature to suit with her disposition. She had however
another motive, beside her obedience, to accompany the old gentleman in
the chase; for by her presence she hoped in some measure to restrain his
impetuosity, and to prevent him from so frequently exposing his neck to
the utmost hazard.

The strongest objection was that which would have formerly been an
inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with young Jones, whom she
had determined to avoid; but as the end of the hunting season now
approached, she hoped, by a short absence with her aunt, to reason herself
entirely out of her unfortunate passion; and had not any doubt of being
able to meet him in the field the subsequent season without the least
danger.

On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from the chase, and
was arrived within a little distance from Mr Western’s house, her horse,
whose mettlesome spirit required a better rider, fell suddenly to prancing
and capering in such a manner that she was in the most imminent peril of
falling. Tom Jones, who was at a little distance behind, saw this, and
immediately galloped up to her assistance. As soon as he came up, he leapt
from his own horse, and caught hold of hers by the bridle. The unruly
beast presently reared himself an end on his hind legs, and threw his
lovely burthen from his back, and Jones caught her in his arms.

She was so affected with the fright, that she was not immediately able to
satisfy Jones, who was very solicitous to know whether she had received
any hurt. She soon after, however, recovered her spirits, assured him she
was safe, and thanked him for the care he had taken of her. Jones
answered, “If I have preserved you, madam, I am sufficiently repaid;
for I promise you, I would have secured you from the least harm at the
expense of a much greater misfortune to myself than I have suffered on
this occasion.”

“What misfortune?” replied Sophia eagerly; “I hope you
have come to no mischief?”

“Be not concerned, madam,” answered Jones. “Heaven be
praised you have escaped so well, considering the danger you was in. If I
have broke my arm, I consider it as a trifle, in comparison of what I
feared upon your account.”

Sophia then screamed out, “Broke your arm! Heaven forbid.”

“I am afraid I have, madam,” says Jones: “but I beg you
will suffer me first to take care of you. I have a right hand yet at your
service, to help you into the next field, whence we have but a very little
walk to your father’s house.”

Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was using the
other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. She now grew much paler
than her fears for herself had made her before. All her limbs were seized
with a trembling, insomuch that Jones could scarce support her; and as her
thoughts were in no less agitation, she could not refrain from giving
Jones a look so full of tenderness, that it almost argued a stronger
sensation in her mind, than even gratitude and pity united can raise in
the gentlest female bosom, without the assistance of a third more powerful
passion.

Mr Western, who was advanced at some distance when this accident happened,
was now returned, as were the rest of the horsemen. Sophia immediately
acquainted them with what had befallen Jones, and begged them to take care
of him. Upon which Western, who had been much alarmed by meeting his
daughter’s horse without its rider, and was now overjoyed to find her
unhurt, cried out, “I am glad it is no worse. If Tom hath broken his
arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again.”

The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on foot,
with his daughter and Jones. An impartial spectator, who had met them on
the way, would, on viewing their several countenances, have concluded
Sophia alone to have been the object of compassion: for as to Jones, he
exulted in having probably saved the life of the young lady, at the price
only of a broken bone; and Mr Western, though he was not unconcerned at
the accident which had befallen Jones, was, however, delighted in a much
higher degree with the fortunate escape of his daughter.

The generosity of Sophia’s temper construed this behaviour of Jones into
great bravery; and it made a deep impression on her heart: for certain it
is, that there is no one quality which so generally recommends men to
women as this; proceeding, if we believe the common opinion, from that
natural timidity of the sex, which is, says Mr Osborne, “so great,
that a woman is the most cowardly of all the creatures God ever made;”—a
sentiment more remarkable for its bluntness than for its truth. Aristotle,
in his Politics, doth them, I believe, more justice, when he says, “The
modesty and fortitude of men differ from those virtues in women; for the
fortitude which becomes a woman, would be cowardice in a man; and the
modesty which becomes a man, would be pertness in a woman.” Nor is
there, perhaps, more of truth in the opinion of those who derive the
partiality which women are inclined to show to the brave, from this excess
of their fear. Mr Bayle (I think, in his article of Helen) imputes this,
and with greater probability, to their violent love of glory; for the
truth of which, we have the authority of him who of all others saw
farthest into human nature, and who introduces the heroine of his Odyssey,
the great pattern of matrimonial love and constancy, assigning the glory
of her husband as the only source of her affection towards him.[*]

However this be, certain it is that the accident operated very strongly on
Sophia; and, indeed, after much enquiry into the matter, I am inclined to
believe, that, at this very time, the charming Sophia made no less
impression on the heart of Jones; to say truth, he had for some time
become sensible of the irresistible power of her charms.

Chapter xiv. — The arrival of a surgeon.—His operations, and a
long dialogue between Sophia and her maid.

When they arrived at Mr Western’s hall, Sophia, who had tottered along
with much difficulty, sunk down in her chair; but by the assistance of
hartshorn and water, she was prevented from fainting away, and had pretty
well recovered her spirits, when the surgeon who was sent for to Jones
appeared. Mr Western, who imputed these symptoms in his daughter to her
fall, advised her to be presently blooded by way of prevention. In this
opinion he was seconded by the surgeon, who gave so many reasons for
bleeding, and quoted so many cases where persons had miscarried for want
of it, that the squire became very importunate, and indeed insisted
peremptorily that his daughter should be blooded.

Sophia soon yielded to the commands of her father, though entirely
contrary to her own inclinations, for she suspected, I believe, less
danger from the fright, than either the squire or the surgeon. She then
stretched out her beautiful arm, and the operator began to prepare for his
work.

While the servants were busied in providing materials, the surgeon, who
imputed the backwardness which had appeared in Sophia to her fears, began
to comfort her with assurances that there was not the least danger; for no
accident, he said, could ever happen in bleeding, but from the monstrous
ignorance of pretenders to surgery, which he pretty plainly insinuated was
not at present to be apprehended. Sophia declared she was not under the
least apprehension; adding, “If you open an artery, I promise you
I’ll forgive you.” “Will you?” cries Western: “D—n
me, if I will. If he does thee the least mischief, d—n me if I don’t
ha’ the heart’s blood o’un out.” The surgeon assented to bleed her
upon these conditions, and then proceeded to his operation, which he
performed with as much dexterity as he had promised; and with as much
quickness: for he took but little blood from her, saying, it was much
safer to bleed again and again, than to take away too much at once.

Sophia, when her arm was bound up, retired: for she was not willing (nor
was it, perhaps, strictly decent) to be present at the operation on Jones.
Indeed, one objection which she had to bleeding (though she did not make
it) was the delay which it would occasion to setting the broken bone. For
Western, when Sophia was concerned, had no consideration but for her; and
as for Jones himself, he “sat like patience on a monument smiling at
grief.” To say the truth, when he saw the blood springing from the
lovely arm of Sophia, he scarce thought of what had happened to himself.

The surgeon now ordered his patient to be stript to his shirt, and then
entirely baring the arm, he began to stretch and examine it, in such a
manner that the tortures he put him to caused Jones to make several wry
faces; which the surgeon observing, greatly wondered at, crying, “What
is the matter, sir? I am sure it is impossible I should hurt you.”
And then holding forth the broken arm, he began a long and very learned
lecture of anatomy, in which simple and double fractures were most
accurately considered; and the several ways in which Jones might have
broken his arm were discussed, with proper annotations showing how many of
these would have been better, and how many worse than the present case.

Having at length finished his laboured harangue, with which the audience,
though it had greatly raised their attention and admiration, were not much
edified, as they really understood not a single syllable of all he had
said, he proceeded to business, which he was more expeditious in
finishing, than he had been in beginning.

Jones was then ordered into a bed, which Mr Western compelled him to
accept at his own house, and sentence of water-gruel was passed upon him.

Among the good company which had attended in the hall during the
bone-setting, Mrs Honour was one; who being summoned to her mistress as
soon as it was over, and asked by her how the young gentleman did,
presently launched into extravagant praises on the magnanimity, as she
called it, of his behaviour, which, she said, “was so charming in so
pretty a creature.” She then burst forth into much warmer encomiums
on the beauty of his person; enumerating many particulars, and ending with
the whiteness of his skin.

This discourse had an effect on Sophia’s countenance, which would not
perhaps have escaped the observance of the sagacious waiting-woman, had
she once looked her mistress in the face, all the time she was speaking:
but as a looking-glass, which was most commodiously placed opposite to
her, gave her an opportunity of surveying those features, in which, of all
others, she took most delight; so she had not once removed her eyes from
that amiable object during her whole speech.

Mrs Honour was so intirely wrapped up in the subject on which she
exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, that she gave her
mistress time to conquer her confusion; which having done, she smiled on
her maid, and told her, “she was certainly in love with this young
fellow.”—“I in love, madam!” answers she: “upon
my word, ma’am, I assure you, ma’am, upon my soul, ma’am, I am not.”—“Why,
if you was,” cries her mistress, “I see no reason that you
should be ashamed of it; for he is certainly a pretty fellow.”—“Yes,
ma’am,” answered the other, “that he is, the most handsomest
man I ever saw in my life. Yes, to be sure, that he is, and, as your
ladyship says, I don’t know why I should be ashamed of loving him, though
he is my betters. To be sure, gentlefolks are but flesh and blood no more
than us servants. Besides, as for Mr Jones, thof Squire Allworthy hath
made a gentleman of him, he was not so good as myself by birth: for thof I
am a poor body, I am an honest person’s child, and my father and mother
were married, which is more than some people can say, as high as they hold
their heads. Marry, come up! I assure you, my dirty cousin! thof his skin
be so white, and to be sure it is the most whitest that ever was seen, I
am a Christian as well as he, and nobody can say that I am base born: my
grandfather was a clergyman,[*] and would have been very angry, I believe,
to have thought any of his family should have taken up with Molly
Seagrim’s dirty leavings.”

Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this manner, from
wanting sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which the reader may
probably conjecture was no very easy task; for certainly there were some
passages in her speech which were far from being agreeable to the lady.
However, she now checked the torrent, as there seemed no end of its
flowing. “I wonder,” says she, “at your assurance in
daring to talk thus of one of my father’s friends. As to the wench, I
order you never to mention her name to me. And with regard to the young
gentleman’s birth, those who can say nothing more to his disadvantage, may
as well be silent on that head, as I desire you will be for the future.”

“I am sorry I have offended your ladyship,” answered Mrs
Honour. “I am sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your ladyship
can; and as for abusing Squire Jones, I can call all the servants in the
house to witness, that whenever any talk hath been about bastards, I have
always taken his part; for which of you, says I to the footmen, would not
be a bastard, if he could, to be made a gentleman of? And, says I, I am
sure he is a very fine gentleman; and he hath one of the whitest hands in
the world; for to be sure so he hath: and, says I, one of the sweetest
temperedest, best naturedest men in the world he is; and, says I, all the
servants and neighbours all round the country loves him. And, to be sure,
I could tell your ladyship something, but that I am afraid it would offend
you.”—“What could you tell me, Honour?” says
Sophia. “Nay, ma’am, to be sure he meant nothing by it, therefore I
would not have your ladyship be offended.”—“Prithee tell
me,” says Sophia; “I will know it this instant.”—“Why,
ma’am,” answered Mrs Honour, “he came into the room one day
last week when I was at work, and there lay your ladyship’s muff on a
chair, and to be sure he put his hands into it; that very muff your
ladyship gave me but yesterday. La! says I, Mr Jones, you will stretch my
lady’s muff, and spoil it: but he still kept his hands in it: and then he
kissed it—to be sure I hardly ever saw such a kiss in my life as he
gave it.”—“I suppose he did not know it was mine,”
replied Sophia. “Your ladyship shall hear, ma’am. He kissed it again
and again, and said it was the prettiest muff in the world. La! sir, says
I, you have seen it a hundred times. Yes, Mrs Honour, cried he; but who
can see anything beautiful in the presence of your lady but herself?—Nay,
that’s not all neither; but I hope your ladyship won’t be offended, for to
be sure he meant nothing. One day, as your ladyship was playing on the
harpsichord to my master, Mr Jones was sitting in the next room, and
methought he looked melancholy. La! says I, Mr Jones, what’s the matter? a
penny for your thoughts, says I. Why, hussy, says he, starting up from a
dream, what can I be thinking of, when that angel your mistress is
playing? And then squeezing me by the hand, Oh! Mrs Honour, says he, how
happy will that man be!—and then he sighed. Upon my troth, his
breath is as sweet as a nosegay.—But to be sure he meant no harm by
it. So I hope your ladyship will not mention a word; for he gave me a
crown never to mention it, and made me swear upon a book, but I believe,
indeed, it was not the Bible.”

Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found out, I
shall say nothing of Sophia’s colour on this occasion. “Ho—nour,”
says she, “I—if you will not mention this any more to me—nor
to anybody else, I will not betray you—I mean, I will not be angry;
but I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my girl, will you give it such
liberties?”—“Nay, ma’am,” answered she, “to
be sure, I would sooner cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be
sure I shall never mention a word that your ladyship would not have me.”—“Why,
I would not have you mention this any more,” said Sophia, “for
it may come to my father’s ears, and he would be angry with Mr Jones;
though I really believe, as you say, he meant nothing. I should be very
angry myself, if I imagined—“—“Nay, ma’am,”
says Honour, “I protest I believe he meant nothing. I thought he
talked as if he was out of his senses; nay, he said he believed he was
beside himself when he had spoken the words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so
too. Yes, says he, Honour.—But I ask your ladyship’s pardon; I could
tear my tongue out for offending you.” “Go on,” says
Sophia; “you may mention anything you have not told me before.”—“Yes,
Honour, says he (this was some time afterwards, when he gave me the
crown), I am neither such a coxcomb, or such a villain, as to think of her
in any other delight but as my goddess; as such I will always worship and
adore her while I have breath.—This was all, ma’am, I will be sworn,
to the best of my remembrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I
found he meant no harm.”—“Indeed, Honour,” says
Sophia, “I believe you have a real affection for me. I was provoked
the other day when I gave you warning; but if you have a desire to stay
with me, you shall.”—“To be sure, ma’am,” answered
Mrs Honour, “I shall never desire to part with your ladyship. To be
sure, I almost cried my eyes out when you gave me warning. It would be
very ungrateful in me to desire to leave your ladyship; because as why, I
should never get so good a place again. I am sure I would live and die
with your ladyship; for, as poor Mr Jones said, happy is the man——”

Here the dinner bell interrupted a conversation which had wrought such an
effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her bleeding in
the morning, than she, at the time, had apprehended she should be. As to
the present situation of her mind, I shall adhere to a rule of Horace, by
not attempting to describe it, from despair of success. Most of my readers
will suggest it easily to themselves; and the few who cannot, would not
understand the picture, or at least would deny it to be natural, if ever
so well drawn.

BOOK V. — CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A
YEAR.

Chapter i. — Of the SERIOUS in writing, and for what purpose it is
introduced.

Peradventure there may be no parts in this prodigious work which will give
the reader less pleasure in the perusing, than those which have given the
author the greatest pains in composing. Among these probably may be
reckoned those initial essays which we have prefixed to the historical
matter contained in every book; and which we have determined to be
essentially necessary to this kind of writing, of which we have set
ourselves at the head.

For this our determination we do not hold ourselves strictly bound to
assign any reason; it being abundantly sufficient that we have laid it
down as a rule necessary to be observed in all prosai-comi-epic writing.
Who ever demanded the reasons of that nice unity of time or place which is
now established to be so essential to dramatic poetry? What critic hath
been ever asked, why a play may not contain two days as well as one? Or
why the audience (provided they travel, like electors, without any
expense) may not be wafted fifty miles as well as five? Hath any
commentator well accounted for the limitation which an antient critic hath
set to the drama, which he will have contain neither more nor less than
five acts? Or hath any one living attempted to explain what the modern
judges of our theatres mean by that word low; by which they have
happily succeeded in banishing all humour from the stage, and have made
the theatre as dull as a drawing-room! Upon all these occasions the world
seems to have embraced a maxim of our law, viz., cuicunque in arte sua
perito credendum est: for it seems perhaps difficult to conceive that
any one should have had enough of impudence to lay down dogmatical rules
in any art or science without the least foundation. In such cases,
therefore, we are apt to conclude there are sound and good reasons at the
bottom, though we are unfortunately not able to see so far.

Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to critics,
and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than they really
are. From this complacence, the critics have been emboldened to assume a
dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded, that they are now become the
masters, and have the assurance to give laws to those authors from whose
predecessors they originally received them.

The critic, rightly considered, is no more than the clerk, whose office it
is to transcribe the rules and laws laid down by those great judges whose
vast strength of genius hath placed them in the light of legislators, in
the several sciences over which they presided. This office was all which
the critics of old aspired to; nor did they ever dare to advance a
sentence, without supporting it by the authority of the judge from whence
it was borrowed.

But in process of time, and in ages of ignorance, the clerk began to
invade the power and assume the dignity of his master. The laws of writing
were no longer founded on the practice of the author, but on the dictates
of the critic. The clerk became the legislator, and those very
peremptorily gave laws whose business it was, at first, only to transcribe
them.

Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these
critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form for
substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the lifeless
letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were
perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered to
constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to be observed
by all his successors. To these encroachments, time and ignorance, the two
great supporters of imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for
good writing have been established, which have not the least foundation in
truth or nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to
curb and restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained
the dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it
down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.

To avoid, therefore, all imputation of laying down a rule for posterity,
founded only on the authority of ipse dixit—for which, to say
the truth, we have not the profoundest veneration—we shall here
waive the privilege above contended for, and proceed to lay before the
reader the reasons which have induced us to intersperse these several
digressive essays in the course of this work.

And here we shall of necessity be led to open a new vein of knowledge,
which if it hath been discovered, hath not, to our remembrance, been
wrought on by any antient or modern writer. This vein is no other than
that of contrast, which runs through all the works of the creation, and
may probably have a large share in constituting in us the idea of all
beauty, as well natural as artificial: for what demonstrates the beauty
and excellence of anything but its reverse? Thus the beauty of day, and
that of summer, is set off by the horrors of night and winter. And, I
believe, if it was possible for a man to have seen only the two former, he
would have a very imperfect idea of their beauty.

But to avoid too serious an air; can it be doubted, but that the finest
woman in the world would lose all benefit of her charms in the eye of a
man who had never seen one of another cast? The ladies themselves seem so
sensible of this, that they are all industrious to procure foils: nay,
they will become foils to themselves; for I have observed (at Bath
particularly) that they endeavour to appear as ugly as possible in the
morning, in order to set off that beauty which they intend to show you in
the evening.

Most artists have this secret in practice, though some, perhaps, have not
much studied the theory. The jeweller knows that the finest brilliant
requires a foil; and the painter, by the contrast of his figures, often
acquires great applause.

A great genius among us will illustrate this matter fully. I cannot,
indeed, range him under any general head of common artists, as he hath a
title to be placed among those

I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called the
English Pantomime.

This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor
distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious
exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were certainly
the worst and dullest company into which an audience was ever introduced;
and (which was a secret known to few) were actually intended so to be, in
order to contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display the
tricks of harlequin to the better advantage.

This was, perhaps, no very civil use of such personages: but the
contrivance was, nevertheless, ingenious enough, and had its effect. And
this will now plainly appear, if, instead of serious and comic, we supply
the words duller and dullest; for the comic was certainly duller than
anything before shown on the stage, and could be set off only by that
superlative degree of dulness which composed the serious. So intolerably
serious, indeed, were these gods and heroes, that harlequin (though the
English gentleman of that name is not at all related to the French family,
for he is of a much more serious disposition) was always welcome on the
stage, as he relieved the audience from worse company.

Judicious writers have always practised this art of contrast with great
success. I have been surprized that Horace should cavil at this art in
Homer; but indeed he contradicts himself in the very next line:

For we are not here to understand, as perhaps some have, that an author
actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true, that readers are
too apt to be so overtaken; but if the work was as long as any of
Oldmixon, the author himself is too well entertained to be subject to the
least drowsiness. He is, as Mr Pope observes,

To say the truth, these soporific parts are so many scenes of serious
artfully interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the rest; and this
is the true meaning of a late facetious writer, who told the public that
whenever he was dull they might be assured there was a design in it.

In this light, then, or rather in this darkness, I would have the reader
to consider these initial essays. And after this warning, if he shall be
of opinion that he can find enough of serious in other parts of this
history, he may pass over these, in which we profess to be laboriously
dull, and begin the following books at the second chapter.

Chapter ii. — In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during
his confinement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, scarce
visible to the naked eye.

Tom Jones had many visitors during his confinement, though some, perhaps,
were not very agreeable to him. Mr Allworthy saw him almost every day; but
though he pitied Tom’s sufferings, and greatly approved the gallant
behaviour which had occasioned them; yet he thought this was a favourable
opportunity to bring him to a sober sense of his indiscreet conduct; and
that wholesome advice for that purpose could never be applied at a more
proper season than at the present, when the mind was softened by pain and
sickness, and alarmed by danger; and when its attention was unembarrassed
with those turbulent passions which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure.

At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with the youth,
especially when the latter was totally at ease, he took occasion to remind
him of his former miscarriages, but in the mildest and tenderest manner,
and only in order to introduce the caution which he prescribed for his
future behaviour; “on which alone,” he assured him, “would
depend his own felicity, and the kindness which he might yet promise
himself to receive at the hands of his father by adoption, unless he
should hereafter forfeit his good opinion: for as to what had past,”
he said, “it should be all forgiven and forgotten. He therefore
advised him to make a good use of this accident, that so in the end it
might prove a visitation for his own good.”

Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits; and he too
considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lectures. His stile,
however, was more severe than Mr Allworthy’s: he told his pupil, “That
he ought to look on his broken limb as a judgment from heaven on his sins.
That it would become him to be daily on his knees, pouring forth
thanksgivings that he had broken his arm only, and not his neck; which
latter,” he said, “was very probably reserved for some future
occasion, and that, perhaps, not very remote. For his part,” he
said, “he had often wondered some judgment had not overtaken him
before; but it might be perceived by this, that Divine punishments, though
slow, are always sure.” Hence likewise he advised him, “to
foresee, with equal certainty, the greater evils which were yet behind,
and which were as sure as this of overtaking him in his state of
reprobacy. These are,” said he, “to be averted only by such a
thorough and sincere repentance as is not to be expected or hoped for from
one so abandoned in his youth, and whose mind, I am afraid, is totally
corrupted. It is my duty, however, to exhort you to this repentance,
though I too well know all exhortations will be vain and fruitless. But liberavi
animam meam. I can accuse my own conscience of no neglect; though it
is at the same time with the utmost concern I see you travelling on to
certain misery in this world, and to as certain damnation in the next.”

Square talked in a very different strain; he said, “Such accidents
as a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise man. That it was
abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind to any of these mischances, to
reflect that they are liable to befal the wisest of mankind, and are
undoubtedly for the good of the whole.” He said, “It was a
mere abuse of words to call those things evils, in which there was no
moral unfitness: that pain, which was the worst consequence of such
accidents, was the most contemptible thing in the world;” with more
of the like sentences, extracted out of the second book of Tully’s
Tusculan questions, and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. In pronouncing
these he was one day so eager, that he unfortunately bit his tongue; and
in such a manner, that it not only put an end to his discourse, but
created much emotion in him, and caused him to mutter an oath or two: but
what was worst of all, this accident gave Thwackum, who was present, and
who held all such doctrine to be heathenish and atheistical, an
opportunity to clap a judgment on his back. Now this was done with so
malicious a sneer, that it totally unhinged (if I may so say) the temper
of the philosopher, which the bite of his tongue had somewhat ruffled; and
as he was disabled from venting his wrath at his lips, he had possibly
found a more violent method of revenging himself, had not the surgeon, who
was then luckily in the room, contrary to his own interest, interposed and
preserved the peace.

Mr Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone. This
worthy young man, however, professed much regard for him, and as great
concern at his misfortune; but cautiously avoided any intimacy, lest, as
he frequently hinted, it might contaminate the sobriety of his own
character: for which purpose he had constantly in his mouth that proverb
in which Solomon speaks against evil communication. Not that he was so
bitter as Thwackum; for he always expressed some hopes of Tom’s
reformation; “which,” he said, “the unparalleled
goodness shown by his uncle on this occasion, must certainly effect in one
not absolutely abandoned:” but concluded, “if Mr Jones ever
offends hereafter, I shall not be able to say a syllable in his favour.”

As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, unless when he
was engaged either in the field or over his bottle. Nay, he would
sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and it was not without
difficulty that he was prevented from forcing Jones to take his beer too:
for no quack ever held his nostrum to be a more general panacea than he
did this; which, he said, had more virtue in it than was in all the physic
in an apothecary’s shop. He was, however, by much entreaty, prevailed on
to forbear the application of this medicine; but from serenading his
patient every hunting morning with the horn under his window, it was
impossible to withhold him; nor did he ever lay aside that hallow, with
which he entered into all companies, when he visited Jones, without any
regard to the sick person’s being at that time either awake or asleep.

This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily it effected
none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as soon as he was able to
sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom the squire then brought to visit
him; nor was it, indeed, long before Jones was able to attend her to the
harpsichord, where she would kindly condescend, for hours together, to
charm him with the most delicious music, unless when the squire thought
proper to interrupt her, by insisting on Old Sir Simon, or some other of
his favourite pieces.

Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured to set on her
behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appearances now and then slip
forth: for love may again be likened to a disease in this, that when it is
denied a vent in one part, it will certainly break out in another. What
her lips, therefore, concealed, her eyes, her blushes, and many little
involuntary actions, betrayed.

One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and Jones was
attending, the squire came into the room, crying, “There, Tom, I
have had a battle for thee below-stairs with thick parson Thwackum. He
hath been a telling Allworthy, before my face, that the broken bone was a
judgment upon thee. D—n it, says I, how can that be? Did he not come
by it in defence of a young woman? A judgment indeed! Pox, if he never
doth anything worse, he will go to heaven sooner than all the parsons in
the country. He hath more reason to glory in it than to be ashamed of it.”—“Indeed,
sir,” says Jones, “I have no reason for either; but if it
preserved Miss Western, I shall always think it the happiest accident of
my life.”—“And to gu,” said the squire, “to
zet Allworthy against thee vor it! D—n un, if the parson had unt his
petticuoats on, I should have lent un o flick; for I love thee dearly, my
boy, and d—n me if there is anything in my power which I won’t do
for thee. Sha’t take thy choice of all the horses in my stable to-morrow
morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch.” Jones thanked
him, but declined accepting the offer. “Nay,” added the
squire, “sha’t ha the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty
guineas, and comes six years old this grass.” “If she had cost
me a thousand,” cries Jones passionately, “I would have given
her to the dogs.” “Pooh! pooh!” answered Western;
“what! because she broke thy arm? Shouldst forget and forgive. I
thought hadst been more a man than to bear malice against a dumb creature.”—Here
Sophia interposed, and put an end to the conversation, by desiring her
father’s leave to play to him; a request which he never refused.

The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one change during the
foregoing speeches; and probably she imputed the passionate resentment
which Jones had expressed against the mare, to a different motive from
that from which her father had derived it. Her spirits were at this time
in a visible flutter; and she played so intolerably ill, that had not
Western soon fallen asleep, he must have remarked it. Jones, however, who
was sufficiently awake, and was not without an ear any more than without
eyes, made some observations; which being joined to all which the reader
may remember to have passed formerly, gave him pretty strong assurances,
when he came to reflect on the whole, that all was not well in the tender
bosom of Sophia; an opinion which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not,
extremely wonder at his not having been well confirmed in long ago. To
confess the truth, he had rather too much diffidence in himself, and was
not forward enough in seeing the advances of a young lady; a misfortune
which can be cured only by that early town education, which is at present
so generally in fashion.

When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, they occasioned a
perturbation in his mind, which, in a constitution less pure and firm than
his, might have been, at such a season, attended with very dangerous
consequences. He was truly sensible of the great worth of Sophia. He
extremely liked her person, no less admired her accomplishments, and
tenderly loved her goodness. In reality, as he had never once entertained
any thought of possessing her, nor had ever given the least voluntary
indulgence to his inclinations, he had a much stronger passion for her
than he himself was acquainted with. His heart now brought forth the full
secret, at the same time that it assured him the adorable object returned
his affection.

Chapter iii. — Which all who have no heart will think to contain
much ado about nothing.

The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now arose in Jones to
have been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend to produce a
chearful serenity in the mind, than any of those dangerous effects which
we have mentioned; but in fact, sensations of this kind, however
delicious, are, at their first recognition, of a very tumultuous nature,
and have very little of the opiate in them. They were, moreover, in the
present case, embittered with certain circumstances, which being mixed
with sweeter ingredients, tended altogether to compose a draught that
might be termed bitter-sweet; than which, as nothing can be more
disagreeable to the palate, so nothing, in the metaphorical sense, can be
so injurious to the mind.

For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter himself in what
he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from doubt of misconstruing
compassion, or at best, esteem, into a warmer regard. He was far from a
sanguine assurance that Sophia had any such affection towards him, as
might promise his inclinations that harvest, which, if they were
encouraged and nursed, they would finally grow up to require. Besides, if
he could hope to find no bar to his happiness from the daughter, he
thought himself certain of meeting an effectual bar in the father; who,
though he was a country squire in his diversions, was perfectly a man of
the world in whatever regarded his fortune; had the most violent affection
for his only daughter, and had often signified, in his cups, the pleasure
he proposed in seeing her married to one of the richest men in the county.
Jones was not so vain and senseless a coxcomb as to expect, from any
regard which Western had professed for him, that he would ever be induced
to lay aside these views of advancing his daughter. He well knew that
fortune is generally the principal, if not the sole, consideration, which
operates on the best of parents in these matters: for friendship makes us
warmly espouse the interest of others; but it is very cold to the
gratification of their passions. Indeed, to feel the happiness which may
result from this, it is necessary we should possess the passion ourselves.
As he had therefore no hopes of obtaining her father’s consent; so he
thought to endeavour to succeed without it, and by such means to frustrate
the great point of Mr Western’s life, was to make a very ill use of his
hospitality, and a very ungrateful return to the many little favours
received (however roughly) at his hands. If he saw such a consequence with
horror and disdain, how much more was he shocked with what regarded Mr
Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than filial obligations, so had he for
him more than filial piety! He knew the nature of that good man to be so
averse to any baseness or treachery, that the least attempt of such a kind
would make the sight of the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and
his name a detestable sound in his ears. The appearance of such
unsurmountable difficulties was sufficient to have inspired him with
despair, however ardent his wishes had been; but even these were
contruoled by compassion for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now
intruded itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms,
and she had as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. He now saw
her in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, he considered all the
miseries of prostitution to which she would be liable, and of which he
would be doubly the occasion; first by seducing, and then by deserting
her; for he well knew the hatred which all her neighbours, and even her
own sisters, bore her, and how ready they would all be to tear her to
pieces. Indeed, he had exposed her to more envy than shame, or rather to
the latter by means of the former: for many women abused her for being a
whore, while they envied her her lover, and her finery, and would have
been themselves glad to have purchased these at the same rate. The ruin,
therefore, of the poor girl must, he foresaw, unavoidably attend his
deserting her; and this thought stung him to the soul. Poverty and
distress seemed to him to give none a right of aggravating those
misfortunes. The meanness of her condition did not represent her misery as
of little consequence in his eyes, nor did it appear to justify, or even
to palliate, his guilt, in bringing that misery upon her. But why do I
mention justification? His own heart would not suffer him to destroy a
human creature who, he thought, loved him, and had to that love sacrificed
her innocence. His own good heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold venal
advocate, but as one interested in the event, and which must itself deeply
share in all the agonies its owner brought on another.

When this powerful advocate had sufficiently raised the pity of Jones, by
painting poor Molly in all the circumstances of wretchedness; it artfully
called in the assistance of another passion, and represented the girl in
all the amiable colours of youth, health, and beauty; as one greatly the
object of desire, and much more so, at least to a good mind, from being,
at the same time, the object of compassion.

Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless night, and in
the morning the result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to think no
more of Sophia.

In this virtuous resolution he continued all the next day till the
evening, cherishing the idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his
thoughts; but in the fatal evening, a very trifling accident set all his
passions again on float, and worked so total a change in his mind, that we
think it decent to communicate it in a fresh chapter.

Chapter iv. — A little chapter, in which is contained a little
incident.

Among other visitants, who paid their compliments to the young gentleman
in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. The reader, perhaps, when he
reflects on some expressions which have formerly dropt from her, may
conceive that she herself had a very particular affection for Mr Jones;
but, in reality, it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome young fellow;
and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard; but this was
perfectly indiscriminate; for having being crossed in the love which she
bore a certain nobleman’s footman, who had basely deserted her after a
promise of marriage, she had so securely kept together the broken remains
of her heart, that no man had ever since been able to possess himself of
any single fragment. She viewed all handsome men with that equal regard
and benevolence which a sober and virtuous mind bears to all the good. She
might indeed be called a lover of men, as Socrates was a lover of mankind,
preferring one to another for corporeal, as he for mental qualifications;
but never carrying this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in
the philosophical serenity of her temper.

The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which we have seen
in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into his room, and finding him
alone, began in the following manner:—“La, sir, where do you
think I have been? I warrants you, you would not guess in fifty years; but
if you did guess, to be sure I must not tell you neither.”—“Nay,
if it be something which you must not tell me,” said Jones, “I
shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not be so
barbarous to refuse me.”—“I don’t know,” cries
she, “why I should refuse you neither, for that matter; for to be
sure you won’t mention it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where
I have been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not signify
much. Nay, I don’t see why it should be kept a secret for my part; for to
be sure she is the best lady in the world.” Upon this, Jones began
to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, and faithfully promised not
to divulge it. She then proceeded thus:—“Why, you must know,
sir, my young lady sent me to enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see
whether the wench wanted anything; to be sure, I did not care to go,
methinks; but servants must do what they are ordered.—How could you
undervalue yourself so, Mr Jones?—So my lady bid me go and carry her
some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward sluts were
sent to Bridewell, it would be better for them. I told my lady, says I,
madam, your la’ship is encouraging idleness.”—“And was
my Sophia so good?” says Jones. “My Sophia! I assure you,
marry come up,” answered Honour. “And yet if you knew all—indeed,
if I was as Mr Jones, I should look a little higher than such trumpery as
Molly Seagrim.” “What do you mean by these words,”
replied Jones, “if I knew all?” “I mean what I mean,”
says Honour. “Don’t you remember putting your hands in my lady’s
muff once? I vow I could almost find in my heart to tell, if I was certain
my lady would never come to the hearing on’t.” Jones then made
several solemn protestations. And Honour proceeded—“Then to be
sure, my lady gave me that muff; and afterwards, upon hearing what you had
done”—“Then you told her what I had done?”
interrupted Jones. “If I did, sir,” answered she, “you
need not be angry with me. Many’s the man would have given his head to
have had my lady told, if they had known,—for, to be sure, the
biggest lord in the land might be proud—but, I protest, I have a
great mind not to tell you.” Jones fell to entreaties, and soon
prevailed on her to go on thus. “You must know then, sir, that my
lady had given this muff to me; but about a day or two after I had told
her the story, she quarrels with her new muff, and to be sure it is the
prettiest that ever was seen. Honour, says she, this is an odious muff; it
is too big for me, I can’t wear it: till I can get another, you must let
me have my old one again, and you may have this in the room on’t—for
she’s a good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise
you that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she
hath worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath given it
many a kiss when nobody hath seen her.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western himself, who came to
summon Jones to the harpsichord; whither the poor young fellow went all
pale and trembling. This Western observed, but, on seeing Mrs Honour,
imputed it to a wrong cause; and having given Jones a hearty curse between
jest and earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach up the game in his
warren.

Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and we may believe
it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye of Mr Jones, that she
now happened to have on her right arm this very muff.

She was playing one of her father’s favourite tunes, and he was leaning on
her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, and put her out. This so
disconcerted the squire, that he snatched the muff from her, and with a
hearty curse threw it into the fire. Sophia instantly started up, and with
the utmost eagerness recovered it from the flames.

Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence to many of
our readers; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent an effect on poor
Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. In reality, there are
many little circumstances too often omitted by injudicious historians,
from which events of the utmost importance arise. The world may indeed be
considered as a vast machine, in which the great wheels are originally set
in motion by those which are very minute, and almost imperceptible to any
but the strongest eyes.

Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia; not all the dazzling
brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; the harmony of her
voice, and of her person; not all her wit, good-humour, greatness of mind,
or sweetness of disposition, had been able so absolutely to conquer and
enslave the heart of poor Jones, as this little incident of the muff. Thus
the poet sweetly sings of Troy—

The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprize. All those considerations
of honour and prudence which our heroe had lately with so much military
wisdom placed as guards over the avenues of his heart, ran away from their
posts, and the god of love marched in, in triumph.

Chapter v. — A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.

But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed enemies from
the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the garrison
which he himself had placed there. To lay aside all allegory, the concern
for what must become of poor Molly greatly disturbed and perplexed the
mind of the worthy youth. The superior merit of Sophia totally eclipsed,
or rather extinguished, all the beauties of the poor girl; but compassion
instead of contempt succeeded to love. He was convinced the girl had
placed all her affections, and all her prospect of future happiness, in
him only. For this he had, he knew, given sufficient occasion, by the
utmost profusion of tenderness towards her: a tenderness which he had
taken every means to persuade her he would always maintain. She, on her
side, had assured him of her firm belief in his promise, and had with the
most solemn vows declared, that on his fulfilling or breaking these
promises, it depended, whether she should be the happiest or most
miserable of womankind. And to be the author of this highest degree of
misery to a human being, was a thought on which he could not bear to
ruminate a single moment. He considered this poor girl as having
sacrificed to him everything in her little power; as having been at her
own expense the object of his pleasure; as sighing and languishing for him
even at that very instant. Shall then, says he, my recovery, for which she
hath so ardently wished; shall my presence, which she hath so eagerly
expected, instead of giving her that joy with which she hath flattered
herself, cast her at once down into misery and despair? Can I be such a
villain? Here, when the genius of poor Molly seemed triumphant, the love
of Sophia towards him, which now appeared no longer dubious, rushed upon
his mind, and bore away every obstacle before it.

At length it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able to make Molly
amends another way; namely, by giving her a sum of money. This,
nevertheless, he almost despaired of her accepting, when he recollected
the frequent and vehement assurances he had received from her, that the
world put in balance with him would make her no amends for his loss.
However, her extreme poverty, and chiefly her egregious vanity (somewhat
of which hath been already hinted to the reader), gave him some little
hope, that, notwithstanding all her avowed tenderness, she might in time
be brought to content herself with a fortune superior to her expectation,
and which might indulge her vanity, by setting her above all her equals.
He resolved therefore to take the first opportunity of making a proposal
of this kind.

One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered that he could
walk easily with it slung in a sash, he stole forth, at a season when the
squire was engaged in his field exercises, and visited his fair one. Her
mother and sisters, whom he found taking their tea, informed him first
that Molly was not at home; but afterwards the eldest sister acquainted
him, with a malicious smile, that she was above stairs a-bed. Tom had no
objection to this situation of his mistress, and immediately ascended the
ladder which led towards her bed-chamber; but when he came to the top, he,
to his great surprize, found the door fast; nor could he for some time
obtain any answer from within; for Molly, as she herself afterwards
informed him, was fast asleep.

The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce very similar
effects; and when either of these rushes on us by surprize, it is apt to
create such a total perturbation and confusion, that we are often thereby
deprived of the use of all our faculties. It cannot therefore be wondered
at, that the unexpected sight of Mr Jones should so strongly operate on
the mind of Molly, and should overwhelm her with such confusion, that for
some minutes she was unable to express the great raptures, with which the
reader will suppose she was affected on this occasion. As for Jones, he
was so entirely possessed, and as it were enchanted, by the presence of
his beloved object, that he for a while forgot Sophia, and consequently
the principal purpose of his visit.

This, however, soon recurred to his memory; and after the first transports
of their meeting were over, he found means by degrees to introduce a
discourse on the fatal consequences which must attend their amour, if Mr
Allworthy, who had strictly forbidden him ever seeing her more, should
discover that he still carried on this commerce. Such a discovery, which
his enemies gave him reason to think would be unavoidable, must, he said,
end in his ruin, and consequently in hers. Since therefore their hard
fates had determined that they must separate, he advised her to bear it
with resolution, and swore he would never omit any opportunity, through
the course of his life, of showing her the sincerity of his affection, by
providing for her in a manner beyond her utmost expectation, or even
beyond her wishes, if ever that should be in his power; concluding at
last, that she might soon find some man who would marry her, and who would
make her much happier than she could be by leading a disreputable life
with him.

Molly remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting into a flood of
tears, she began to upbraid him in the following words: “And this is
your love for me, to forsake me in this manner, now you have ruined me!
How often, when I have told you that all men are false and perjury alike,
and grow tired of us as soon as ever they have had their wicked wills of
us, how often have you sworn you would never forsake me! And can you be
such a perjury man after all? What signifies all the riches in the world
to me without you, now you have gained my heart, so you have—you
have—? Why do you mention another man to me? I can never love any
other man as long as I live. All other men are nothing to me. If the
greatest squire in all the country would come a suiting to me to-morrow, I
would not give my company to him. No, I shall always hate and despise the
whole sex for your sake.”—

She was proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her tongue, before
it had run out half its career. The room, or rather garret, in which Molly
lay, being up one pair of stairs, that is to say, at the top of the house,
was of a sloping figure, resembling the great Delta of the Greeks. The
English reader may perhaps form a better idea of it, by being told that it
was impossible to stand upright anywhere but in the middle. Now, as this
room wanted the conveniency of a closet, Molly had, to supply that defect,
nailed up an old rug against the rafters of the house, which enclosed a
little hole where her best apparel, such as the remains of that sack which
we have formerly mentioned, some caps, and other things with which she had
lately provided herself, were hung up and secured from the dust.

This enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to which, indeed,
the rug hung so near, that it served in a manner to supply the want of
curtains. Now, whether Molly, in the agonies of her rage, pushed this rug
with her feet; or Jones might touch it; or whether the pin or nail gave
way of its own accord, I am not certain; but as Molly pronounced those
last words, which are recorded above, the wicked rug got loose from its
fastening, and discovered everything hid behind it; where among other
female utensils appeared—(with shame I write it, and with sorrow
will it be read)—the philosopher Square, in a posture (for the place
would not near admit his standing upright) as ridiculous as can possibly
be conceived.

The posture, indeed, in which he stood, was not greatly unlike that of a
soldier who is tied neck and heels; or rather resembling the attitude in
which we often see fellows in the public streets of London, who are not
suffering but deserving punishment by so standing. He had a nightcap
belonging to Molly on his head, and his two large eyes, the moment the rug
fell, stared directly at Jones; so that when the idea of philosophy was
added to the figure now discovered, it would have been very difficult for
any spectator to have refrained from immoderate laughter.

I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to that
of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance of this
wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent with that
character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in the opinion of
every one.

But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than
real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human
creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be,
a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals. It
is, indeed, in theory only, and not in practice, as we have before hinted,
that consists the difference: for though such great beings think much
better and more wisely, they always act exactly like other men. They know
very well how to subdue all appetites and passions, and to despise both
pain and pleasure; and this knowledge affords much delightful
contemplation, and is easily acquired; but the practice would be vexatious
and troublesome; and, therefore, the same wisdom which teaches them to
know this, teaches them to avoid carrying it into execution.

Mr Square happened to be at church on that Sunday, when, as the reader may
be pleased to remember, the appearance of Molly in her sack had caused all
that disturbance. Here he first observed her, and was so pleased with her
beauty, that he prevailed with the young gentlemen to change their
intended ride that evening, that he might pass by the habitation of Molly,
and by that means might obtain a second chance of seeing her. This reason,
however, as he did not at that time mention to any, so neither did we
think proper to communicate it then to the reader.

Among other particulars which constituted the unfitness of things in Mr
Square’s opinion, danger and difficulty were two. The difficulty therefore
which he apprehended there might be in corrupting this young wench, and
the danger which would accrue to his character on the discovery, were such
strong dissuasives, that it is probable he at first intended to have
contented himself with the pleasing ideas which the sight of beauty
furnishes us with. These the gravest men, after a full meal of serious
meditation, often allow themselves by way of dessert: for which purpose,
certain books and pictures find their way into the most private recesses
of their study, and a certain liquorish part of natural philosophy is
often the principal subject of their conversation.

But when the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, that the fortress
of virtue had already been subdued, he began to give a larger scope to his
desires. His appetite was not of that squeamish kind which cannot feed on
a dainty because another hath tasted it. In short, he liked the girl the
better for the want of that chastity, which, if she had possessed it, must
have been a bar to his pleasures; he pursued and obtained her.

The reader will be mistaken, if he thinks Molly gave Square the preference
to her younger lover: on the contrary, had she been confined to the choice
of one only, Tom Jones would undoubtedly have been, of the two, the
victorious person. Nor was it solely the consideration that two are better
than one (though this had its proper weight) to which Mr Square owed his
success: the absence of Jones during his confinement was an unlucky
circumstance; and in that interval some well-chosen presents from the
philosopher so softened and unguarded the girl’s heart, that a favourable
opportunity became irresistible, and Square triumphed over the poor
remains of virtue which subsisted in the bosom of Molly.

It was now about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones paid the
above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when she and Square were
in bed together. This was the true reason why the mother denied her as we
have seen; for as the old woman shared in the profits arising from the
iniquity of her daughter, she encouraged and protected her in it to the
utmost of her power; but such was the envy and hatred which the elder
sister bore towards Molly, that, notwithstanding she had some part of the
booty, she would willingly have parted with this to ruin her sister and
spoil her trade. Hence she had acquainted Jones with her being
above-stairs in bed, in hopes that he might have caught her in Square’s
arms. This, however, Molly found means to prevent, as the door was
fastened; which gave her an opportunity of conveying her lover behind that
rug or blanket where he now was unhappily discovered.

Square no sooner made his appearance than Molly flung herself back in her
bed, cried out she was undone, and abandoned herself to despair. This poor
girl, who was yet but a novice in her business, had not arrived to that
perfection of assurance which helps off a town lady in any extremity; and
either prompts her with an excuse, or else inspires her to brazen out the
matter with her husband, who, from love of quiet, or out of fear of his
reputation—and sometimes, perhaps, from fear of the gallant, who,
like Mr Constant in the play, wears a sword—is glad to shut his
eyes, and content to put his horns in his pocket. Molly, on the contrary,
was silenced by this evidence, and very fairly gave up a cause which she
had hitherto maintained with so many tears, and with such solemn and
vehement protestations of the purest love and constancy.

As to the gentleman behind the arras, he was not in much less
consternation. He stood for a while motionless, and seemed equally at a
loss what to say, or whither to direct his eyes. Jones, though perhaps the
most astonished of the three, first found his tongue; and being
immediately recovered from those uneasy sensations which Molly by her
upbraidings had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter, and then
saluting Mr Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to relieve him
from his place of confinement.

Square being now arrived in the middle of the room, in which part only he
could stand upright, looked at Jones with a very grave countenance, and
said to him, “Well, sir, I see you enjoy this mighty discovery, and,
I dare swear, take great delight in the thoughts of exposing me; but if
you will consider the matter fairly, you will find you are yourself only
to blame. I am not guilty of corrupting innocence. I have done nothing for
which that part of the world which judges of matters by the rule of right,
will condemn me. Fitness is governed by the nature of things, and not by
customs, forms, or municipal laws. Nothing is indeed unfit which is not
unnatural.”—“Well reasoned, old boy,” answered
Jones; “but why dost thou think that I should desire to expose thee?
I promise thee, I was never better pleased with thee in my life; and
unless thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this affair may remain a
profound secret for me.”—“Nay, Mr Jones,” replied
Square, “I would not be thought to undervalue reputation. Good fame
is a species of the Kalon, and it is by no means fitting to neglect it.
Besides, to murder one’s own reputation is a kind of suicide, a detestable
and odious vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal any infirmity
of mine (for such I may have, since no man is perfectly perfect), I
promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be fitting to be done,
which are not fitting to be boasted of; for by the perverse judgment of
the world, that often becomes the subject of censure, which is, in truth,
not only innocent but laudable.”—“Right!” cries
Jones: “what can be more innocent than the indulgence of a natural
appetite? or what more laudable than the propagation of our species?”—“To
be serious with you,” answered Square, “I profess they always
appeared so to me.”—“And yet,” said Jones, “you
was of a different opinion when my affair with this girl was first
discovered.”—“Why, I must confess,” says Square,
“as the matter was misrepresented to me, by that parson Thwackum, I
might condemn the corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was that—and
that—: for you must know, Mr Jones, in the consideration of fitness,
very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances cause great
alteration.”—“Well,” cries Jones, “be that
as it will, it shall be your own fault, as I have promised you, if you
ever hear any more of this adventure. Behave kindly to the girl, and I
will never open my lips concerning the matter to any one. And, Molly, do
you be faithful to your friend, and I will not only forgive your
infidelity to me, but will do you all the service I can.” So saying,
he took a hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much
expedition.

Square was rejoiced to find this adventure was likely to have no worse
conclusion; and as for Molly, being recovered from her confusion, she
began at first to upbraid Square with having been the occasion of her loss
of Jones; but that gentleman soon found the means of mitigating her anger,
partly by caresses, and partly by a small nostrum from his purse, of
wonderful and approved efficacy in purging off the ill humours of the
mind, and in restoring it to a good temper.

She then poured forth a vast profusion of tenderness towards her new
lover; turned all she had said to Jones, and Jones himself, into ridicule;
and vowed, though he once had the possession of her person, that none but
Square had ever been master of her heart.

Chapter vi. — By comparing which with the former, the reader may
possibly correct some abuse which he hath formerly been guilty of in the
application of the word love.

The infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would, perhaps,
have vindicated a much greater degree of resentment than he expressed on
the occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from that moment, very
few, I believe, would have blamed him.

Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the light of compassion; and
though his love to her was not of that kind which could give him any great
uneasiness at her inconstancy, yet was he not a little shocked on
reflecting that he had himself originally corrupted her innocence; for to
this corruption he imputed all the vice into which she appeared now so
likely to plunge herself.

This consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, the elder
sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to cure him by a hint,
that one Will Barnes, and not himself, had been the first seducer of
Molly; and that the little child, which he had hitherto so certainly
concluded to be his own, might very probably have an equal title, at
least, to claim Barnes for its father.

Jones eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received it; and in a
very short time was sufficiently assured that the girl had told him truth,
not only by the confession of the fellow, but at last by that of Molly
herself.

This Will Barnes was a country gallant, and had acquired as many trophies
of this kind as any ensign or attorney’s clerk in the kingdom. He had,
indeed, reduced several women to a state of utter profligacy, had broke
the hearts of some, and had the honour of occasioning the violent death of
one poor girl, who had either drowned herself, or, what was rather more
probable, had been drowned by him.

Among other of his conquests, this fellow had triumphed over the heart of
Betty Seagrim. He had made love to her long before Molly was grown to be a
fit object of that pastime; but had afterwards deserted her, and applied
to her sister, with whom he had almost immediate success. Now Will had, in
reality, the sole possession of Molly’s affection, while Jones and Square
were almost equally sacrifices to her interest and to her pride.

Hence had grown that implacable hatred which we have before seen raging in
the mind of Betty; though we did not think it necessary to assign this
cause sooner, as envy itself alone was adequate to all the effects we have
mentioned.

Jones was become perfectly easy by possession of this secret with regard
to Molly; but as to Sophia, he was far from being in a state of
tranquillity; nay, indeed, he was under the most violent perturbation; his
heart was now, if I may use the metaphor, entirely evacuated, and Sophia
took absolute possession of it. He loved her with an unbounded passion,
and plainly saw the tender sentiments she had for him; yet could not this
assurance lessen his despair of obtaining the consent of her father, nor
the horrors which attended his pursuit of her by any base or treacherous
method.

The injury which he must thus do to Mr Western, and the concern which
would accrue to Mr Allworthy, were circumstances that tormented him all
day, and haunted him on his pillow at night. His life was a constant
struggle between honour and inclination, which alternately triumphed over
each other in his mind. He often resolved, in the absence of Sophia, to
leave her father’s house, and to see her no more; and as often, in her
presence, forgot all those resolutions, and determined to pursue her at
the hazard of his life, and at the forfeiture of what was much dearer to
him.

This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible effects: for
he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of temper, and became not
only melancholy when alone, but dejected and absent in company; nay, if
ever he put on a forced mirth, to comply with Mr Western’s humour, the
constraint appeared so plain, that he seemed to have been giving the
strongest evidence of what he endeavoured to conceal by such ostentation.

It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he used to conceal
his passion, or the means which honest nature employed to reveal it,
betrayed him most: for while art made him more than ever reserved to
Sophia, and forbad him to address any of his discourse to her, nay, to
avoid meeting her eyes, with the utmost caution; nature was no less busy
in counterplotting him. Hence, at the approach of the young lady, he grew
pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes accidentally met hers,
the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his countenance became all over
scarlet. If common civility ever obliged him to speak to her, as to drink
her health at table, his tongue was sure to falter. If he touched her, his
hand, nay his whole frame, trembled. And if any discourse tended, however
remotely, to raise the idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom failed to
steal from his bosom. Most of which accidents nature was wonderfully
industrious to throw daily in his way.

All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not so of Sophia.
She soon perceived these agitations of mind in Jones, and was at no loss
to discover the cause; for indeed she recognized it in her own breast. And
this recognition is, I suppose, that sympathy which hath been so often
noted in lovers, and which will sufficiently account for her being so much
quicker-sighted than her father.

But, to say the truth, there is a more simple and plain method of
accounting for that prodigious superiority of penetration which we must
observe in some men over the rest of the human species, and one which will
serve not only in the case of lovers, but of all others. From whence is it
that the knave is generally so quick-sighted to those symptoms and
operations of knavery, which often dupe an honest man of a much better
understanding? There surely is no general sympathy among knaves; nor have
they, like freemasons, any common sign of communication. In reality, it is
only because they have the same thing in their heads, and their thoughts
are turned the same way. Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western did not
see, the plain symptoms of love in Jones can be no wonder, when we
consider that the idea of love never entered into the head of the father,
whereas the daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.

When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which tormented poor
Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its object, she had not
the least difficulty in discovering the true cause of his present
behaviour. This highly endeared him to her, and raised in her mind two of
the best affections which any lover can wish to raise in a mistress—these
were, esteem and pity—for sure the most outrageously rigid among her
sex will excuse her pitying a man whom she saw miserable on her own
account; nor can they blame her for esteeming one who visibly, from the
most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother a flame in his own bosom,
which, like the famous Spartan theft, was preying upon and consuming his
very vitals. Thus his backwardness, his shunning her, his coldness, and
his silence, were the forwardest, the most diligent, the warmest, and most
eloquent advocates; and wrought so violently on her sensible and tender
heart, that she soon felt for him all those gentle sensations which are
consistent with a virtuous and elevated female mind. In short, all which
esteem, gratitude, and pity, can inspire in such towards an agreeable man—indeed,
all which the nicest delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love with
him to distraction.

One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at the end of
the two walks which were both bounded by that canal in which Jones had
formerly risqued drowning to retrieve the little bird that Sophia had
there lost.

This place had been of late much frequented by Sophia. Here she used to
ruminate, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, on an incident which,
however trifling in itself, had possibly sown the first seeds of that
affection which was now arrived to such maturity in her heart.

Here then this young couple met. They were almost close together before
either of them knew anything of the other’s approach. A bystander would
have discovered sufficient marks of confusion in the countenance of each;
but they felt too much themselves to make any observation. As soon as
Jones had a little recovered his first surprize, he accosted the young
lady with some of the ordinary forms of salutation, which she in the same
manner returned; and their conversation began, as usual, on the delicious
beauty of the morning. Hence they past to the beauty of the place, on
which Jones launched forth very high encomiums. When they came to the tree
whence he had formerly tumbled into the canal, Sophia could not help
reminding him of that accident, and said, “I fancy, Mr Jones, you
have some little shuddering when you see that water.”—“I
assure you, madam,” answered Jones, “the concern you felt at
the loss of your little bird will always appear to me the highest
circumstance in that adventure. Poor little Tommy! there is the branch he
stood upon. How could the little wretch have the folly to fly away from
that state of happiness in which I had the honour to place him? His fate
was a just punishment for his ingratitude.”—“Upon my
word, Mr Jones,” said she, “your gallantry very narrowly
escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance must affect you.”—“Indeed,
madam,” answered he, “if I have any reason to reflect with
sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the water had not been a little deeper,
by which I might have escaped many bitter heart-aches that Fortune seems
to have in store for me.”—“Fie, Mr Jones!” replied
Sophia; “I am sure you cannot be in earnest now. This affected
contempt of life is only an excess of your complacence to me. You would
endeavour to lessen the obligation of having twice ventured it for my
sake. Beware the third time.” She spoke these last words with a
smile, and a softness inexpressible. Jones answered with a sigh, “He
feared it was already too late for caution:” and then looking
tenderly and stedfastly on her, he cried, “Oh, Miss Western! can you
desire me to live? Can you wish me so ill?” Sophia, looking down on
the ground, answered with some hesitation, “Indeed, Mr Jones, I do
not wish you ill.”—“Oh, I know too well that heavenly
temper,” cries Jones, “that divine goodness, which is beyond
every other charm.”—“Nay, now,” answered she,
“I understand you not. I can stay no longer.”—“I—I
would not be understood!” cries he; “nay, I can’t be
understood. I know not what I say. Meeting you here so unexpectedly, I
have been unguarded: for Heaven’s sake pardon me, if I have said anything
to offend you. I did not mean it. Indeed, I would rather have died—nay,
the very thought would kill me.”—“You surprize me,”
answered she. “How can you possibly think you have offended me?”—“Fear,
madam,” says he, “easily runs into madness; and there is no
degree of fear like that which I feel of offending you. How can I speak
then? Nay, don’t look angrily at me: one frown will destroy me. I mean
nothing. Blame my eyes, or blame those beauties. What am I saying? Pardon
me if I have said too much. My heart overflowed. I have struggled with my
love to the utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal a fever which preys on
my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it impossible for me ever to offend
you more.”

Mr Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with the fit of an
ague. Sophia, who was in a situation not very different from his, answered
in these words: “Mr Jones, I will not affect to misunderstand you;
indeed, I understand you too well; but, for Heaven’s sake, if you have any
affection for me, let me make the best of my way into the house. I wish I
may be able to support myself thither.”

Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her his arm, which
she condescended to accept, but begged he would not mention a word more to
her of this nature at present. He promised he would not; insisting only on
her forgiveness of what love, without the leave of his will, had forced
from him: this, she told him, he knew how to obtain by his future
behaviour; and thus this young pair tottered and trembled along, the lover
not once daring to squeeze the hand of his mistress, though it was locked
in his.

Sophia immediately retired to her chamber, where Mrs Honour and the
hartshorn were summoned to her assistance. As to poor Jones, the only
relief to his distempered mind was an unwelcome piece of news, which, as
it opens a scene of different nature from those in which the reader hath
lately been conversant, will be communicated to him in the next chapter.

Chapter vii. — In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.

Mr Western was become so fond of Jones that he was unwilling to part with
him, though his arm had been long since cured; and Jones, either from the
love of sport, or from some other reason, was easily persuaded to continue
at his house, which he did sometimes for a fortnight together without
paying a single visit at Mr Allworthy’s; nay, without ever hearing from
thence.

Mr Allworthy had been for some days indisposed with a cold, which had been
attended with a little fever. This he had, however, neglected; as it was
usual with him to do all manner of disorders which did not confine him to
his bed, or prevent his several faculties from performing their ordinary
functions;—a conduct which we would by no means be thought to
approve or recommend to imitation; for surely the gentlemen of the
Aesculapian art are in the right in advising, that the moment the disease
has entered at one door, the physician should be introduced at the other:
what else is meant by that old adage, Venienti occurrite morbo?
“Oppose a distemper at its first approach.” Thus the doctor
and the disease meet in fair and equal conflict; whereas, by giving time
to the latter, we often suffer him to fortify and entrench himself, like a
French army; so that the learned gentleman finds it very difficult, and
sometimes impossible, to come at the enemy. Nay, sometimes by gaining time
the disease applies to the French military politics, and corrupts nature
over to his side, and then all the powers of physic must arrive too late.
Agreeable to these observations was, I remember, the complaint of the
great Doctor Misaubin, who used very pathetically to lament the late
applications which were made to his skill, saying, “Bygar, me
believe my pation take me for de undertaker, for dey never send for me
till de physicion have kill dem.”

Mr Allworthy’s distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such ground,
that, when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for assistance,
the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he had been sent
for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very imminent danger. Mr
Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs in this world, and was as well
prepared as it is possible for human nature to be for the other, received
this information with the utmost calmness and unconcern. He could, indeed,
whenever he laid himself down to rest, say with Cato in the tragical poem—

In reality, he could say this with ten times more reason and confidence
than Cato, or any other proud fellow among the antient or modern heroes;
for he was not only devoid of fear, but might be considered as a faithful
labourer, when at the end of harvest he is summoned to receive his reward
at the hands of a bountiful master.

The good man gave immediate orders for all his family to be summoned round
him. None of these were then abroad, but Mrs Blifil, who had been some
time in London, and Mr Jones, whom the reader hath just parted from at Mr
Western’s, and who received this summons just as Sophia had left him.

The news of Mr Allworthy’s danger (for the servant told him he was dying)
drove all thoughts of love out of his head. He hurried instantly into the
chariot which was sent for him, and ordered the coachman to drive with all
imaginable haste; nor did the idea of Sophia, I believe, once occur to him
on the way.

And now the whole family, namely, Mr Blifil, Mr Jones, Mr Thwackum, Mr
Square, and some of the servants (for such were Mr Allworthy’s orders)
being all assembled round his bed, the good man sat up in it, and was
beginning to speak, when Blifil fell to blubbering, and began to express
very loud and bitter lamentations. Upon this Mr Allworthy shook him by the
hand, and said, “Do not sorrow thus, my dear nephew, at the most
ordinary of all human occurrences. When misfortunes befal our friends we
are justly grieved; for those are accidents which might often have been
avoided, and which may seem to render the lot of one man more peculiarly
unhappy than that of others; but death is certainly unavoidable, and is
that common lot in which alone the fortunes of all men agree: nor is the
time when this happens to us very material. If the wisest of men hath
compared life to a span, surely we may be allowed to consider it as a day.
It is my fate to leave it in the evening; but those who are taken away
earlier have only lost a few hours, at the best little worth lamenting,
and much oftener hours of labour and fatigue, of pain and sorrow. One of
the Roman poets, I remember, likens our leaving life to our departure from
a feast;—a thought which hath often occurred to me when I have seen
men struggling to protract an entertainment, and to enjoy the company of
their friends a few moments longer. Alas! how short is the most protracted
of such enjoyments! how immaterial the difference between him who retires
the soonest, and him who stays the latest! This is seeing life in the best
view, and this unwillingness to quit our friends is the most amiable
motive from which we can derive the fear of death; and yet the longest
enjoyment which we can hope for of this kind is of so trivial a duration,
that it is to a wise man truly contemptible. Few men, I own, think in this
manner; for, indeed, few men think of death till they are in its jaws.
However gigantic and terrible an object this may appear when it approaches
them, they are nevertheless incapable of seeing it at any distance; nay,
though they have been ever so much alarmed and frightened when they have
apprehended themselves in danger of dying, they are no sooner cleared from
this apprehension than even the fears of it are erased from their minds.
But, alas! he who escapes from death is not pardoned; he is only
reprieved, and reprieved to a short day.

“Grieve, therefore, no more, my dear child, on this occasion: an
event which may happen every hour; which every element, nay, almost every
particle of matter that surrounds us is capable of producing, and which
must and will most unavoidably reach us all at last, ought neither to
occasion our surprize nor our lamentation.

“My physician having acquainted me (which I take very kindly of him)
that I am in danger of leaving you all very shortly, I have determined to
say a few words to you at this our parting, before my distemper, which I
find grows very fast upon me, puts it out of my power.

“But I shall waste my strength too much. I intended to speak
concerning my will, which, though I have settled long ago, I think proper
to mention such heads of it as concern any of you, that I may have the
comfort of perceiving you are all satisfied with the provision I have
there made for you.

“Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, except only
£500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother, and
except one other estate of £500 a-year, and the sum of £6000, which I have
bestowed in the following manner:

“The estate of £500 a-year I have given to you, Mr Jones: and as I
know the inconvenience which attends the want of ready money, I have added
£1000 in specie. In this I know not whether I have exceeded or fallen
short of your expectation. Perhaps you will think I have given you too
little, and the world will be as ready to condemn me for giving you too
much; but the latter censure I despise; and as to the former, unless you
should entertain that common error which I have often heard in my life
pleaded as an excuse for a total want of charity, namely, that instead of
raising gratitude by voluntary acts of bounty, we are apt to raise
demands, which of all others are the most boundless and most difficult to
satisfy.—Pardon me the bare mention of this; I will not suspect any
such thing.”

Jones flung himself at his benefactor’s feet, and taking eagerly hold of
his hand, assured him his goodness to him, both now and all other times,
had so infinitely exceeded not only his merit but his hopes, that no words
could express his sense of it. “And I assure you, sir,” said
he, “your present generosity hath left me no other concern than for
the present melancholy occasion. Oh, my friend, my father!” Here his
words choaked him, and he turned away to hide a tear which was starting
from his eyes.

Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand, and proceeded thus: “I am
convinced, my child, that you have much goodness, generosity, and honour,
in your temper: if you will add prudence and religion to these, you must
be happy; for the three former qualities, I admit, make you worthy of
happiness, but they are the latter only which will put you in possession
of it.

“One thousand pound I have given to you, Mr Thwackum; a sum I am
convinced which greatly exceeds your desires, as well as your wants.
However, you will receive it as a memorial of my friendship; and whatever
superfluities may redound to you, that piety which you so rigidly maintain
will instruct you how to dispose of them.

“A like sum, Mr Square, I have bequeathed to you. This, I hope, will
enable you to pursue your profession with better success than hitherto. I
have often observed with concern, that distress is more apt to excite
contempt than commiseration, especially among men of business, with whom
poverty is understood to indicate want of ability. But the little I have
been able to leave you will extricate you from those difficulties with
which you have formerly struggled; and then I doubt not but you will meet
with sufficient prosperity to supply what a man of your philosophical
temper will require.

“I find myself growing faint, so I shall refer you to my will for my
disposition of the residue. My servants will there find some tokens to
remember me by; and there are a few charities which, I trust, my executors
will see faithfully performed. Bless you all. I am setting out a little
before you.”—

Here a footman came hastily into the room, and said there was an attorney
from Salisbury who had a particular message, which he said he must
communicate to Mr Allworthy himself: that he seemed in a violent hurry,
and protested he had so much business to do, that, if he could cut himself
into four quarters, all would not be sufficient.

“Go, child,” said Allworthy to Blifil, “see what the
gentleman wants. I am not able to do any business now, nor can he have any
with me, in which you are not at present more concerned than myself.
Besides, I really am—I am incapable of seeing any one at present, or
of any longer attention.” He then saluted them all, saying, perhaps
he should be able to see them again, but he should be now glad to compose
himself a little, finding that he had too much exhausted his spirits in
discourse.

Some of the company shed tears at their parting; and even the philosopher
Square wiped his eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood. As to Mrs
Wilkins, she dropt her pearls as fast as the Arabian trees their medicinal
gums; for this was a ceremonial which that gentlewoman never omitted on a
proper occasion.

After this Mr Allworthy again laid himself down on his pillow, and
endeavoured to compose himself to rest.

Chapter viii. — Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.

Besides grief for her master, there was another source for that briny
stream which so plentifully rose above the two mountainous cheek-bones of
the housekeeper. She was no sooner retired, than she began to mutter to
herself in the following pleasant strain: “Sure master might have
made some difference, methinks, between me and the other servants. I
suppose he hath left me mourning; but, i’fackins! if that be all, the
devil shall wear it for him, for me. I’d have his worship know I am no
beggar. I have saved five hundred pound in his service, and after all to
be used in this manner.—It is a fine encouragement to servants to be
honest; and to be sure, if I have taken a little something now and then,
others have taken ten times as much; and now we are all put in a lump
together. If so be that it be so, the legacy may go to the devil with him
that gave it. No, I won’t give it up neither, because that will please
some folks. No, I’ll buy the gayest gown I can get, and dance over the old
curmudgeon’s grave in it. This is my reward for taking his part so often,
when all the country have cried shame of him, for breeding up his bastard
in that manner; but he is going now where he must pay for all. It would
have become him better to have repented of his sins on his deathbed, than
to glory in them, and give away his estate out of his own family to a
misbegotten child. Found in his bed, forsooth! a pretty story! ay, ay,
those that hide know where to find. Lord forgive him! I warrant he hath
many more bastards to answer for, if the truth was known. One comfort is,
they will all be known where he is a going now.—`The servants will
find some token to remember me by.’ Those were the very words; I shall
never forget them, if I was to live a thousand years. Ay, ay, I shall
remember you for huddling me among the servants. One would have thought he
might have mentioned my name as well as that of Square; but he is a
gentleman forsooth, though he had not cloths on his back when he came
hither first. Marry come up with such gentlemen! though he hath lived here
this many years, I don’t believe there is arrow a servant in the house
ever saw the colour of his money. The devil shall wait upon such a
gentleman for me.” Much more of the like kind she muttered to
herself; but this taste shall suffice to the reader.

Neither Thwackum nor Square were much better satisfied with their
legacies. Though they breathed not their resentment so loud, yet from the
discontent which appeared in their countenances, as well as from the
following dialogue, we collect that no great pleasure reigned in their
minds.

About an hour after they had left the sick-room, Square met Thwackum in
the hall and accosted him thus: “Well, sir, have you heard any news
of your friend since we parted from him?”—“If you mean
Mr Allworthy,” answered Thwackum, “I think you might rather
give him the appellation of your friend; for he seems to me to have
deserved that title.”—“The title is as good on your
side,” replied Square, “for his bounty, such as it is, hath
been equal to both.”—“I should not have mentioned it
first,” cries Thwackum, “but since you begin, I must inform
you I am of a different opinion. There is a wide distinction between
voluntary favours and rewards. The duty I have done in his family, and the
care I have taken in the education of his two boys, are services for which
some men might have expected a greater return. I would not have you
imagine I am therefore dissatisfied; for St Paul hath taught me to be
content with the little I have. Had the modicum been less, I should have
known my duty. But though the Scriptures obliges me to remain contented,
it doth not enjoin me to shut my eyes to my own merit, nor restrain me
from seeing when I am injured by an unjust comparison.”—“Since
you provoke me,” returned Square, “that injury is done to me;
nor did I ever imagine Mr Allworthy had held my friendship so light, as to
put me in balance with one who received his wages. I know to what it is
owing; it proceeds from those narrow principles which you have been so
long endeavouring to infuse into him, in contempt of everything which is
great and noble. The beauty and loveliness of friendship is too strong for
dim eyes, nor can it be perceived by any other medium than that unerring
rule of right, which you have so often endeavoured to ridicule, that you
have perverted your friend’s understanding.”—“I wish,”
cries Thwackum, in a rage, “I wish, for the sake of his soul, your
damnable doctrines have not perverted his faith. It is to this I impute
his present behaviour, so unbecoming a Christian. Who but an atheist could
think of leaving the world without having first made up his account?
without confessing his sins, and receiving that absolution which he knew
he had one in the house duly authorized to give him? He will feel the want
of these necessaries when it is too late, when he is arrived at that place
where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. It is then he will find in
what mighty stead that heathen goddess, that virtue, which you and all
other deists of the age adore, will stand him. He will then summon his
priest, when there is none to be found, and will lament the want of that
absolution, without which no sinner can be safe.”—“If it
be so material,” says Square, “why don’t you present it him of
your own accord?” “It hath no virtue,” cries Thwackum,
“but to those who have sufficient grace to require it. But why do I
talk thus to a heathen and an unbeliever? It is you that taught him this
lesson, for which you have been well rewarded in this world, as I doubt
not your disciple will soon be in the other.”—“I know
not what you mean by reward,” said Square; “but if you hint at
that pitiful memorial of our friendship, which he hath thought fit to
bequeath me, I despise it; and nothing but the unfortunate situation of my
circumstances should prevail on me to accept it.”

The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two disputants, how
we all did above-stairs? “In a miserable way,” answered
Thwackum. “It is no more than I expected,” cries the doctor:
“but pray what symptoms have appeared since I left you?”—“No
good ones, I am afraid,” replied Thwackum: “after what past at
our departure, I think there were little hopes.” The bodily
physician, perhaps, misunderstood the curer of souls; and before they came
to an explanation, Mr Blifil came to them with a most melancholy
countenance, and acquainted them that he brought sad news, that his mother
was dead at Salisbury; that she had been seized on the road home with the
gout in her head and stomach, which had carried her off in a few hours.
“Good-lack-a-day!” says the doctor. “One cannot answer
for events; but I wish I had been at hand, to have been called in. The
gout is a distemper which it is difficult to treat; yet I have been
remarkably successful in it.” Thwackum and Square both condoled with
Mr Blifil for the loss of his mother, which the one advised him to bear
like a man, and the other like a Christian. The young gentleman said he
knew very well we were all mortal, and he would endeavour to submit to his
loss as well as he could. That he could not, however, help complaining a
little against the peculiar severity of his fate, which brought the news
of so great a calamity to him by surprize, and that at a time when he
hourly expected the severest blow he was capable of feeling from the
malice of fortune. He said, the present occasion would put to the test
those excellent rudiments which he had learnt from Mr Thwackum and Mr
Square; and it would be entirely owing to them, if he was enabled to
survive such misfortunes.

It was now debated whether Mr Allworthy should be informed of the death of
his sister. This the doctor violently opposed; in which, I believe, the
whole college would agree with him: but Mr Blifil said, he had received
such positive and repeated orders from his uncle, never to keep any secret
from him for fear of the disquietude which it might give him, that he
durst not think of disobedience, whatever might be the consequence. He
said, for his part, considering the religious and philosophic temper of
his uncle, he could not agree with the doctor in his apprehensions. He was
therefore resolved to communicate it to him: for if his uncle recovered
(as he heartily prayed he might) he knew he would never forgive an
endeavour to keep a secret of this kind from him.

The physician was forced to submit to these resolutions, which the two
other learned gentlemen very highly commended. So together moved Mr Blifil
and the doctor toward the sick-room; where the physician first entered,
and approached the bed, in order to feel his patient’s pulse, which he had
no sooner done, than he declared he was much better; that the last
application had succeeded to a miracle, and had brought the fever to
intermit: so that, he said, there appeared now to be as little danger as
he had before apprehended there were hopes.

To say the truth, Mr Allworthy’s situation had never been so bad as the
great caution of the doctor had represented it: but as a wise general
never despises his enemy, however inferior that enemy’s force may be, so
neither doth a wise physician ever despise a distemper, however
inconsiderable. As the former preserves the same strict discipline, places
the same guards, and employs the same scouts, though the enemy be never so
weak; so the latter maintains the same gravity of countenance, and shakes
his head with the same significant air, let the distemper be never so
trifling. And both, among many other good ones, may assign this solid
reason for their conduct, that by these means the greater glory redounds
to them if they gain the victory, and the less disgrace if by any unlucky
accident they should happen to be conquered.

Mr Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his eyes, and thanked Heaven for
these hopes of his recovery, than Mr Blifil drew near, with a very
dejected aspect, and having applied his handkerchief to his eye, either to
wipe away his tears, or to do as Ovid somewhere expresses himself on
another occasion

he communicated to his uncle what the reader hath been just before
acquainted with.

Allworthy received the news with concern, with patience, and with
resignation. He dropt a tender tear, then composed his countenance, and at
last cried, “The Lord’s will be done in everything.”

He now enquired for the messenger; but Blifil told him it had been
impossible to detain him a moment; for he appeared by the great hurry he
was in to have some business of importance on his hands; that he
complained of being hurried and driven and torn out of his life, and
repeated many times, that if he could divide himself into four quarters,
he knew how to dispose of every one.

Allworthy then desired Blifil to take care of the funeral. He said, he
would have his sister deposited in his own chapel; and as to the
particulars, he left them to his own discretion, only mentioning the
person whom he would have employed on this occasion.

Chapter ix. — Which, among other things, may serve as a comment on
that saying of Aeschines, that “drunkenness shows the mind of a man,
as a mirrour reflects his person.”

The reader may perhaps wonder at hearing nothing of Mr Jones in the last
chapter. In fact, his behaviour was so different from that of the persons
there mentioned, that we chose not to confound his name with theirs.

When the good man had ended his speech, Jones was the last who deserted
the room. Thence he retired to his own apartment, to give vent to his
concern; but the restlessness of his mind would not suffer him to remain
long there; he slipped softly therefore to Allworthy’s chamber-door, where
he listened a considerable time without hearing any kind of motion within,
unless a violent snoring, which at last his fears misrepresented as
groans. This so alarmed him, that he could not forbear entering the room;
where he found the good man in the bed, in a sweet composed sleep, and his
nurse snoring in the above mentioned hearty manner, at the bed’s feet. He
immediately took the only method of silencing this thorough bass, whose
music he feared might disturb Mr Allworthy; and then sitting down by the
nurse, he remained motionless till Blifil and the doctor came in together
and waked the sick man, in order that the doctor might feel his pulse, and
that the other might communicate to him that piece of news, which, had
Jones been apprized of it, would have had great difficulty of finding its
way to Mr Allworthy’s ear at such a season.

When he first heard Blifil tell his uncle this story, Jones could hardly
contain the wrath which kindled in him at the other’s indiscretion,
especially as the doctor shook his head, and declared his unwillingness to
have the matter mentioned to his patient. But as his passion did not so
far deprive him of all use of his understanding, as to hide from him the
consequences which any violent expression towards Blifil might have on the
sick, this apprehension stilled his rage at the present; and he grew
afterwards so satisfied with finding that this news had, in fact, produced
no mischief, that he suffered his anger to die in his own bosom, without
ever mentioning it to Blifil.

The physician dined that day at Mr Allworthy’s; and having after dinner
visited his patient, he returned to the company, and told them, that he
had now the satisfaction to say, with assurance, that his patient was out
of all danger: that he had brought his fever to a perfect intermission,
and doubted not by throwing in the bark to prevent its return.

This account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such immoderate excess
of rapture, that he might be truly said to be drunk with joy—an
intoxication which greatly forwards the effects of wine; and as he was
very free too with the bottle on this occasion (for he drank many bumpers
to the doctor’s health, as well as to other toasts) he became very soon
literally drunk.

Jones had naturally violent animal spirits: these being set on float and
augmented by the spirit of wine, produced most extravagant effects. He
kissed the doctor, and embraced him with the most passionate endearments;
swearing that next to Mr Allworthy himself, he loved him of all men
living. “Doctor,” added he, “you deserve a statue to be
erected to you at the public expense, for having preserved a man, who is
not only the darling of all good men who know him, but a blessing to
society, the glory of his country, and an honour to human nature. D—n
me if I don’t love him better than my own soul.”

“More shame for you,” cries Thwackum. “Though I think
you have reason to love him, for he hath provided very well for you. And
perhaps it might have been better for some folks that he had not lived to
see just reason of revoking his gift.”

Jones now looking on Thwackum with inconceivable disdain, answered,
“And doth thy mean soul imagine that any such considerations could
weigh with me? No, let the earth open and swallow her own dirt (if I had
millions of acres I would say it) rather than swallow up my dear glorious
friend.”

The doctor now interposed, and prevented the effects of a wrath which was
kindling between Jones and Thwackum; after which the former gave a loose
to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs, and fell into every frantic
disorder which unbridled joy is apt to inspire; but so far was he from any
disposition to quarrel, that he was ten times better humoured, if
possible, than when he was sober.

To say truth, nothing is more erroneous than the common observation, that
men who are ill-natured and quarrelsome when they are drunk, are very
worthy persons when they are sober: for drink, in reality, doth not
reverse nature, or create passions in men which did not exist in them
before. It takes away the guard of reason, and consequently forces us to
produce those symptoms, which many, when sober, have art enough to
conceal. It heightens and inflames our passions (generally indeed that
passion which is uppermost in our mind), so that the angry temper, the
amorous, the generous, the good-humoured, the avaricious, and all other
dispositions of men, are in their cups heightened and exposed.

And yet as no nation produces so many drunken quarrels, especially among
the lower people, as England (for indeed, with them, to drink and to fight
together are almost synonymous terms), I would not, methinks, have it
thence concluded, that the English are the worst-natured people alive.
Perhaps the love of glory only is at the bottom of this; so that the fair
conclusion seems to be, that our countrymen have more of that love, and
more of bravery, than any other plebeians. And this the rather, as there
is seldom anything ungenerous, unfair, or ill-natured, exercised on these
occasions: nay, it is common for the combatants to express good-will for
each other even at the time of the conflict; and as their drunken mirth
generally ends in a battle, so do most of their battles end in friendship.

But to return to our history. Though Jones had shown no design of giving
offence, yet Mr Blifil was highly offended at a behaviour which was so
inconsistent with the sober and prudent reserve of his own temper. He bore
it too with the greater impatience, as it appeared to him very indecent at
this season; “When,” as he said, “the house was a house
of mourning, on the account of his dear mother; and if it had pleased
Heaven to give him some prospect of Mr Allworthy’s recovery, it would
become them better to express the exultations of their hearts in
thanksgiving, than in drunkenness and riots; which were properer methods
to encrease the Divine wrath, than to avert it.” Thwackum, who had
swallowed more liquor than Jones, but without any ill effect on his brain,
seconded the pious harangue of Blifil; but Square, for reasons which the
reader may probably guess, was totally silent.

Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones, as to prevent his recollecting
Mr Blifil’s loss, the moment it was mentioned. As no person, therefore,
was more ready to confess and condemn his own errors, he offered to shake
Mr Blifil by the hand, and begged his pardon, saying, “His excessive
joy for Mr Allworthy’s recovery had driven every other thought out of his
mind.”

Blifil scornfully rejected his hand; and with much indignation answered,
“It was little to be wondered at, if tragical spectacles made no
impression on the blind; but, for his part, he had the misfortune to know
who his parents were, and consequently must be affected with their loss.”

Jones, who, notwithstanding his good humour, had some mixture of the
irascible in his constitution, leaped hastily from his chair, and catching
hold of Blifil’s collar, cried out, “D—n you for a rascal, do
you insult me with the misfortune of my birth?” He accompanied these
words with such rough actions, that they soon got the better of Mr
Blifil’s peaceful temper; and a scuffle immediately ensued, which might
have produced mischief, had it not been prevented by the interposition of
Thwackum and the physician; for the philosophy of Square rendered him
superior to all emotions, and he very calmly smoaked his pipe, as was his
custom in all broils, unless when he apprehended some danger of having it
broke in his mouth.

The combatants being now prevented from executing present vengeance on
each other, betook themselves to the common resources of disappointed
rage, and vented their wrath in threats and defiance. In this kind of
conflict, Fortune, which, in the personal attack, seemed to incline to
Jones, was now altogether as favourable to his enemy.

A truce, nevertheless, was at length agreed on, by the mediation of the
neutral parties, and the whole company again sat down at the table; where
Jones being prevailed on to ask pardon, and Blifil to give it, peace was
restored, and everything seemed in statu quo.

But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly reconciled, the
good humour which had been interrupted by it, was by no means restored.
All merriment was now at an end, and the subsequent discourse consisted
only of grave relations of matters of fact, and of as grave observations
upon them; a species of conversation, in which, though there is much of
dignity and instruction, there is but little entertainment. As we presume
therefore to convey only this last to the reader, we shall pass by
whatever was said, till the rest of the company having by degrees dropped
off, left only Square and the physician together; at which time the
conversation was a little heightened by some comments on what had happened
between the two young gentlemen; both of whom the doctor declared to be no
better than scoundrels; to which appellation the philosopher, very
sagaciously shaking his head, agreed.

Chapter x. — Showing the truth of many observations of Ovid, and of
other more grave writers, who have proved beyond contradiction, that wine
is often the forerunner of incontinency.

Jones retired from the company, in which we have seen him engaged, into
the fields, where he intended to cool himself by a walk in the open air
before he attended Mr Allworthy. There, whilst he renewed those
meditations on his dear Sophia, which the dangerous illness of his friend
and benefactor had for some time interrupted, an accident happened, which
with sorrow we relate, and with sorrow doubtless will it be read; however,
that historic truth to which we profess so inviolable an attachment,
obliges us to communicate it to posterity.

It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of June, when our heroe
was walking in a most delicious grove, where the gentle breezes fanning
the leaves, together with the sweet trilling of a murmuring stream, and
the melodious notes of nightingales, formed altogether the most enchanting
harmony. In this scene, so sweetly accommodated to love, he meditated on
his dear Sophia. While his wanton fancy roamed unbounded over all her
beauties, and his lively imagination painted the charming maid in various
ravishing forms, his warm heart melted with tenderness; and at length,
throwing himself on the ground, by the side of a gently murmuring brook,
he broke forth into the following ejaculation:

“O Sophia, would Heaven give thee to my arms, how blest would be my
condition! Curst be that fortune which sets a distance between us. Was I
but possessed of thee, one only suit of rags thy whole estate, is there a
man on earth whom I would envy! How contemptible would the brightest
Circassian beauty, drest in all the jewels of the Indies, appear to my
eyes! But why do I mention another woman? Could I think my eyes capable of
looking at any other with tenderness, these hands should tear them from my
head. No, my Sophia, if cruel fortune separates us for ever, my soul shall
doat on thee alone. The chastest constancy will I ever preserve to thy
image. Though I should never have possession of thy charming person, still
shalt thou alone have possession of my thoughts, my love, my soul. Oh! my
fond heart is so wrapt in that tender bosom, that the brightest beauties
would for me have no charms, nor would a hermit be colder in their
embraces. Sophia, Sophia alone shall be mine. What raptures are in that
name! I will engrave it on every tree.”

At these words he started up, and beheld—not his Sophia—no,
nor a Circassian maid richly and elegantly attired for the grand Signior’s
seraglio. No; without a gown, in a shift that was somewhat of the
coarsest, and none of the cleanest, bedewed likewise with some odoriferous
effluvia, the produce of the day’s labour, with a pitchfork in her hand,
Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he
had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of carving on the bark; when
the girl coming near him, cryed out with a smile, “You don’t intend
to kill me, squire, I hope!”—“Why should you think I
would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied she,
“after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me would,
perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to relate
it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full quarter of an
hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the thickest part of
the grove.

Some of my readers may be inclined to think this event unnatural. However,
the fact is true; and perhaps may be sufficiently accounted for by
suggesting, that Jones probably thought one woman better than none, and
Molly as probably imagined two men to be better than one. Besides the
before-mentioned motive assigned to the present behaviour of Jones, the
reader will be likewise pleased to recollect in his favour, that he was
not at this time perfect master of that wonderful power of reason, which
so well enables grave and wise men to subdue their unruly passions, and to
decline any of these prohibited amusements. Wine now had totally subdued
this power in Jones. He was, indeed, in a condition, in which, if reason
had interposed, though only to advise, she might have received the answer
which one Cleostratus gave many years ago to a silly fellow, who asked
him, if he was not ashamed to be drunk? “Are not you,” said
Cleostratus, “ashamed to admonish a drunken man?”—To say
the truth, in a court of justice drunkenness must not be an excuse, yet in
a court of conscience it is greatly so; and therefore Aristotle, who
commends the laws of Pittacus, by which drunken men received double
punishment for their crimes, allows there is more of policy than justice
in that law. Now, if there are any transgressions pardonable from
drunkenness, they are certainly such as Mr Jones was at present guilty of;
on which head I could pour forth a vast profusion of learning, if I
imagined it would either entertain my reader, or teach him anything more
than he knows already. For his sake therefore I shall keep my learning to
myself, and return to my history.

It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth things by halves. To say
truth, there is no end to her freaks whenever she is disposed to gratify
or displease. No sooner had our heroe retired with his Dido, but

the parson and the young squire, who were taking a serious walk, arrived
at the stile which leads into the grove, and the latter caught a view of
the lovers just as they were sinking out of sight.

Blifil knew Jones very well, though he was at above a hundred yards’
distance, and he was as positive to the sex of his companion, though not
to the individual person. He started, blessed himself, and uttered a very
solemn ejaculation.

Thwackum expressed some surprize at these sudden emotions, and asked the
reason of them. To which Blifil answered, “He was certain he had
seen a fellow and wench retire together among the bushes, which he doubted
not was with some wicked purpose.” As to the name of Jones, he
thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the
judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives to
the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being mistaken.

The parson, who was not only strictly chaste in his own person, but a
great enemy to the opposite vice in all others, fired at this information.
He desired Mr Blifil to conduct him immediately to the place, which as he
approached he breathed forth vengeance mixed with lamentations; nor did he
refrain from casting some oblique reflections on Mr Allworthy; insinuating
that the wickedness of the country was principally owing to the
encouragement he had given to vice, by having exerted such kindness to a
bastard, and by having mitigated that just and wholesome rigour of the law
which allots a very severe punishment to loose wenches.

The way through which our hunters were to pass in pursuit of their game
was so beset with briars, that it greatly obstructed their walk, and
caused besides such a rustling, that Jones had sufficient warning of their
arrival before they could surprize him; nay, indeed, so incapable was
Thwackum of concealing his indignation, and such vengeance did he mutter
forth every step he took, that this alone must have abundantly satisfied
Jones that he was (to use the language of sportsmen) found sitting.

Chapter xi. — In which a simile in Mr Pope’s period of a mile
introduces as bloody a battle as can possibly be fought without the
assistance of steel or cold iron.

As in the season of rutting (an uncouth phrase, by which the vulgar
denote that gentle dalliance, which in the well-wooded[*] forest of
Hampshire, passes between lovers of the ferine kind), if, while the
lofty-crested stag meditates the amorous sport, a couple of puppies, or
any other beasts of hostile note, should wander so near the temple of
Venus Ferina that the fair hind should shrink from the place, touched with
that somewhat, either of fear or frolic, of nicety or skittishness, with
which nature hath bedecked all females, or hath at least instructed them
how to put it on; lest, through the indelicacy of males, the Samean
mysteries should be pryed into by unhallowed eyes: for, at the celebration
of these rites, the female priestess cries out with her in Virgil (who was
then, probably, hard at work on such celebration),

If, I say, while these sacred rites, which are in common to genus omne
animantium, are in agitation between the stag and his mistress, any
hostile beasts should venture too near, on the first hint given by the
frighted hind, fierce and tremendous rushes forth the stag to the entrance
of the thicket; there stands he centinel over his love, stamps the ground
with his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft in air, proudly
provokes the apprehended foe to combat.

Thus, and more terrible, when he perceived the enemy’s approach, leaped
forth our heroe. Many a step advanced he forwards, in order to conceal the
trembling hind, and, if possible, to secure her retreat. And now Thwackum,
having first darted some livid lightning from his fiery eyes, began to
thunder forth, “Fie upon it! Fie upon it! Mr Jones. Is it possible
you should be the person?”—“You see,” answered
Jones, “it is possible I should be here.”—“And
who,” said Thwackum, “is that wicked slut with you?”—“If
I have any wicked slut with me,” cries Jones, “it is possible
I shall not let you know who she is.”—“I command you to
tell me immediately,” says Thwackum: “and I would not have you
imagine, young man, that your age, though it hath somewhat abridged the
purpose of tuition, hath totally taken away the authority of the master.
The relation of the master and scholar is indelible; as, indeed, all other
relations are; for they all derive their original from heaven. I would
have you think yourself, therefore, as much obliged to obey me now, as
when I taught you your first rudiments.”—“I believe you
would,” cries Jones; “but that will not happen, unless you had
the same birchen argument to convince me.”—“Then I must
tell you plainly,” said Thwackum, “I am resolved to discover
the wicked wretch.”—“And I must tell you plainly,”
returned Jones, “I am resolved you shall not.” Thwackum then
offered to advance, and Jones laid hold of his arms; which Mr Blifil
endeavoured to rescue, declaring, “he would not see his old master
insulted.”

Jones now finding himself engaged with two, thought it necessary to rid
himself of one of his antagonists as soon as possible. He therefore
applied to the weakest first; and, letting the parson go, he directed a
blow at the young squire’s breast, which luckily taking place, reduced him
to measure his length on the ground.

Thwackum was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment he found himself
at liberty, he stept forward directly into the fern, without any great
consideration of what might in the meantime befal his friend; but he had
advanced a very few paces into the thicket, before Jones, having defeated
Blifil, overtook the parson, and dragged him backward by the skirt of his
coat.

This parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won much honour by
his fist, both at school and at the university. He had now indeed, for a
great number of years, declined the practice of that noble art; yet was
his courage full as strong as his faith, and his body no less strong than
either. He was moreover, as the reader may perhaps have conceived,
somewhat irascible in his nature. When he looked back, therefore, and saw
his friend stretched out on the ground, and found himself at the same time
so roughly handled by one who had formerly been only passive in all
conflicts between them (a circumstance which highly aggravated the whole),
his patience at length gave way; he threw himself into a posture of
offence; and collecting all his force, attacked Jones in the front with as
much impetuosity as he had formerly attacked him in the rear.

Our heroe received the enemy’s attack with the most undaunted intrepidity,
and his bosom resounded with the blow. This he presently returned with no
less violence, aiming likewise at the parson’s breast; but he dexterously
drove down the fist of Jones, so that it reached only his belly, where two
pounds of beef and as many of pudding were then deposited, and whence
consequently no hollow sound could proceed. Many lusty blows, much more
pleasant as well as easy to have seen, than to read or describe, were
given on both sides: at last a violent fall, in which Jones had thrown his
knees into Thwackum’s breast, so weakened the latter, that victory had
been no longer dubious, had not Blifil, who had now recovered his
strength, again renewed the fight, and by engaging with Jones, given the
parson a moment’s time to shake his ears, and to regain his breath.

And now both together attacked our heroe, whose blows did not retain that
force with which they had fallen at first, so weakened was he by his
combat with Thwackum; for though the pedagogue chose rather to play solos
on the human instrument, and had been lately used to those only, yet he
still retained enough of his antient knowledge to perform his part very
well in a duet.

The victory, according to modern custom, was like to be decided by
numbers, when, on a sudden, a fourth pair of fists appeared in the battle,
and immediately paid their compliments to the parson; and the owner of
them at the same time crying out, “Are not you ashamed, and be d—n’d
to you, to fall two of you upon one?”

The battle, which was of the kind that for distinction’s sake is called
royal, now raged with the utmost violence during a few minutes; till
Blifil being a second time laid sprawling by Jones, Thwackum condescended
to apply for quarter to his new antagonist, who was now found to be Mr
Western himself; for in the heat of the action none of the combatants had
recognized him.

In fact, that honest squire, happening, in his afternoon’s walk with some
company, to pass through the field where the bloody battle was fought, and
having concluded, from seeing three men engaged, that two of them must be
on a side, he hastened from his companions, and with more gallantry than
policy, espoused the cause of the weaker party. By which generous
proceeding he very probably prevented Mr Jones from becoming a victim to
the wrath of Thwackum, and to the pious friendship which Blifil bore his
old master; for, besides the disadvantage of such odds, Jones had not yet
sufficiently recovered the former strength of his broken arm. This
reinforcement, however, soon put an end to the action, and Jones with his
ally obtained the victory.

Chapter xii. — In which is seen a more moving spectacle than all the
blood in the bodies of Thwackum and Blifil, and of twenty other such, is
capable of producing.

The rest of Mr Western’s company were now come up, being just at the
instant when the action was over. These were the honest clergyman, whom we
have formerly seen at Mr Western’s table; Mrs Western, the aunt of Sophia;
and lastly, the lovely Sophia herself.

At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. In one
place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost breathless, the vanquished
Blifil. Near him stood the conqueror Jones, almost covered with blood,
part of which was naturally his own, and part had been lately the property
of the Reverend Mr Thwackum. In a third place stood the said Thwackum,
like King Porus, sullenly submitting to the conqueror. The last figure in
the piece was Western the Great, most gloriously forbearing the vanquished
foe.

Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the principal
object of the concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs Western, who
had drawn from her pocket a bottle of hartshorn, and was herself about to
apply it to his nostrils, when on a sudden the attention of the whole
company was diverted from poor Blifil, whose spirit, if it had any such
design, might have now taken an opportunity of stealing off to the other
world, without any ceremony.

For now a more melancholy and a more lovely object lay motionless before
them. This was no other than the charming Sophia herself, who, from the
sight of blood, or from fear for her father, or from some other reason,
had fallen down in a swoon, before any one could get to her assistance.

Mrs Western first saw her and screamed. Immediately two or three voices
cried out, “Miss Western is dead.” Hartshorn, water, every
remedy was called for, almost at one and the same instant.

The reader may remember, that in our description of this grove we
mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not come there, as such
gentle streams flow through vulgar romances, with no other purpose than to
murmur. No! Fortune had decreed to ennoble this little brook with a higher
honour than any of those which wash the plains of Arcadia ever deserved.

Jones was rubbing Blifil’s temples, for he began to fear he had given him
a blow too much, when the words, Miss Western and Dead, rushed at once on
his ear. He started up, left Blifil to his fate, and flew to Sophia, whom,
while all the rest were running against each other, backward and forward,
looking for water in the dry paths, he caught up in his arms, and then ran
away with her over the field to the rivulet above mentioned; where,
plunging himself into the water, he contrived to besprinkle her face,
head, and neck very plentifully.

Happy was it for Sophia that the same confusion which prevented her other
friends from serving her, prevented them likewise from obstructing Jones.
He had carried her half ways before they knew what he was doing, and he
had actually restored her to life before they reached the waterside. She
stretched out her arms, opened her eyes, and cried, “Oh! heavens!”
just as her father, aunt, and the parson came up.

Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, now
relinquished his hold; but gave her at the same instant a tender caress,
which, had her senses been then perfectly restored, could not have escaped
her observation. As she expressed, therefore, no displeasure at this
freedom, we suppose she was not sufficiently recovered from her swoon at
the time.

This tragical scene was now converted into a sudden scene of joy. In this
our heroe was certainly the principal character; for as he probably felt
more ecstatic delight in having saved Sophia than she herself received
from being saved, so neither were the congratulations paid to her equal to
what were conferred on Jones, especially by Mr Western himself, who, after
having once or twice embraced his daughter, fell to hugging and kissing
Jones. He called him the preserver of Sophia, and declared there was
nothing, except her, or his estate, which he would not give him; but upon
recollection, he afterwards excepted his fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and
Miss Slouch (for so he called his favourite mare).

All fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the object of the
squire’s consideration.—“Come, my lad,” says Western,
“d’off thy quoat and wash thy feace; for att in a devilish pickle, I
promise thee. Come, come, wash thyself, and shat go huome with me; and
we’l zee to vind thee another quoat.”

Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to the water,
and washed both his face and bosom; for the latter was as much exposed and
as bloody as the former. But though the water could clear off the blood,
it could not remove the black and blue marks which Thwackum had imprinted
on both his face and breast, and which, being discerned by Sophia, drew
from her a sigh and a look full of inexpressible tenderness.

Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a stronger
effect on him than all the contusions which he had received before. An
effect, however, widely different; for so soft and balmy was it, that, had
all his former blows been stabs, it would for some minutes have prevented
his feeling their smart.

The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where Thwackum had got
Mr Blifil again on his legs. Here we cannot suppress a pious wish, that
all quarrels were to be decided by those weapons only with which Nature,
knowing what is proper for us, hath supplied us; and that cold iron was to
be used in digging no bowels but those of the earth. Then would war, the
pastime of monarchs, be almost inoffensive, and battles between great
armies might be fought at the particular desire of several ladies of
quality; who, together with the kings themselves, might be actual
spectators of the conflict. Then might the field be this moment well
strewed with human carcasses, and the next, the dead men, or infinitely
the greatest part of them, might get up, like Mr Bayes’s troops, and march
off either at the sound of a drum or fiddle, as should be previously
agreed on.

I would avoid, if possible, treating this matter ludicrously, lest grave
men and politicians, whom I know to be offended at a jest, may cry pish at
it; but, in reality, might not a battle be as well decided by the greater
number of broken heads, bloody noses, and black eyes, as by the greater
heaps of mangled and murdered human bodies? Might not towns be contended
for in the same manner? Indeed, this may be thought too detrimental a
scheme to the French interest, since they would thus lose the advantage
they have over other nations in the superiority of their engineers; but
when I consider the gallantry and generosity of that people, I am
persuaded they would never decline putting themselves upon a par with
their adversary; or, as the phrase is, making themselves his match.

But such reformations are rather to be wished than hoped for: I shall
content myself, therefore, with this short hint, and return to my
narrative.

Western began now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel. To
which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer; but Thwackum said surlily,
“I believe the cause is not far off; if you beat the bushes well you
may find her.”—“Find her?” replied Western:
“what! have you been fighting for a wench?”—“Ask
the gentleman in his waistcoat there,” said Thwackum: “he best
knows.” “Nay then,” cries Western, “it is a wench
certainly.—Ah, Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. But come,
gentlemen, be all friends, and go home with me, and make final peace over
a bottle.” “I ask your pardon, sir,” says Thwackum:
“it is no such slight matter for a man of my character to be thus
injuriously treated, and buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done
my duty, in endeavouring to detect and bring to justice a wanton harlot;
but, indeed, the principal fault lies in Mr Allworthy and yourself; for if
you put the laws in execution, as you ought to do, you will soon rid the
country of these vermin.”

“I would as soon rid the country of foxes,” cries Western.
“I think we ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers which we
are every day losing in the war.—But where is she? Prithee, Tom,
show me.” He then began to beat about, in the same language and in
the same manner as if he had been beating for a hare; and at last cried
out, “Soho! Puss is not far off. Here’s her form, upon my soul; I
believe I may cry stole away.” And indeed so he might; for he had
now discovered the place whence the poor girl had, at the beginning of the
fray, stolen away, upon as many feet as a hare generally uses in
travelling.

Sophia now desired her father to return home; saying she found herself
very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The squire immediately complied
with his daughter’s request (for he was the fondest of parents). He
earnestly endeavoured to prevail with the whole company to go and sup with
him: but Blifil and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former saying, there
were more reasons than he could then mention, why he must decline this
honour; and the latter declaring (perhaps rightly) that it was not proper
for a person of his function to be seen at any place in his present
condition.

Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with his Sophia; so
on he marched with Squire Western and his ladies, the parson bringing up
the rear. This had, indeed, offered to tarry with his brother Thwackum,
professing his regard for the cloth would not permit him to depart; but
Thwackum would not accept the favour, and, with no great civility, pushed
him after Mr Western.

Thus ended this bloody fray; and thus shall end the fifth book of this
history.

BOOK VI. — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.

Chapter i. — Of love.

In our last book we have been obliged to deal pretty much with the passion
of love; and in our succeeding book shall be forced to handle this subject
still more largely. It may not therefore in this place be improper to
apply ourselves to the examination of that modern doctrine, by which
certain philosophers, among many other wonderful discoveries, pretend to
have found out, that there is no such passion in the human breast.

Whether these philosophers be the same with that surprising sect, who are
honourably mentioned by the late Dr Swift, as having, by the mere force of
genius alone, without the least assistance of any kind of learning, or
even reading, discovered that profound and invaluable secret that there is
no God; or whether they are not rather the same with those who some years
since very much alarmed the world, by showing that there were no such
things as virtue or goodness really existing in human nature, and who
deduced our best actions from pride, I will not here presume to determine.
In reality, I am inclined to suspect, that all these several finders of
truth, are the very identical men who are by others called the finders of
gold. The method used in both these searches after truth and after gold,
being indeed one and the same, viz., the searching, rummaging, and
examining into a nasty place; indeed, in the former instances, into the
nastiest of all places, A BAD MIND.

But though in this particular, and perhaps in their success, the
truth-finder and the gold-finder may very properly be compared together;
yet in modesty, surely, there can be no comparison between the two; for
who ever heard of a gold-finder that had the impudence or folly to assert,
from the ill success of his search, that there was no such thing as gold
in the world? whereas the truth-finder, having raked out that jakes, his
own mind, and being there capable of tracing no ray of divinity, nor
anything virtuous or good, or lovely, or loving, very fairly, honestly,
and logically concludes that no such things exist in the whole creation.

To avoid, however, all contention, if possible, with these philosophers,
if they will be called so; and to show our own disposition to accommodate
matters peaceably between us, we shall here make them some concessions,
which may possibly put an end to the dispute.

First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of the
philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such a passion.

Secondly, that what is commonly called love, namely, the desire of
satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity of delicate white
human flesh, is by no means that passion for which I here contend. This is
indeed more properly hunger; and as no glutton is ashamed to apply the
word love to his appetite, and to say he LOVES such and such dishes; so
may the lover of this kind, with equal propriety, say, he HUNGERS after
such and such women.

Thirdly, I will grant, which I believe will be a most acceptable
concession, that this love for which I am an advocate, though it satisfies
itself in a much more delicate manner, doth nevertheless seek its own
satisfaction as much as the grossest of all our appetites.

And, lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of a different
sex, is very apt, towards its complete gratification, to call in the aid
of that hunger which I have mentioned above; and which it is so far from
abating, that it heightens all its delights to a degree scarce imaginable
by those who have never been susceptible of any other emotions than what
have proceeded from appetite alone.

In return to all these concessions, I desire of the philosophers to grant,
that there is in some (I believe in many) human breasts a kind and
benevolent disposition, which is gratified by contributing to the
happiness of others. That in this gratification alone, as in friendship,
in parental and filial affection, as indeed in general philanthropy, there
is a great and exquisite delight. That if we will not call such
disposition love, we have no name for it. That though the pleasures
arising from such pure love may be heightened and sweetened by the
assistance of amorous desires, yet the former can subsist alone, nor are
they destroyed by the intervention of the latter. Lastly, that esteem and
gratitude are the proper motives to love, as youth and beauty are to
desire, and, therefore, though such desire may naturally cease, when age
or sickness overtakes its object; yet these can have no effect on love,
nor ever shake or remove, from a good mind, that sensation or passion
which hath gratitude and esteem for its basis.

To deny the existence of a passion of which we often see manifest
instances, seems to be very strange and absurd; and can indeed proceed
only from that self-admonition which we have mentioned above: but how
unfair is this! Doth the man who recognizes in his own heart no traces of
avarice or ambition, conclude, therefore, that there are no such passions
in human nature? Why will we not modestly observe the same rule in judging
of the good, as well as the evil of others? Or why, in any case, will we,
as Shakespear phrases it, “put the world in our own person?”

Predominant vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned here. This is one
instance of that adulation which we bestow on our own minds, and this
almost universally. For there is scarce any man, how much soever he may
despise the character of a flatterer, but will condescend in the meanest
manner to flatter himself.

To those therefore I apply for the truth of the above observations, whose
own minds can bear testimony to what I have advanced.

Examine your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether you do believe
these matters with me. If you do, you may now proceed to their
exemplification in the following pages: if you do not, you have, I assure
you, already read more than you have understood; and it would be wiser to
pursue your business, or your pleasures (such as they are), than to throw
away any more of your time in reading what you can neither taste nor
comprehend. To treat of the effects of love to you, must be as absurd as
to discourse on colours to a man born blind; since possibly your idea of
love may be as absurd as that which we are told such blind man once
entertained of the colour scarlet; that colour seemed to him to be very
much like the sound of a trumpet: and love probably may, in your opinion,
very greatly resemble a dish of soup, or a surloin of roast-beef.

Chapter ii. — The character of Mrs Western. Her great learning and
knowledge of the world, and an instance of the deep penetration which she
derived from those advantages.

The reader hath seen Mr Western, his sister, and daughter, with young
Jones, and the parson, going together to Mr Western’s house, where the
greater part of the company spent the evening with much joy and festivity.
Sophia was indeed the only grave person; for as to Jones, though love had
now gotten entire possession of his heart, yet the pleasing reflection on
Mr Allworthy’s recovery, and the presence of his mistress, joined to some
tender looks which she now and then could not refrain from giving him, so
elevated our heroe, that he joined the mirth of the other three, who were
perhaps as good-humoured people as any in the world.

Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next morning at
breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than usual, leaving her
father and aunt together. The squire took no notice of this change in his
daughter’s disposition. To say the truth, though he was somewhat of a
politician, and had been twice a candidate in the country interest at an
election, he was a man of no great observation. His sister was a lady of a
different turn. She had lived about the court, and had seen the world.
Hence she had acquired all that knowledge which the said world usually
communicates; and was a perfect mistress of manners, customs, ceremonies,
and fashions. Nor did her erudition stop here. She had considerably
improved her mind by study; she had not only read all the modern plays,
operas, oratorios, poems, and romances—in all which she was a
critic; but had gone through Rapin’s History of England, Eachard’s Roman
History, and many French Mémoires pour servir à l’Histoire: to
these she had added most of the political pamphlets and journals published
within the last twenty years. From which she had attained a very competent
skill in politics, and could discourse very learnedly on the affairs of
Europe. She was, moreover, excellently well skilled in the doctrine of
amour, and knew better than anybody who and who were together; a knowledge
which she the more easily attained, as her pursuit of it was never
diverted by any affairs of her own; for either she had no inclinations, or
they had never been solicited; which last is indeed very probable; for her
masculine person, which was near six foot high, added to her manner and
learning, possibly prevented the other sex from regarding her,
notwithstanding her petticoats, in the light of a woman. However, as she
had considered the matter scientifically, she perfectly well knew, though
she had never practised them, all the arts which fine ladies use when they
desire to give encouragement, or to conceal liking, with all the long
appendage of smiles, ogles, glances, &c., as they are at present
practised in the beau-monde. To sum the whole, no species of disguise or
affectation had escaped her notice; but as to the plain simple workings of
honest nature, as she had never seen any such, she could know but little
of them.

By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs Western had now, as she thought,
made a discovery of something in the mind of Sophia. The first hint of
this she took from the behaviour of the young lady in the field of battle;
and the suspicion which she then conceived, was greatly corroborated by
some observations which she had made that evening and the next morning.
However, being greatly cautious to avoid being found in a mistake, she
carried the secret a whole fortnight in her bosom, giving only some
oblique hints, by simpering, winks, nods, and now and then dropping an
obscure word, which indeed sufficiently alarmed Sophia, but did not at all
affect her brother.

Being at length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth of her
observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, when she was alone with
her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles in the following manner:—

“Pray, brother, have you not observed something very extraordinary
in my niece lately?”—“No, not I,” answered
Western; “is anything the matter with the girl?”—“I
think there is,” replied she; “and something of much
consequence too.”—“Why, she doth not complain of
anything,” cries Western; “and she hath had the small-pox.”—“Brother,”
returned she, “girls are liable to other distempers besides the
small-pox, and sometimes possibly to much worse.” Here Western
interrupted her with much earnestness, and begged her, if anything ailed
his daughter, to acquaint him immediately; adding, “she knew he
loved her more than his own soul, and that he would send to the world’s
end for the best physician to her.” “Nay, nay,” answered
she, smiling, “the distemper is not so terrible; but I believe,
brother, you are convinced I know the world, and I promise you I was never
more deceived in my life, if my niece be not most desperately in love.”—“How!
in love!” cries Western, in a passion; “in love, without
acquainting me! I’ll disinherit her; I’ll turn her out of doors, stark
naked, without a farthing. Is all my kindness vor ‘ur, and vondness o’ur
come to this, to fall in love without asking me leave?”—“But
you will not,” answered Mrs Western, “turn this daughter, whom
you love better than your own soul, out of doors, before you know whether
you shall approve her choice. Suppose she should have fixed on the very
person whom you yourself would wish, I hope you would not be angry then?”—“No,
no,” cries Western, “that would make a difference. If she
marries the man I would ha’ her, she may love whom she pleases, I shan’t
trouble my head about that.” “That is spoken,” answered
the sister, “like a sensible man; but I believe the very person she
hath chosen would be the very person you would choose for her. I will
disclaim all knowledge of the world, if it is not so; and I believe,
brother, you will allow I have some.”—“Why, lookee,
sister,” said Western, “I do believe you have as much as any
woman; and to be sure those are women’s matters. You know I don’t love to
hear you talk about politics; they belong to us, and petticoats should not
meddle: but come, who is the man?”—“Marry!” said
she, “you may find him out yourself if you please. You, who are so
great a politician, can be at no great loss. The judgment which can
penetrate into the cabinets of princes, and discover the secret springs
which move the great state wheels in all the political machines of Europe,
must surely, with very little difficulty, find out what passes in the rude
uninformed mind of a girl.”—“Sister,” cries the
squire, “I have often warn’d you not to talk the court gibberish to
me. I tell you, I don’t understand the lingo: but I can read a journal, or
the London Evening Post. Perhaps, indeed, there may be now and tan
a verse which I can’t make much of, because half the letters are left out;
yet I know very well what is meant by that, and that our affairs don’t go
so well as they should do, because of bribery and corruption.”—“I
pity your country ignorance from my heart,” cries the lady.—“Do
you?” answered Western; “and I pity your town learning; I had
rather be anything than a courtier, and a Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian
too, as some people, I believe, are.”—“If you mean me,”
answered she, “you know I am a woman, brother; and it signifies
nothing what I am. Besides—“—“I do know you are a
woman,” cries the squire, “and it’s well for thee that art
one; if hadst been a man, I promise thee I had lent thee a flick long ago.”—“Ay,
there,” said she, “in that flick lies all your fancied
superiority. Your bodies, and not your brains, are stronger than ours.
Believe me, it is well for you that you are able to beat us; or, such is
the superiority of our understanding, we should make all of you what the
brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are already—our slaves.”—“I
am glad I know your mind,” answered the squire. “But we’ll
talk more of this matter another time. At present, do tell me what man is
it you mean about my daughter?”—“Hold a moment,”
said she, “while I digest that sovereign contempt I have for your
sex; or else I ought to be angry too with you. There—I have made a
shift to gulp it down. And now, good politic sir, what think you of Mr
Blifil? Did she not faint away on seeing him lie breathless on the ground?
Did she not, after he was recovered, turn pale again the moment we came up
to that part of the field where he stood? And pray what else should be the
occasion of all her melancholy that night at supper, the next morning, and
indeed ever since?”—“’Fore George!” cries the
squire, “now you mind me on’t, I remember it all. It is certainly
so, and I am glad on’t with all my heart. I knew Sophy was a good girl,
and would not fall in love to make me angry. I was never more rejoiced in
my life; for nothing can lie so handy together as our two estates. I had
this matter in my head some time ago: for certainly the two estates are in
a manner joined together in matrimony already, and it would be a thousand
pities to part them. It is true, indeed, there be larger estates in the
kingdom, but not in this county, and I had rather bate something, than
marry my daughter among strangers and foreigners. Besides, most o’ zuch
great estates be in the hands of lords, and I heate the very name of themmun.
Well but, sister, what would you advise me to do; for I tell you women
know these matters better than we do?”—“Oh, your humble
servant, sir,” answered the lady: “we are obliged to you for
allowing us a capacity in anything. Since you are pleased, then, most
politic sir, to ask my advice, I think you may propose the match to
Allworthy yourself. There is no indecorum in the proposal’s coming from
the parent of either side. King Alcinous, in Mr Pope’s Odyssey, offers his
daughter to Ulysses. I need not caution so politic a person not to say
that your daughter is in love; that would indeed be against all rules.”—“Well,”
said the squire, “I will propose it; but I shall certainly lend un a
flick, if he should refuse me.” “Fear not,” cries Mrs
Western; “the match is too advantageous to be refused.”
“I don’t know that,” answered the squire: “Allworthy is
a queer b—ch, and money hath no effect o’un.” “Brother,”
said the lady, “your politics astonish me. Are you really to be
imposed on by professions? Do you think Mr Allworthy hath more contempt
for money than other men because he professes more? Such credulity would
better become one of us weak women, than that wise sex which heaven hath
formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, you would make a fine plenipo to
negotiate with the French. They would soon persuade you, that they take
towns out of mere defensive principles.” “Sister,”
answered the squire, with much scorn, “let your friends at court
answer for the towns taken; as you are a woman, I shall lay no blame upon
you; for I suppose they are wiser than to trust women with secrets.”
He accompanied this with so sarcastical a laugh, that Mrs Western could
bear no longer. She had been all this time fretted in a tender part (for
she was indeed very deeply skilled in these matters, and very violent in
them), and therefore, burst forth in a rage, declared her brother to be
both a clown and a blockhead, and that she would stay no longer in his
house.

The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was, however, in
many points, a perfect politician. He strongly held all those wise tenets,
which are so well inculcated in that Politico-Peripatetic school of
Exchange-alley. He knew the just value and only use of money, viz., to lay
it up. He was likewise well skilled in the exact value of reversions,
expectations, &c., and had often considered the amount of his sister’s
fortune, and the chance which he or his posterity had of inheriting it.
This he was infinitely too wise to sacrifice to a trifling resentment.
When he found, therefore, he had carried matters too far, he began to
think of reconciling them; which was no very difficult task, as the lady
had great affection for her brother, and still greater for her niece; and
though too susceptible of an affront offered to her skill in politics, on
which she much valued herself, was a woman of a very extraordinary good
and sweet disposition.

Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for whose
escape from the stable no place but the window was left open, he next
applied himself to his sister; softened and soothed her, by unsaying all
he had said, and by assertions directly contrary to those which had
incensed her. Lastly, he summoned the eloquence of Sophia to his
assistance, who, besides a most graceful and winning address, had the
advantage of being heard with great favour and partiality by her aunt.

The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs Western, who said,
“Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as those have
their use in the army of the empress queen, so you likewise have some good
in you. I will therefore once more sign a treaty of peace with you, and
see that you do not infringe it on your side; at least, as you are so
excellent a politician, I may expect you will keep your leagues, like the
French, till your interest calls upon you to break them.”

Chapter iii. — Containing two defiances to the critics.

The squire having settled matters with his sister, as we have seen in the
last chapter, was so greatly impatient to communicate the proposal to
Allworthy, that Mrs Western had the utmost difficulty to prevent him from
visiting that gentleman in his sickness, for this purpose.

Mr Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr Western at the time when he
was taken ill. He was therefore no sooner discharged out of the custody of
physic, but he thought (as was usual with him on all occasions, both the
highest and the lowest) of fulfilling his engagement.

In the interval between the time of the dialogue in the last chapter, and
this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, from certain obscure hints
thrown out by her aunt, collected some apprehension that the sagacious
lady suspected her passion for Jones. She now resolved to take this
opportunity of wiping out all such suspicion, and for that purpose to put
an entire constraint on her behaviour.

First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy heart with the
utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and the highest gaiety in her
manner. Secondly, she addressed her whole discourse to Mr Blifil, and took
not the least notice of poor Jones the whole day.

The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter, that he
scarce eat any dinner, and spent almost his whole time in watching
opportunities of conveying signs of his approbation by winks and nods to
his sister; who was not at first altogether so pleased with what she saw
as was her brother.

In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt was at first
staggered, and began to suspect some affectation in her niece; but as she
was herself a woman of great art, so she soon attributed this to extreme
art in Sophia. She remembered the many hints she had given her niece
concerning her being in love, and imagined the young lady had taken this
way to rally her out of her opinion, by an overacted civility: a notion
that was greatly corroborated by the excessive gaiety with which the whole
was accompanied. We cannot here avoid remarking, that this conjecture
would have been better founded had Sophia lived ten years in the air of
Grosvenor Square, where young ladies do learn a wonderful knack of
rallying and playing with that passion, which is a mighty serious thing in
woods and groves an hundred miles distant from London.

To say the truth, in discovering the deceit of others, it matters much
that our own art be wound up, if I may use the expression, in the same key
with theirs: for very artful men sometimes miscarry by fancying others
wiser, or, in other words, greater knaves, than they really are. As this
observation is pretty deep, I will illustrate it by the following short
story. Three countrymen were pursuing a Wiltshire thief through Brentford.
The simplest of them seeing “The Wiltshire House,” written
under a sign, advised his companions to enter it, for there most probably
they would find their countryman. The second, who was wiser, laughed at
this simplicity; but the third, who was wiser still, answered, “Let
us go in, however, for he may think we should not suspect him of going
amongst his own countrymen.” They accordingly went in and searched
the house, and by that means missed overtaking the thief, who was at that
time but a little way before them; and who, as they all knew, but had
never once reflected, could not read.

The reader will pardon a digression in which so invaluable a secret is
communicated, since every gamester will agree how necessary it is to know
exactly the play of another, in order to countermine him. This will,
moreover, afford a reason why the wiser man, as is often seen, is the
bubble of the weaker, and why many simple and innocent characters are so
generally misunderstood and misrepresented; but what is most material,
this will account for the deceit which Sophia put on her politic aunt.

Dinner being ended, and the company retired into the garden, Mr Western,
who was thoroughly convinced of the certainty of what his sister had told
him, took Mr Allworthy aside, and very bluntly proposed a match between
Sophia and young Mr Blifil.

Mr Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter at any
unexpected and sudden tidings of worldly profit. His mind was, indeed,
tempered with that philosophy which becomes a man and a Christian. He
affected no absolute superiority to all pleasure and pain, to all joy and
grief; but was not at the same time to be discomposed and ruffled by every
accidental blast, by every smile or frown of fortune. He received,
therefore, Mr Western’s proposal without any visible emotion, or without
any alteration of countenance. He said the alliance was such as he
sincerely wished; then launched forth into a very just encomium on the
young lady’s merit; acknowledged the offer to be advantageous in point of
fortune; and after thanking Mr Western for the good opinion he had
professed of his nephew, concluded, that if the young people liked each
other, he should be very desirous to complete the affair.

Western was a little disappointed at Mr Allworthy’s answer, which was not
so warm as he expected. He treated the doubt whether the young people
might like one another with great contempt, saying, “That parents
were the best judges of proper matches for their children: that for his
part he should insist on the most resigned obedience from his daughter:
and if any young fellow could refuse such a bed-fellow, he was his humble
servant, and hoped there was no harm done.”

Allworthy endeavoured to soften this resentment by many eulogiums on
Sophia, declaring he had no doubt but that Mr Blifil would very gladly
receive the offer; but all was ineffectual; he could obtain no other
answer from the squire but—“I say no more—I humbly hope
there’s no harm done—that’s all.” Which words he repeated at
least a hundred times before they parted.

Allworthy was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be offended at
this behaviour; and though he was so averse to the rigour which some
parents exercise on their children in the article of marriage, that he had
resolved never to force his nephew’s inclinations, he was nevertheless
much pleased with the prospect of this union; for the whole country
resounded the praises of Sophia, and he had himself greatly admired the
uncommon endowments of both her mind and person.

To which I believe we may add, the consideration of her vast fortune,
which, though he was too sober to be intoxicated with it, he was too
sensible to despise.

And here, in defiance of all the barking critics in the world, I must and
will introduce a digression concerning true wisdom, of which Mr Allworthy
was in reality as great a pattern as he was of goodness.

True wisdom then, notwithstanding all which Mr Hogarth’s poor poet may
have writ against riches, and in spite of all which any rich well-fed
divine may have preached against pleasure, consists not in the contempt of
either of these. A man may have as much wisdom in the possession of an
affluent fortune, as any beggar in the streets; or may enjoy a handsome
wife or a hearty friend, and still remain as wise as any sour popish
recluse, who buries all his social faculties, and starves his belly while
he well lashes his back.

To say truth, the wisest man is the likeliest to possess all worldly
blessings in an eminent degree; for as that moderation which wisdom
prescribes is the surest way to useful wealth, so can it alone qualify us
to taste many pleasures. The wise man gratifies every appetite and every
passion, while the fool sacrifices all the rest to pall and satiate one.

It may be objected, that very wise men have been notoriously avaricious. I
answer, Not wise in that instance. It may likewise be said, That the
wisest men have been in their youth immoderately fond of pleasure. I
answer, They were not wise then.

Wisdom, in short, whose lessons have been represented as so hard to learn
by those who never were at her school, only teaches us to extend a simple
maxim universally known and followed even in the lowest life, a little
farther than that life carries it. And this is, not to buy at too dear a
price.

Now, whoever takes this maxim abroad with him into the grand market of the
world, and constantly applies it to honours, to riches, to pleasures, and
to every other commodity which that market affords, is, I will venture to
affirm, a wise man, and must be so acknowledged in the worldly sense of
the word; for he makes the best of bargains, since in reality he purchases
everything at the price only of a little trouble, and carries home all the
good things I have mentioned, while he keeps his health, his innocence,
and his reputation, the common prices which are paid for them by others,
entire and to himself.

From this moderation, likewise, he learns two other lessons, which
complete his character. First, never to be intoxicated when he hath made
the best bargain, nor dejected when the market is empty, or when its
commodities are too dear for his purchase.

But I must remember on what subject I am writing, and not trespass too far
on the patience of a good-natured critic. Here, therefore, I put an end to
the chapter.

Chapter iv. — Containing sundry curious matters.

As soon as Mr Allworthy returned home, he took Mr Blifil apart, and after
some preface, communicated to him the proposal which had been made by Mr
Western, and at the same time informed him how agreeable this match would
be to himself.

The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression on Blifil; not that
his heart was pre-engaged; neither was he totally insensible of beauty, or
had any aversion to women; but his appetites were by nature so moderate,
that he was able, by philosophy, or by study, or by some other method,
easily to subdue them: and as to that passion which we have treated of in
the first chapter of this book, he had not the least tincture of it in his
whole composition.

But though he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, of which we
there treated, and of which the virtues and beauty of Sophia formed so
notable an object; yet was he altogether as well furnished with some other
passions, that promised themselves very full gratification in the young
lady’s fortune. Such were avarice and ambition, which divided the dominion
of his mind between them. He had more than once considered the possession
of this fortune as a very desirable thing, and had entertained some
distant views concerning it; but his own youth, and that of the young
lady, and indeed principally a reflection that Mr Western might marry
again, and have more children, had restrained him from too hasty or eager
a pursuit.

This last and most material objection was now in great measure removed, as
the proposal came from Mr Western himself. Blifil, therefore, after a very
short hesitation, answered Mr Allworthy, that matrimony was a subject on
which he had not yet thought; but that he was so sensible of his friendly
and fatherly care, that he should in all things submit himself to his
pleasure.

Allworthy was naturally a man of spirit, and his present gravity arose
from true wisdom and philosophy, not from any original phlegm in his
disposition; for he had possessed much fire in his youth, and had married
a beautiful woman for love. He was not therefore greatly pleased with this
cold answer of his nephew; nor could he help launching forth into the
praises of Sophia, and expressing some wonder that the heart of a young
man could be impregnable to the force of such charms, unless it was
guarded by some prior affection.

Blifil assured him he had no such guard; and then proceeded to discourse
so wisely and religiously on love and marriage, that he would have stopt
the mouth of a parent much less devoutly inclined than was his uncle. In
the end, the good man was satisfied that his nephew, far from having any
objections to Sophia, had that esteem for her, which in sober and virtuous
minds is the sure foundation of friendship and love. And as he doubted not
but the lover would, in a little time, become altogether as agreeable to
his mistress, he foresaw great happiness arising to all parties by so
proper and desirable an union. With Mr Blifil’s consent therefore he wrote
the next morning to Mr Western, acquainting him that his nephew had very
thankfully and gladly received the proposal, and would be ready to wait on
the young lady, whenever she should be pleased to accept his visit.

Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately returned an
answer; in which, without having mentioned a word to his daughter, he
appointed that very afternoon for opening the scene of courtship.

As soon as he had dispatched this messenger, he went in quest of his
sister, whom he found reading and expounding the Gazette to parson
Supple. To this exposition he was obliged to attend near a quarter of an
hour, though with great violence to his natural impetuosity, before he was
suffered to speak. At length, however, he found an opportunity of
acquainting the lady, that he had business of great consequence to impart
to her; to which she answered, “Brother, I am entirely at your
service. Things look so well in the north, that I was never in a better
humour.”

The parson then withdrawing, Western acquainted her with all which had
passed, and desired her to communicate the affair to Sophia, which she
readily and chearfully undertook; though perhaps her brother was a little
obliged to that agreeable northern aspect which had so delighted her, that
he heard no comment on his proceedings; for they were certainly somewhat
too hasty and violent.

Chapter v. — In which is related what passed between Sophia and her
aunt.

Sophia was in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came in. The moment she
saw Mrs Western, she shut the book with so much eagerness, that the good
lady could not forbear asking her, What book that was which she seemed so
much afraid of showing? “Upon my word, madam,” answered
Sophia, “it is a book which I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own I
have read. It is the production of a young lady of fashion, whose good
understanding, I think, doth honour to her sex, and whose good heart is an
honour to human nature.” Mrs Western then took up the book, and
immediately after threw it down, saying—“Yes, the author is of
a very good family; but she is not much among people one knows. I have
never read it; for the best judges say, there is not much in it.”—“I
dare not, madam, set up my own opinion,” says Sophia, “against
the best judges, but there appears to me a great deal of human nature in
it; and in many parts so much true tenderness and delicacy, that it hath
cost me many a tear.”—“Ay, and do you love to cry then?”
says the aunt. “I love a tender sensation,” answered the
niece, “and would pay the price of a tear for it at any time.”—“Well,
but show me,” said the aunt, “what was you reading when I came
in; there was something very tender in that, I believe, and very loving
too. You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah! child, you should read books which
would teach you a little hypocrisy, which would instruct you how to hide
your thoughts a little better.”—“I hope, madam,”
answered Sophia, “I have no thoughts which I ought to be ashamed of
discovering.”—“Ashamed! no,” cries the aunt,
“I don’t think you have any thoughts which you ought to be ashamed
of; and yet, child, you blushed just now when I mentioned the word loving.
Dear Sophy, be assured you have not one thought which I am not well
acquainted with; as well, child, as the French are with our motions, long
before we put them in execution. Did you think, child, because you have
been able to impose upon your father, that you could impose upon me? Do
you imagine I did not know the reason of your overacting all that
friendship for Mr Blifil yesterday? I have seen a little too much of the
world, to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not blush again. I tell you it is a
passion you need not be ashamed of. It is a passion I myself approve, and
have already brought your father into the approbation of it. Indeed, I
solely consider your inclination; for I would always have that gratified,
if possible, though one may sacrifice higher prospects. Come, I have news
which will delight your very soul. Make me your confident, and I will
undertake you shall be happy to the very extent of your wishes.”
“La, madam,” says Sophia, looking more foolishly than ever she
did in her life, “I know not what to say—why, madam, should
you suspect?”—“Nay, no dishonesty,” returned Mrs
Western. “Consider, you are speaking to one of your own sex, to an
aunt, and I hope you are convinced you speak to a friend. Consider, you
are only revealing to me what I know already, and what I plainly saw
yesterday, through that most artful of all disguises, which you had put
on, and which must have deceived any one who had not perfectly known the
world. Lastly, consider it is a passion which I highly approve.”
“La, madam,” says Sophia, “you come upon one so
unawares, and on a sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not blind—and
certainly, if it be a fault to see all human perfections assembled
together—but is it possible my father and you, madam, can see with
my eyes?” “I tell you,” answered the aunt, “we do
entirely approve; and this very afternoon your father hath appointed for
you to receive your lover.” “My father, this afternoon!”
cries Sophia, with the blood starting from her face.—“Yes,
child,” said the aunt, “this afternoon. You know the
impetuosity of my brother’s temper. I acquainted him with the passion
which I first discovered in you that evening when you fainted away in the
field. I saw it in your fainting. I saw it immediately upon your recovery.
I saw it that evening at supper, and the next morning at breakfast (you
know, child, I have seen the world). Well, I no sooner acquainted my
brother, but he immediately wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed
it yesterday, Allworthy consented (as to be sure he must with joy), and
this afternoon, I tell you, you are to put on all your best airs.”
“This afternoon!” cries Sophia. “Dear aunt, you frighten
me out of my senses.” “O, my dear,” said the aunt,
“you will soon come to yourself again; for he is a charming young
fellow, that’s the truth on’t.” “Nay, I will own,” says
Sophia, “I know none with such perfections. So brave, and yet so
gentle; so witty, yet so inoffensive; so humane, so civil, so genteel, so
handsome! What signifies his being base born, when compared with such
qualifications as these?” “Base born? What do you mean?”
said the aunt, “Mr Blifil base born!” Sophia turned instantly
pale at this name, and faintly repeated it. Upon which the aunt cried,
“Mr Blifil—ay, Mr Blifil, of whom else have we been talking?”
“Good heavens,” answered Sophia, ready to sink, “of Mr
Jones, I thought; I am sure I know no other who deserves—”
“I protest,” cries the aunt, “you frighten me in your
turn. Is it Mr Jones, and not Mr Blifil, who is the object of your
affection?” “Mr Blifil!” repeated Sophia. “Sure it
is impossible you can be in earnest; if you are, I am the most miserable
woman alive.” Mrs Western now stood a few moments silent, while
sparks of fiery rage flashed from her eyes. At length, collecting all her
force of voice, she thundered forth in the following articulate sounds:

“And is it possible you can think of disgracing your family by
allying yourself to a bastard? Can the blood of the Westerns submit to
such contamination? If you have not sense sufficient to restrain such
monstrous inclinations, I thought the pride of our family would have
prevented you from giving the least encouragement to so base an affection;
much less did I imagine you would ever have had the assurance to own it to
my face.”

“Madam,” answered Sophia, trembling, “what I have said
you have extorted from me. I do not remember to have ever mentioned the
name of Mr Jones with approbation to any one before; nor should I now had
I not conceived he had your approbation. Whatever were my thoughts of that
poor, unhappy young man, I intended to have carried them with me to my
grave—to that grave where only now, I find, I am to seek repose.”
Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in her tears, and, in all the
moving silence of unutterable grief, presented a spectacle which must have
affected almost the hardest heart.

All this tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in her aunt. On the
contrary, she now fell into the most violent rage.—“And I
would rather,” she cried, in a most vehement voice, “follow
you to your grave, than I would see you disgrace yourself and your family
by such a match. O Heavens! could I have ever suspected that I should live
to hear a niece of mine declare a passion for such a fellow? You are the
first—yes, Miss Western, you are the first of your name who ever
entertained so grovelling a thought. A family so noted for the prudence of
its women”—here she ran on a full quarter of an hour, till,
having exhausted her breath rather than her rage, she concluded with
threatening to go immediately and acquaint her brother.

Sophia then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her hands,
begged her with tears to conceal what she had drawn from her; urging the
violence of her father’s temper, and protesting that no inclinations of
hers should ever prevail with her to do anything which might offend him.

Mrs Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, having recollected
herself, said, “That on one consideration only she would keep the
secret from her brother; and this was, that Sophia should promise to
entertain Mr Blifil that very afternoon as her lover, and to regard him as
the person who was to be her husband.”

Poor Sophia was too much in her aunt’s power to deny her anything
positively; she was obliged to promise that she would see Mr Blifil, and
be as civil to him as possible; but begged her aunt that the match might
not be hurried on. She said, “Mr Blifil was by no means agreeable to
her, and she hoped her father would be prevailed on not to make her the
most wretched of women.”

Mrs Western assured her, “That the match was entirely agreed upon,
and that nothing could or should prevent it. I must own,” said she,
“I looked on it as on a matter of indifference; nay, perhaps, had
some scruples about it before, which were actually got over by my thinking
it highly agreeable to your own inclinations; but now I regard it as the
most eligible thing in the world: nor shall there be, if I can prevent it,
a moment of time lost on the occasion.”

Sophia replied, “Delay at least, madam, I may expect from both your
goodness and my father’s. Surely you will give me time to endeavour to get
the better of so strong a disinclination as I have at present to this
person.”

The aunt answered, “She knew too much of the world to be so
deceived; that as she was sensible another man had her affections, she
should persuade Mr Western to hasten the match as much as possible. It
would be bad politics, indeed,” added she, “to protract a
siege when the enemy’s army is at hand, and in danger of relieving it. No,
no, Sophy,” said she, “as I am convinced you have a violent
passion which you can never satisfy with honour, I will do all I can to
put your honour out of the care of your family: for when you are married
those matters will belong only to the consideration of your husband. I
hope, child, you will always have prudence enough to act as becomes you;
but if you should not, marriage hath saved many a woman from ruin.”

Sophia well understood what her aunt meant; but did not think proper to
make her an answer. However, she took a resolution to see Mr Blifil, and
to behave to him as civilly as she could, for on that condition only she
obtained a promise from her aunt to keep secret the liking which her ill
fortune, rather than any scheme of Mrs Western, had unhappily drawn from
her.

Chapter vi. — Containing a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs Honour,
which may a little relieve those tender affections which the foregoing
scene may have raised in the mind of a good-natured reader.

Mrs Western having obtained that promise from her niece which we have seen
in the last chapter, withdrew; and presently after arrived Mrs Honour. She
was at work in a neighbouring apartment, and had been summoned to the
keyhole by some vociferation in the preceding dialogue, where she had
continued during the remaining part of it. At her entry into the room, she
found Sophia standing motionless, with the tears trickling from her eyes.
Upon which she immediately ordered a proper quantity of tears into her own
eyes, and then began, “O Gemini, my dear lady, what is the matter?”—“Nothing,”
cries Sophia. “Nothing! O dear Madam!” answers Honour, “you
must not tell me that, when your ladyship is in this taking, and when
there hath been such a preamble between your ladyship and Madam Western.”—“Don’t
teaze me,” cries Sophia; “I tell you nothing is the matter.
Good heavens! why was I born?”—“Nay, madam,” says
Mrs Honour, “you shall never persuade me that your la’ship can
lament yourself so for nothing. To be sure I am but a servant; but to be
sure I have been always faithful to your la’ship, and to be sure I would
serve your la’ship with my life.”—“My dear Honour,”
says Sophia, “’tis not in thy power to be of any service to me. I am
irretrievably undone.”—“Heaven forbid!” answered
the waiting-woman; “but if I can’t be of any service to you, pray
tell me, madam—it will be some comfort to me to know—pray,
dear ma’am, tell me what’s the matter.”—“My father,”
cries Sophia, “is going to marry me to a man I both despise and
hate.”—“O dear, ma’am,” answered the other,
“who is this wicked man? for to be sure he is very bad, or your
la’ship would not despise him.”—“His name is poison to
my tongue,” replied Sophia: “thou wilt know it too soon.”
Indeed, to confess the truth, she knew it already, and therefore was not
very inquisitive as to that point. She then proceeded thus: “I don’t
pretend to give your la’ship advice, whereof your la’ship knows much
better than I can pretend to, being but a servant; but, i-fackins! no
father in England should marry me against my consent. And, to be sure, the
‘squire is so good, that if he did but know your la’ship despises and
hates the young man, to be sure he would not desire you to marry him. And
if your la’ship would but give me leave to tell my master so. To be sure,
it would be more properer to come from your own mouth; but as your la’ship
doth not care to foul your tongue with his nasty name—“—“You
are mistaken, Honour,” says Sophia; “my father was determined
before he ever thought fit to mention it to me.”—“More
shame for him,” cries Honour: “you are to go to bed to him,
and not master: and thof a man may be a very proper man, yet every woman
mayn’t think him handsome alike. I am sure my master would never act in
this manner of his own head. I wish some people would trouble themselves
only with what belongs to them; they would not, I believe, like to be
served so, if it was their own case; for though I am a maid, I can easily
believe as how all men are not equally agreeable. And what signifies your
la’ship having so great a fortune, if you can’t please yourself with the
man you think most handsomest? Well, I say nothing; but to be sure it is a
pity some folks had not been better born; nay, as for that matter, I
should not mind it myself; but then there is not so much money; and what
of that? your la’ship hath money enough for both; and where can your
la’ship bestow your fortune better? for to be sure every one must allow
that he is the most handsomest, charmingest, finest, tallest, properest
man in the world.”—“What do you mean by running on in
this manner to me?” cries Sophia, with a very grave countenance.
“Have I ever given any encouragement for these liberties?”—“Nay,
ma’am, I ask pardon; I meant no harm,” answered she; “but to
be sure the poor gentleman hath run in my head ever since I saw him this
morning. To be sure, if your la’ship had but seen him just now, you must
have pitied him. Poor gentleman! I wishes some misfortune hath not
happened to him; for he hath been walking about with his arms across, and
looking so melancholy, all this morning: I vow and protest it made me
almost cry to see him.”—“To see whom?” says
Sophia. “Poor Mr Jones,” answered Honour. “See him! why,
where did you see him?” cries Sophia. “By the canal, ma’am,”
says Honour. “There he hath been walking all this morning, and at
last there he laid himself down: I believe he lies there still. To be
sure, if it had not been for my modesty, being a maid, as I am, I should
have gone and spoke to him. Do, ma’am, let me go and see, only for a
fancy, whether he is there still.”—“Pugh!” says
Sophia. “There! no, no: what should he do there? He is gone before
this time, to be sure. Besides, why—what—why should you go to
see? besides, I want you for something else. Go, fetch me my hat and
gloves. I shall walk with my aunt in the grove before dinner.”
Honour did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her hat on; when,
looking in the glass, she fancied the ribbon with which her hat was tied
did not become her, and so sent her maid back again for a ribbon of a
different colour; and then giving Mrs Honour repeated charges not to leave
her work on any account, as she said it was in violent haste, and must be
finished that very day, she muttered something more about going to the
grove, and then sallied out the contrary way, and walked, as fast as her
tender trembling limbs could carry her, directly towards the canal.

Jones had been there as Mrs Honour had told her; he had indeed spent two
hours there that morning in melancholy contemplation on his Sophia, and
had gone out from the garden at one door the moment she entered it at
another. So that those unlucky minutes which had been spent in changing
the ribbons, had prevented the lovers from meeting at this time;—a
most unfortunate accident, from which my fair readers will not fail to
draw a very wholesome lesson. And here I strictly forbid all male critics
to intermeddle with a circumstance which I have recounted only for the
sake of the ladies, and upon which they only are at liberty to comment.

Chapter vii. — A picture of formal courtship in miniature, as it
always ought to be drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind painted at full
length.

It was well remarked by one (and perhaps by more), that misfortunes do not
come single. This wise maxim was now verified by Sophia, who was not only
disappointed of seeing the man she loved, but had the vexation of being
obliged to dress herself out, in order to receive a visit from the man she
hated.

That afternoon Mr Western, for the first time, acquainted his daughter
with his intention; telling her, he knew very well that she had heard it
before from her aunt. Sophia looked very grave upon this, nor could she
prevent a few pearls from stealing into her eyes. “Come, come,”
says Western, “none of your maidenish airs; I know all; I assure you
sister hath told me all.”

“Is it possible,” says Sophia, “that my aunt can have
betrayed me already?”—“Ay, ay,” says Western;
“betrayed you! ay. Why, you betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner.
You showed your fancy very plainly, I think. But you young girls never
know what you would be at. So you cry because I am going to marry you to
the man you are in love with! Your mother, I remember, whimpered and
whined just in the same manner; but it was all over within twenty-four
hours after we were married: Mr Blifil is a brisk young man, and will soon
put an end to your squeamishness. Come, chear up, chear up; I expect un
every minute.”

Sophia was now convinced that her aunt had behaved honourably to her: and
she determined to go through that disagreeable afternoon with as much
resolution as possible, and without giving the least suspicion in the
world to her father.

Mr Blifil soon arrived; and Mr Western soon after withdrawing, left the
young couple together.

Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued; for the gentleman
who was to begin the conversation had all the unbecoming modesty which
consists in bashfulness. He often attempted to speak, and as often
suppressed his words just at the very point of utterance. At last out they
broke in a torrent of far-fetched and high-strained compliments, which
were answered on her side by downcast looks, half bows, and civil
monosyllables. Blifil, from his inexperience in the ways of women, and
from his conceit of himself, took this behaviour for a modest assent to
his courtship; and when, to shorten a scene which she could no longer
support, Sophia rose up and left the room, he imputed that, too, merely to
bashfulness, and comforted himself that he should soon have enough of her
company.

He was indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of success; for
as to that entire and absolute possession of the heart of his mistress
which romantic lovers require, the very idea of it never entered his head.
Her fortune and her person were the sole objects of his wishes, of which
he made no doubt soon to obtain the absolute property; as Mr Western’s
mind was so earnestly bent on the match; and as he well knew the strict
obedience which Sophia was always ready to pay to her father’s will, and
the greater still which her father would exact, if there was occasion.
This authority, therefore, together with the charms which he fancied in
his own person and conversation, could not fail, he thought, of succeeding
with a young lady, whose inclinations were, he doubted not, entirely
disengaged.

Of Jones he certainly had not even the least jealousy; and I have often
thought it wonderful that he had not. Perhaps he imagined the character
which Jones bore all over the country (how justly, let the reader
determine), of being one of the wildest fellows in England, might render
him odious to a lady of the most exemplary modesty. Perhaps his suspicions
might be laid asleep by the behaviour of Sophia, and of Jones himself,
when they were all in company together. Lastly, and indeed principally, he
was well assured there was not another self in the case. He fancied that
he knew Jones to the bottom, and had in reality a great contempt for his
understanding, for not being more attached to his own interest. He had no
apprehension that Jones was in love with Sophia; and as for any lucrative
motives, he imagined they would sway very little with so silly a fellow.
Blifil, moreover, thought the affair of Molly Seagrim still went on, and
indeed believed it would end in marriage; for Jones really loved him from
his childhood, and had kept no secret from him, till his behaviour on the
sickness of Mr Allworthy had entirely alienated his heart; and it was by
means of the quarrel which had ensued on this occasion, and which was not
yet reconciled, that Mr Blifil knew nothing of the alteration which had
happened in the affection which Jones had formerly borne towards Molly.

From these reasons, therefore, Mr Blifil saw no bar to his success with
Sophia. He concluded her behaviour was like that of all other young ladies
on a first visit from a lover, and it had indeed entirely answered his
expectations.

Mr Western took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from his mistress.
He found him so elevated with his success, so enamoured with his daughter,
and so satisfied with her reception of him, that the old gentleman began
to caper and dance about his hall, and by many other antic actions to
express the extravagance of his joy; for he had not the least command over
any of his passions; and that which had at any time the ascendant in his
mind hurried him to the wildest excesses.

As soon as Blifil was departed, which was not till after many hearty
kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the good squire went
instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he no sooner found than he poured
forth the most extravagant raptures, bidding her chuse what clothes and
jewels she pleased; and declaring that he had no other use for fortune but
to make her happy. He then caressed her again and again with the utmost
profusion of fondness, called her by the most endearing names, and
protested she was his only joy on earth.

Sophia perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she did not
absolutely know the reason of (for fits of fondness were not unusual to
him, though this was rather more violent than ordinary), thought she
should never have a better opportunity of disclosing herself than at
present, as far at least as regarded Mr Blifil; and she too well foresaw
the necessity which she should soon be under of coming to a full
explanation. After having thanked the squire, therefore, for all his
professions of kindness, she added, with a look full of inexpressible
softness, “And is it possible my papa can be so good to place all
his joy in his Sophy’s happiness?” which Western having confirmed by
a great oath, and a kiss; she then laid hold of his hand, and, falling on
her knees, after many warm and passionate declarations of affection and
duty, she begged him “not to make her the most miserable creature on
earth by forcing her to marry a man whom she detested. This I entreat of
you, dear sir,” said she, “for your sake, as well as my own,
since you are so very kind to tell me your happiness depends on mine.”—“How!
what!” says Western, staring wildly. “Oh! sir,”
continued she, “not only your poor Sophy’s happiness; her very life,
her being, depends upon your granting her request. I cannot live with Mr
Blifil. To force me into this marriage would be killing me.”—“You
can’t live with Mr Blifil?” says Western. “No, upon my soul I
can’t,” answered Sophia. “Then die and be d—d,”
cries he, spurning her from him. “Oh! sir,” cries Sophia,
catching hold of the skirt of his coat, “take pity on me, I beseech
you. Don’t look and say such cruel—Can you be unmoved while you see
your Sophy in this dreadful condition? Can the best of fathers break my
heart? Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel, lingering death?”—“Pooh!
pooh!” cries the squire; “all stuff and nonsense; all
maidenish tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill you?”—“Oh!
sir,” answered Sophia, “such a marriage is worse than death.
He is not even indifferent; I hate and detest him.”—“If
you detest un never so much,” cries Western, “you shall ha’un.”
This he bound by an oath too shocking to repeat; and after many violent
asseverations, concluded in these words: “I am resolved upon the
match, and unless you consent to it I will not give you a groat, not a
single farthing; no, though I saw you expiring with famine in the street,
I would not relieve you with a morsel of bread. This is my fixed
resolution, and so I leave you to consider on it.” He then broke
from her with such violence, that her face dashed against the floor; and
he burst directly out of the room, leaving poor Sophia prostrate on the
ground.

When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones; who seeing his
friend looking wild, pale, and almost breathless, could not forbear
enquiring the reason of all these melancholy appearances. Upon which the
squire immediately acquainted him with the whole matter, concluding with
bitter denunciations against Sophia, and very pathetic lamentations of the
misery of all fathers who are so unfortunate to have daughters.

Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in favour of
Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost struck dead with this
relation; but recovering his spirits a little, mere despair, as he
afterwards said, inspired him to mention a matter to Mr Western, which
seemed to require more impudence than a human forehead was ever gifted
with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, that he might endeavour to obtain
her concurrence with her father’s inclinations.

If the squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable for the
contrary, passion might at present very well have blinded him. He thanked
Jones for offering to undertake the office, and said, “Go, go,
prithee, try what canst do;” and then swore many execrable oaths
that he would turn her out of doors unless she consented to the match.

Chapter viii. — The meeting between Jones and Sophia.

Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found just risen from
the ground, where her father had left her, with the tears trickling from
her eyes, and the blood running from her lips. He presently ran to her,
and with a voice full at once of tenderness and terrour, cried, “O
my Sophia, what means this dreadful sight?” She looked softly at him
for a moment before she spoke, and then said, “Mr Jones, for
Heaven’s sake how came you here?—Leave me, I beseech you, this
moment.”—“Do not,” says he, “impose so harsh
a command upon me—my heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia,
how easily could I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood.”—“I
have too many obligations to you already,” answered she, “for
sure you meant them such.” Here she looked at him tenderly almost a
minute, and then bursting into an agony, cried, “Oh, Mr Jones, why
did you save my life? my death would have been happier for us both.”—“Happier
for us both!” cried he. “Could racks or wheels kill me so
painfully as Sophia’s—I cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live
but for her?” Both his voice and looks were full of inexpressible
tenderness when he spoke these words; and at the same time he laid gently
hold on her hand, which she did not withdraw from him; to say the truth,
she hardly knew what she did or suffered. A few moments now passed in
silence between these lovers, while his eyes were eagerly fixed on Sophia,
and hers declining towards the ground: at last she recovered strength
enough to desire him again to leave her, for that her certain ruin would
be the consequence of their being found together; adding, “Oh, Mr
Jones, you know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel afternoon.”—“I
know all, my Sophia,” answered he; “your cruel father hath
told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you.”—“My
father sent you to me!” replied she: “sure you dream.”—“Would
to Heaven,” cries he, “it was but a dream! Oh, Sophia, your
father hath sent me to you, to be an advocate for my odious rival, to
solicit you in his favour. I took any means to get access to you. O speak
to me, Sophia! comfort my bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever
doated like me. Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this gentle
hand—one moment, perhaps, tears you for ever from me—nothing
less than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered the
respect and awe with which you have inspired me.” She stood a moment
silent, and covered with confusion; then lifting up her eyes gently
towards him, she cried, “What would Mr Jones have me say?”—“O
do but promise,” cries he, “that you never will give yourself
to Blifil.”—“Name not,” answered she, “the
detested sound. Be assured I never will give him what is in my power to
withhold from him.”—“Now then,” cries he, “while
you are so perfectly kind, go a little farther, and add that I may hope.”—“Alas!”
says she, “Mr Jones, whither will you drive me? What hope have I to
bestow? You know my father’s intentions.”—“But I know,”
answered he, “your compliance with them cannot be compelled.”—“What,”
says she, “must be the dreadful consequence of my disobedience? My
own ruin is my least concern. I cannot bear the thoughts of being the
cause of my father’s misery.”—“He is himself the cause,”
cries Jones, “by exacting a power over you which Nature hath not
given him. Think on the misery which I am to suffer if I am to lose you,
and see on which side pity will turn the balance.”—“Think
of it!” replied she: “can you imagine I do not feel the ruin
which I must bring on you, should I comply with your desire? It is that
thought which gives me resolution to bid you fly from me for ever, and
avoid your own destruction.”—“I fear no destruction,”
cries he, “but the loss of Sophia. If you would save me from the
most bitter agonies, recall that cruel sentence. Indeed, I can never part
with you, indeed I cannot.”

The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being unable to
withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost as unable to hold it; when the
scene, which I believe some of my readers will think had lasted long
enough, was interrupted by one of so different a nature, that we shall
reserve the relation of it for a different chapter.

Chapter ix. — Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former.

Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it may be proper
to recount what had past in the hall during their tender interview.

Soon after Jones had left Mr Western in the manner above mentioned, his
sister came to him, and was presently informed of all that had passed
between her brother and Sophia relating to Blifil.

This behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an absolute
breach of the condition on which she had engaged to keep her love for Mr
Jones a secret. She considered herself, therefore, at full liberty to
reveal all she knew to the squire, which she immediately did in the most
explicit terms, and without any ceremony or preface.

The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had never once
entered into the squire’s head, either in the warmest minutes of his
affection towards that young man, or from suspicion, or on any other
occasion. He did indeed consider a parity of fortune and circumstances to
be physically as necessary an ingredient in marriage, as difference of
sexes, or any other essential; and had no more apprehension of his
daughter’s falling in love with a poor man, than with any animal of a
different species.

He became, therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister’s relation. He
was, at first, incapable of making any answer, having been almost deprived
of his breath by the violence of the surprize. This, however, soon
returned, and, as is usual in other cases after an intermission, with
redoubled force and fury.

The first use he made of the power of speech, after his recovery from the
sudden effects of his astonishment, was to discharge a round volley of
oaths and imprecations. After which he proceeded hastily to the apartment
where he expected to find the lovers, and murmured, or rather indeed
roared forth, intentions of revenge every step he went.

As when two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon and Phyllis
(for that comes nearest to the mark) are retired into some pleasant
solitary grove, to enjoy the delightful conversation of Love, that bashful
boy, who cannot speak in public, and is never a good companion to more
than two at a time; here, while every object is serene, should hoarse
thunder burst suddenly through the shattered clouds, and rumbling roll
along the sky, the frightened maid starts from the mossy bank or verdant
turf, the pale livery of death succeeds the red regimentals in which Love
had before drest her cheeks, fear shakes her whole frame, and her lover
scarce supports her trembling tottering limbs.

Or as when two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit of the place, are
cracking a bottle together at some inn or tavern at Salisbury, if the
great Dowdy, who acts the part of a madman as well as some of his
setters-on do that of a fool, should rattle his chains, and dreadfully hum
forth the grumbling catch along the gallery; the frighted strangers stand
aghast; scared at the horrid sound, they seek some place of shelter from
the approaching danger; and if the well-barred windows did admit their
exit, would venture their necks to escape the threatening fury now coming
upon them.

So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of her father,
who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on swearing, cursing, and
vowing the destruction of Jones. To say the truth, I believe the youth
himself would, from some prudent considerations, have preferred another
place of abode at this time, had his terror on Sophia’s account given him
liberty to reflect a moment on what any otherways concerned himself, than
as his love made him partake whatever affected her.

And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an object which
instantly suspended all his fury against Jones; this was the ghastly
appearance of Sophia, who had fainted away in her lover’s arms. This
tragical sight Mr Western no sooner beheld, than all his rage forsook him;
he roared for help with his utmost violence; ran first to his daughter,
then back to the door calling for water, and then back again to Sophia,
never considering in whose arms she then was, nor perhaps once
recollecting that there was such a person in the world as Jones; for
indeed I believe the present circumstances of his daughter were now the
sole consideration which employed his thoughts.

Mrs Western and a great number of servants soon came to the assistance of
Sophia with water, cordials, and everything necessary on those occasions.
These were applied with such success, that Sophia in a very few minutes
began to recover, and all the symptoms of life to return. Upon which she
was presently led off by her own maid and Mrs Western: nor did that good
lady depart without leaving some wholesome admonitions with her brother,
on the dreadful effects of his passion, or, as she pleased to call it,
madness.

The squire, perhaps, did not understand this good advice, as it was
delivered in obscure hints, shrugs, and notes of admiration: at least, if
he did understand it, he profited very little by it; for no sooner was he
cured of his immediate fears for his daughter, than he relapsed into his
former frenzy, which must have produced an immediate battle with Jones,
had not parson Supple, who was a very strong man, been present, and by
mere force restrained the squire from acts of hostility.

The moment Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very suppliant manner
to Mr Western, whom the parson held in his arms, and begged him to be
pacified; for that, while he continued in such a passion, it would be
impossible to give him any satisfaction.

“I wull have satisfaction o’ thee,” answered the squire;
“so doff thy clothes. At unt half a man, and I’ll lick thee
as well as wast ever licked in thy life.” He then bespattered the
youth with abundance of that language which passes between country
gentlemen who embrace opposite sides of the question; with frequent
applications to him to salute that part which is generally introduced into
all controversies that arise among the lower orders of the English gentry
at horse-races, cock-matches, and other public places. Allusions to this
part are likewise often made for the sake of the jest. And here, I
believe, the wit is generally misunderstood. In reality, it lies in
desiring another to kiss your a— for having just before threatened
to kick his; for I have observed very accurately, that no one ever desires
you to kick that which belongs to himself, nor offers to kiss this part in
another.

It may likewise seem surprizing that in the many thousand kind invitations
of this sort, which every one who hath conversed with country gentlemen
must have heard, no one, I believe, hath ever seen a single instance where
the desire hath been complied with;—a great instance of their want
of politeness; for in town nothing can be more common than for the finest
gentlemen to perform this ceremony every day to their superiors, without
having that favour once requested of them.

To all such wit, Jones very calmly answered, “Sir, this usage may
perhaps cancel every other obligation you have conferred on me; but there
is one you can never cancel; nor will I be provoked by your abuse to lift
my hand against the father of Sophia.”

At these words the squire grew still more outrageous than before; so that
the parson begged Jones to retire; saying, “You behold, sir, how he
waxeth wrath at your abode here; therefore let me pray you not to tarry
any longer. His anger is too much kindled for you to commune with him at
present. You had better, therefore, conclude your visit, and refer what
matters you have to urge in your behalf to some other opportunity.”

Jones accepted this advice with thanks, and immediately departed. The
squire now regained the liberty of his hands, and so much temper as to
express some satisfaction in the restraint which had been laid upon him;
declaring that he should certainly have beat his brains out; and adding,
“It would have vexed one confoundedly to have been hanged for such a
rascal.”

The parson now began to triumph in the success of his peace-making
endeavours, and proceeded to read a lecture against anger, which might
perhaps rather have tended to raise than to quiet that passion in some
hasty minds. This lecture he enriched with many valuable quotations from
the antients, particularly from Seneca; who hath indeed so well handled
this passion, that none but a very angry man can read him without great
pleasure and profit. The doctor concluded this harangue with the famous
story of Alexander and Clitus; but as I find that entered in my
common-place under title Drunkenness, I shall not insert it here.

The squire took no notice of this story, nor perhaps of anything he said;
for he interrupted him before he had finished, by calling for a tankard of
beer; observing (which is perhaps as true as any observation on this fever
of the mind) that anger makes a man dry.

No sooner had the squire swallowed a large draught than he renewed the
discourse on Jones, and declared a resolution of going the next morning
early to acquaint Mr Allworthy. His friend would have dissuaded him from
this, from the mere motive of good-nature; but his dissuasion had no other
effect than to produce a large volley of oaths and curses, which greatly
shocked the pious ears of Supple; but he did not dare to remonstrate
against a privilege which the squire claimed as a freeborn Englishman. To
say truth, the parson submitted to please his palate at the squire’s
table, at the expense of suffering now and then this violence to his ears.
He contented himself with thinking he did not promote this evil practice,
and that the squire would not swear an oath the less, if he never entered
within his gates. However, though he was not guilty of ill manners by
rebuking a gentleman in his own house, he paid him off obliquely in the
pulpit: which had not, indeed, the good effect of working a reformation in
the squire himself; yet it so far operated on his conscience, that he put
the laws very severely in execution against others, and the magistrate was
the only person in the parish who could swear with impunity.

Chapter x. — In which Mr Western visits Mr Allworthy.

Mr Allworthy was now retired from breakfast with his nephew, well
satisfied with the report of the young gentleman’s successful visit to
Sophia (for he greatly desired the match, more on account of the young
lady’s character than of her riches), when Mr Western broke abruptly in
upon them, and without any ceremony began as follows:—

“There, you have done a fine piece of work truly! You have brought
up your bastard to a fine purpose; not that I believe you have had any
hand in it neither, that is, as a man may say, designedly: but there is a
fine kettle-of-fish made on’t up at our house.” “What can be
the matter, Mr Western?” said Allworthy. “O, matter enow of
all conscience: my daughter hath fallen in love with your bastard, that’s
all; but I won’t ge her a hapeny, not the twentieth part of a brass
varden. I always thought what would come o’ breeding up a bastard like a
gentleman, and letting un come about to vok’s houses. It’s well vor un I
could not get at un: I’d a lick’d un; I’d a spoil’d his caterwauling; I’d
a taught the son of a whore to meddle with meat for his master. He shan’t
ever have a morsel of meat of mine, or a varden to buy it: if she will ha
un, one smock shall be her portion. I’d sooner ge my esteate to the
zinking fund, that it may be sent to Hanover to corrupt our nation with.”
“I am heartily sorry,” cries Allworthy. “Pox o’ your
sorrow,” says Western; “it will do me abundance of good when I
have lost my only child, my poor Sophy, that was the joy of my heart, and
all the hope and comfort of my age; but I am resolved I will turn her out
o’ doors; she shall beg, and starve, and rot in the streets. Not one
hapeny, not a hapeny shall she ever hae o’ mine. The son of a bitch was
always good at finding a hare sitting, an be rotted to’n: I little thought
what puss he was looking after; but it shall be the worst he ever vound in
his life. She shall be no better than carrion: the skin o’er is all he
shall ha, and zu you may tell un.” “I am in amazement,”
cries Allworthy, “at what you tell me, after what passed between my
nephew and the young lady no longer ago than yesterday.” “Yes,
sir,” answered Western, “it was after what passed between your
nephew and she that the whole matter came out. Mr Blifil there was no
sooner gone than the son of a whore came lurching about the house. Little
did I think when I used to love him for a sportsman that he was all the
while a poaching after my daughter.” “Why truly,” says
Allworthy, “I could wish you had not given him so many opportunities
with her; and you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I have always
been averse to his staying so much at your house, though I own I had no
suspicion of this kind.” “Why, zounds,” cries Western,
“who could have thought it? What the devil had she to do wi’n? He
did not come there a courting to her; he came there a hunting with me.”
“But was it possible,” says Allworthy, “that you should
never discern any symptoms of love between them, when you have seen them
so often together?” “Never in my life, as I hope to be saved,”
cries Western: “I never so much as zeed him kiss her in all my life;
and so far from courting her, he used rather to be more silent when she
was in company than at any other time; and as for the girl, she was always
less civil to’n than to any young man that came to the house. As to that
matter, I am not more easy to be deceived than another; I would not have
you think I am, neighbour.” Allworthy could scarce refrain laughter
at this; but he resolved to do a violence to himself; for he perfectly
well knew mankind, and had too much good-breeding and good-nature to
offend the squire in his present circumstances. He then asked Western what
he would have him do upon this occasion. To which the other answered,
“That he would have him keep the rascal away from his house, and
that he would go and lock up the wench; for he was resolved to make her
marry Mr Blifil in spite of her teeth.” He then shook Blifil by the
hand, and swore he would have no other son-in-law. Presently after which
he took his leave; saying his house was in such disorder that it was
necessary for him to make haste home, to take care his daughter did not
give him the slip; and as for Jones, he swore if he caught him at his
house, he would qualify him to run for the geldings’ plate.

When Allworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long silence ensued
between them; all which interval the young gentleman filled up with sighs,
which proceeded partly from disappointment, but more from hatred; for the
success of Jones was much more grievous to him than the loss of Sophia.

At length his uncle asked him what he was determined to do, and he
answered in the following words:—“Alas! sir, can it be a
question what step a lover will take, when reason and passion point
different ways? I am afraid it is too certain he will, in that dilemma,
always follow the latter. Reason dictates to me, to quit all thoughts of a
woman who places her affections on another; my passion bids me hope she
may in time change her inclinations in my favour. Here, however, I
conceive an objection may be raised, which, if it could not fully be
answered, would totally deter me from any further pursuit. I mean the
injustice of endeavouring to supplant another in a heart of which he seems
already in possession; but the determined resolution of Mr Western shows
that, in this case, I shall, by so doing, promote the happiness of every
party; not only that of the parent, who will thus be preserved from the
highest degree of misery, but of both the others, who must be undone by
this match. The lady, I am sure, will be undone in every sense; for,
besides the loss of most part of her own fortune, she will be not only
married to a beggar, but the little fortune which her father cannot
withhold from her will be squandered on that wench with whom I know he yet
converses. Nay, that is a trifle; for I know him to be one of the worst
men in the world; for had my dear uncle known what I have hitherto
endeavoured to conceal, he must have long since abandoned so profligate a
wretch.” “How!” said Allworthy; “hath he done
anything worse than I already know? Tell me, I beseech you?” “No,”
replied Blifil; “it is now past, and perhaps he may have repented of
it.” “I command you, on your duty,” said Allworthy,
“to tell me what you mean.” “You know, sir,” says
Blifil, “I never disobeyed you; but I am sorry I mentioned it, since
it may now look like revenge, whereas, I thank Heaven, no such motive ever
entered my heart; and if you oblige me to discover it, I must be his
petitioner to you for your forgiveness.” “I will have no
conditions,” answered Allworthy; “I think I have shown
tenderness enough towards him, and more perhaps than you ought to thank me
for.” “More, indeed, I fear, than he deserved,” cries
Blifil; “for in the very day of your utmost danger, when myself and
all the family were in tears, he filled the house with riot and
debauchery. He drank, and sung, and roared; and when I gave him a gentle
hint of the indecency of his actions, he fell into a violent passion,
swore many oaths, called me rascal, and struck me.” “How!”
cries Allworthy; “did he dare to strike you?” “I am
sure,” cries Blifil, “I have forgiven him that long ago. I
wish I could so easily forget his ingratitude to the best of benefactors;
and yet even that I hope you will forgive him, since he must have
certainly been possessed with the devil: for that very evening, as Mr
Thwackum and myself were taking the air in the fields, and exulting in the
good symptoms which then first began to discover themselves, we unluckily
saw him engaged with a wench in a manner not fit to be mentioned. Mr
Thwackum, with more boldness than prudence, advanced to rebuke him, when
(I am sorry to say it) he fell upon the worthy man, and beat him so
outrageously that I wish he may have yet recovered the bruises. Nor was I
without my share of the effects of his malice, while I endeavoured to
protect my tutor; but that I have long forgiven; nay, I prevailed with Mr
Thwackum to forgive him too, and not to inform you of a secret which I
feared might be fatal to him. And now, sir, since I have unadvisedly
dropped a hint of this matter, and your commands have obliged me to
discover the whole, let me intercede with you for him.” “O
child!” said Allworthy, “I know not whether I should blame or
applaud your goodness, in concealing such villany a moment: but where is
Mr Thwackum? Not that I want any confirmation of what you say; but I will
examine all the evidence of this matter, to justify to the world the
example I am resolved to make of such a monster.”

Thwackum was now sent for, and presently appeared. He corroborated every
circumstance which the other had deposed; nay, he produced the record upon
his breast, where the handwriting of Mr Jones remained very legible in
black and blue. He concluded with declaring to Mr Allworthy, that he
should have long since informed him of this matter, had not Mr Blifil, by
the most earnest interpositions, prevented him. “He is,” says
he, “an excellent youth: though such forgiveness of enemies is
carrying the matter too far.”

In reality, Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the parson, and to
prevent the discovery at that time; for which he had many reasons. He knew
that the minds of men are apt to be softened and relaxed from their usual
severity by sickness. Besides, he imagined that if the story was told when
the fact was so recent, and the physician about the house, who might have
unravelled the real truth, he should never be able to give it the
malicious turn which he intended. Again, he resolved to hoard up this
business, till the indiscretion of Jones should afford some additional
complaints; for he thought the joint weight of many facts falling upon him
together, would be the most likely to crush him; and he watched,
therefore, some such opportunity as that with which fortune had now kindly
presented him. Lastly, by prevailing with Thwackum to conceal the matter
for a time, he knew he should confirm an opinion of his friendship to
Jones, which he had greatly laboured to establish in Mr Allworthy.

Chapter xi. — A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter
to affect the good-natured reader.

It was Mr Allworthy’s custom never to punish any one, not even to turn
away a servant, in a passion. He resolved therefore to delay passing
sentence on Jones till the afternoon.

The poor young man attended at dinner, as usual; but his heart was too
much loaded to suffer him to eat. His grief too was a good deal aggravated
by the unkind looks of Mr Allworthy; whence he concluded that Western had
discovered the whole affair between him and Sophia; but as to Mr Blifil’s
story, he had not the least apprehension; for of much the greater part he
was entirely innocent; and for the residue, as he had forgiven and
forgotten it himself, so he suspected no remembrance on the other side.
When dinner was over, and the servants departed, Mr Allworthy began to
harangue. He set forth, in a long speech, the many iniquities of which
Jones had been guilty, particularly those which this day had brought to
light; and concluded by telling him, “That unless he could clear
himself of the charge, he was resolved to banish him his sight for ever.”

Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his defence; nay, indeed,
he hardly knew his accusation; for as Mr Allworthy, in recounting the
drunkenness, &c., while he lay ill, out of modesty sunk everything
that related particularly to himself, which indeed principally constituted
the crime; Jones could not deny the charge. His heart was, besides, almost
broken already; and his spirits were so sunk, that he could say nothing
for himself; but acknowledged the whole, and, like a criminal in despair,
threw himself upon mercy; concluding, “That though he must own
himself guilty of many follies and inadvertencies, he hoped he had done
nothing to deserve what would be to him the greatest punishment in the
world.”

Allworthy answered, “That he had forgiven him too often already, in
compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his amendment: that he now found
he was an abandoned reprobate, and such as it would be criminal in any one
to support and encourage. Nay,” said Mr Allworthy to him, “your
audacious attempt to steal away the young lady, calls upon me to justify
my own character in punishing you. The world who have already censured the
regard I have shown for you may think, with some colour at least of
justice, that I connive at so base and barbarous an action—an action
of which you must have known my abhorrence: and which, had you had any
concern for my ease and honour, as well as for my friendship, you would
never have thought of undertaking. Fie upon it, young man! indeed there is
scarce any punishment equal to your crimes, and I can scarce think myself
justifiable in what I am now going to bestow on you. However, as I have
educated you like a child of my own, I will not turn you naked into the
world. When you open this paper, therefore, you will find something which
may enable you, with industry, to get an honest livelihood; but if you
employ it to worse purposes, I shall not think myself obliged to supply
you farther, being resolved, from this day forward, to converse no more
with you on any account. I cannot avoid saying, there is no part of your
conduct which I resent more than your ill-treatment of that good young man
(meaning Blifil) who hath behaved with so much tenderness and honour
towards you.”

These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swallowed. A flood of
tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every faculty of speech and
motion seemed to have deserted him. It was some time before he was able to
obey Allworthy’s peremptory commands of departing; which he at length did,
having first kissed his hands with a passion difficult to be affected, and
as difficult to be described.

The reader must be very weak, if, when he considers the light in which
Jones then appeared to Mr Allworthy, he should blame the rigour of his
sentence. And yet all the neighbourhood, either from this weakness, or
from some worse motive, condemned this justice and severity as the highest
cruelty. Nay, the very persons who had before censured the good man for
the kindness and tenderness shown to a bastard (his own, according to the
general opinion), now cried out as loudly against turning his own child
out of doors. The women especially were unanimous in taking the part of
Jones, and raised more stories on the occasion than I have room, in this
chapter, to set down.

One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this occasion,
none ever mentioned the sum contained in the paper which Allworthy gave
Jones, which was no less than five hundred pounds; but all agreed that he
was sent away penniless, and some said naked, from the house of his
inhuman father.

Chapter xii. — Containing love-letters, &c.

Jones was commanded to leave the house immediately, and told, that his
clothes and everything else should be sent to him whithersoever he should
order them.

He accordingly set out, and walked above a mile, not regarding, and indeed
scarce knowing, whither he went. At length a little brook obstructing his
passage, he threw himself down by the side of it; nor could he help
muttering with some little indignation, “Sure my father will not
deny me this place to rest in!”

Here he presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing his hair
from his head, and using most other actions which generally accompany fits
of madness, rage, and despair.

When he had in this manner vented the first emotions of passion, he began
to come a little to himself. His grief now took another turn, and
discharged itself in a gentler way, till he became at last cool enough to
reason with his passion, and to consider what steps were proper to be
taken in his deplorable condition.

And now the great doubt was, how to act with regard to Sophia. The
thoughts of leaving her almost rent his heart asunder; but the
consideration of reducing her to ruin and beggary still racked him, if
possible, more; and if the violent desire of possessing her person could
have induced him to listen one moment to this alternative, still he was by
no means certain of her resolution to indulge his wishes at so high an
expense. The resentment of Mr Allworthy, and the injury he must do to his
quiet, argued strongly against this latter; and lastly, the apparent
impossibility of his success, even if he would sacrifice all these
considerations to it, came to his assistance; and thus honour at last
backed with despair, with gratitude to his benefactor, and with real love
to his mistress, got the better of burning desire, and he resolved rather
to quit Sophia, than pursue her to her ruin.

It is difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the glowing
warmth which filled his breast on the first contemplation of this victory
over his passion. Pride flattered him so agreeably, that his mind perhaps
enjoyed perfect happiness; but this was only momentary: Sophia soon
returned to his imagination, and allayed the joy of his triumph with no
less bitter pangs than a good-natured general must feel, when he surveys
the bleeding heaps, at the price of whose blood he hath purchased his
laurels; for thousands of tender ideas lay murdered before our conqueror.

Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant honour, as the
gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to write a farewel letter to
Sophia; and accordingly proceeded to a house not far off, where, being
furnished with proper materials, he wrote as follows:—

He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but found none, nor indeed
anything else, therein; for in truth he had, in his frantic disposition,
tossed everything from him, and amongst the rest, his pocket-book, which
he had received from Mr Allworthy, which he had never opened, and which
now first occurred to his memory.

The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, with which,
having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards the brook side, in
order to search for the things which he had there lost. In his way he met
his old friend Black George, who heartily condoled with him on his
misfortune; for this had already reached his ears, and indeed those of all
the neighbourhood.

Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss, and he as readily went back
with him to the brook, where they searched every tuft of grass in the
meadow, as well where Jones had not been as where he had been; but all to
no purpose, for they found nothing; for, indeed, though the things were
then in the meadow, they omitted to search the only place where they were
deposited; to wit, in the pockets of the said George; for he had just
before found them, and being luckily apprized of their value, had very
carefully put them up for his own use.

The gamekeeper having exerted as much diligence in quest of the lost
goods, as if he had hoped to find them, desired Mr Jones to recollect if
he had been in no other place: “For sure,” said he, “if
you had lost them here so lately, the things must have been here still;
for this is a very unlikely place for any one to pass by.” And
indeed it was by great accident that he himself had passed through that
field, in order to lay wires for hares, with which he was to supply a
poulterer at Bath the next morning.

Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and almost all
thoughts concerning it, and turning to Black George, asked him earnestly
if he would do him the greatest favour in the world?

George answered with some hesitation, “Sir, you know you may command
me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish it was in my power to do
you any service.” In fact, the question staggered him; for he had,
by selling game, amassed a pretty good sum of money in Mr Western’s
service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some small matter of
him; but he was presently relieved from his anxiety, by being desired to
convey a letter to Sophia, which with great pleasure he promised to do.
And indeed I believe there are few favours which he would not have gladly
conferred on Mr Jones; for he bore as much gratitude towards him as he
could, and was as honest as men who love money better than any other thing
in the universe, generally are.

Mrs Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means by which this letter
should pass to Sophia. They then separated; the gamekeeper returned home
to Mr Western’s, and Jones walked to an alehouse at half a mile’s
distance, to wait for his messenger’s return.

George no sooner came home to his master’s house than he met with Mrs
Honour; to whom, having first sounded her with a few previous questions,
he delivered the letter for her mistress, and received at the same time
another from her, for Mr Jones; which Honour told him she had carried all
that day in her bosom, and began to despair of finding any means of
delivering it.

The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, having
received Sophia’s letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly
breaking it open, read as follows:—

Jones read this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a hundred times
as often. His passion now brought all tender desires back into his mind.
He repented that he had writ to Sophia in the manner we have seen above;
but he repented more that he had made use of the interval of his
messenger’s absence to write and dispatch a letter to Mr Allworthy, in
which he had faithfully promised and bound himself to quit all thoughts of
his love. However, when his cool reflections returned, he plainly
perceived that his case was neither mended nor altered by Sophia’s billet,
unless to give him some little glimpse of hope, from her constancy, of
some favourable accident hereafter. He therefore resumed his resolution,
and taking leave of Black George, set forward to a town about five miles
distant, whither he had desired Mr Allworthy, unless he pleased to revoke
his sentence, to send his things after him.

Chapter xiii. — The behaviour of Sophia on the present occasion;
which none of her sex will blame, who are capable of behaving in the same
manner. And the discussion of a knotty point in the court of conscience.

Sophia had passed the last twenty-four hours in no very desirable manner.
During a large part of them she had been entertained by her aunt with
lectures of prudence, recommending to her the example of the polite world,
where love (so the good lady said) is at present entirely laughed at, and
where women consider matrimony, as men do offices of public trust, only as
the means of making their fortunes, and of advancing themselves in the
world. In commenting on which text Mrs Western had displayed her eloquence
during several hours.

These sagacious lectures, though little suited either to the taste or
inclination of Sophia, were, however, less irksome to her than her own
thoughts, that formed the entertainment of the night, during which she
never once closed her eyes.

But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed, yet, having no
avocation from it, she was found there by her father at his return from
Allworthy’s, which was not till past ten o’clock in the morning. He went
directly up to her apartment, opened the door, and seeing she was not up,
cried, “Oh! you are safe then, and I am resolved to keep you so.”
He then locked the door, and delivered the key to Honour, having first
given her the strictest charge, with great promises of rewards for her
fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of punishment in case she should
betray her trust.

Honour’s orders were, not to suffer her mistress to come out of her room
without the authority of the squire himself, and to admit none to her but
him and her aunt; but she was herself to attend her with whatever Sophia
pleased, except only pen, ink, and paper, of which she was forbidden the
use.

The squire ordered his daughter to dress herself and attend him at dinner;
which she obeyed; and having sat the usual time, was again conducted to
her prison.

In the evening the gaoler Honour brought her the letter which she received
from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it very attentively twice or thrice over,
and then threw herself upon the bed, and burst into a flood of tears. Mrs
Honour expressed great astonishment at this behaviour in her mistress; nor
could she forbear very eagerly begging to know the cause of this passion.
Sophia made her no answer for some time, and then, starting suddenly up,
caught her maid by the hand, and cried, “O Honour! I am undone.”
“Marry forbid,” cries Honour: “I wish the letter had
been burnt before I had brought it to your la’ship. I’m sure I thought it
would have comforted your la’ship, or I would have seen it at the devil
before I would have touched it.” “Honour,” says Sophia,
“you are a good girl, and it is vain to attempt concealing longer my
weakness from you; I have thrown away my heart on a man who hath forsaken
me.” “And is Mr Jones,” answered the maid, “such a
perfidy man?” “He hath taken his leave of me,” says
Sophia, “for ever in that letter. Nay, he hath desired me to forget
him. Could he have desired that if he had loved me? Could he have borne
such a thought? Could he have written such a word?” “No,
certainly, ma’am,” cries Honour; “and to be sure, if the best
man in England was to desire me to forget him, I’d take him at his word.
Marry, come up! I am sure your la’ship hath done him too much honour ever
to think on him;—a young lady who may take her choice of all the
young men in the country. And to be sure, if I may be so presumptuous as
to offer my poor opinion, there is young Mr Blifil, who, besides that he
is come of honest parents, and will be one of the greatest squires all
hereabouts, he is to be sure, in my poor opinion, a more handsomer and a
more politer man by half; and besides, he is a young gentleman of a sober
character, and who may defy any of the neighbours to say black is his eye;
he follows no dirty trollops, nor can any bastards be laid at his door.
Forget him, indeed! I thank Heaven I myself am not so much at my last
prayers as to suffer any man to bid me forget him twice. If the best he
that wears a head was for to go for to offer to say such an affronting
word to me, I would never give him my company afterwards, if there was
another young man in the kingdom. And as I was a saying, to be sure, there
is young Mr Blifil.” “Name not his detested name,” cries
Sophia. “Nay, ma’am,” says Honour, “if your la’ship doth
not like him, there be more jolly handsome young men that would court your
la’ship, if they had but the least encouragement. I don’t believe there is
arrow young gentleman in this county, or in the next to it, that if your
la’ship was but to look as if you had a mind to him, would not come about
to make his offers directly.” “What a wretch dost thou imagine
me,” cries Sophia, “by affronting my ears with such stuff! I
detest all mankind.” “Nay, to be sure, ma’am,” answered
Honour, “your la’ship hath had enough to give you a surfeit of them.
To be used ill by such a poor, beggarly, bastardly fellow.”—“Hold
your blasphemous tongue,” cries Sophia: “how dare you mention
his name with disrespect before me? He use me ill? No, his poor bleeding
heart suffered more when he writ the cruel words than mine from reading
them. O! he is all heroic virtue and angelic goodness. I am ashamed of the
weakness of my own passion, for blaming what I ought to admire. O, Honour!
it is my good only which he consults. To my interest he sacrifices both
himself and me. The apprehension of ruining me hath driven him to despair.”
“I am very glad,” says Honour, “to hear your la’ship
takes that into your consideration; for to be sure, it must be nothing
less than ruin to give your mind to one that is turned out of doors, and
is not worth a farthing in the world.” “Turned out of doors!”
cries Sophia hastily: “how! what dost thou mean?” “Why,
to be sure, ma’am, my master no sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr
Jones having offered to make love to your la’ship than the squire stripped
him stark naked, and turned him out of doors!” “Ha!”
says Sophia, “I have been the cursed, wretched cause of his
destruction! Turned naked out of doors! Here, Honour, take all the money I
have; take the rings from my fingers. Here, my watch: carry him all. Go
find him immediately.” “For Heaven’s sake, ma’am,”
answered Mrs Honour, “do but consider, if my master should miss any
of these things, I should be made to answer for them. Therefore let me beg
your la’ship not to part with your watch and jewels. Besides, the money, I
think, is enough of all conscience; and as for that, my master can never
know anything of the matter.” “Here, then,” cries
Sophia, “take every farthing I am worth, find him out immediately,
and give it him. Go, go, lose not a moment.”

Mrs Honour departed according to orders, and finding Black George
below-stairs, delivered him the purse, which contained sixteen guineas,
being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for though her father was very
liberal to her, she was much too generous to be rich.

Black George having received the purse, set forward towards the alehouse;
but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether he should not detain
this money likewise. His conscience, however, immediately started at this
suggestion, and began to upbraid him with ingratitude to his benefactor.
To this his avarice answered, That his conscience should have considered
the matter before, when he deprived poor Jones of his £500. That having
quietly acquiesced in what was of so much greater importance, it was
absurd, if not downright hypocrisy, to affect any qualms at this trifle.
In return to which, Conscience, like a good lawyer, attempted to
distinguish between an absolute breach of trust, as here, where the goods
were delivered, and a bare concealment of what was found, as in the former
case. Avarice presently treated this with ridicule, called it a
distinction without a difference, and absolutely insisted that when once
all pretensions of honour and virtue were given up in any one instance,
that there was no precedent for resorting to them upon a second occasion.
In short, poor Conscience had certainly been defeated in the argument, had
not Fear stept in to her assistance, and very strenuously urged that the
real distinction between the two actions, did not lie in the different
degrees of honour but of safety: for that the secreting the £500 was a
matter of very little hazard; whereas the detaining the sixteen guineas
was liable to the utmost danger of discovery.

By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained a compleat victory in
the mind of Black George, and, after making him a few compliments on his
honesty, forced him to deliver the money to Jones.

Chapter xiv. — A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between
Squire Western and his sister.

Mrs Western had been engaged abroad all that day. The squire met her at
her return home; and when she enquired after Sophia, he acquainted her
that he had secured her safe enough. “She is locked up in chamber,”
cries he, “and Honour keeps the key.” As his looks were full
of prodigious wisdom and sagacity when he gave his sister this
information, it is probable he expected much applause from her for what he
had done; but how was he disappointed when, with a most disdainful aspect,
she cried, “Sure, brother, you are the weakest of all men. Why will
you not confide in me for the management of my niece? Why will you
interpose? You have now undone all that I have been spending my breath in
order to bring about. While I have been endeavouring to fill her mind with
maxims of prudence, you have been provoking her to reject them. English
women, brother, I thank heaven, are no slaves. We are not to be locked up
like the Spanish and Italian wives. We have as good a right to liberty as
yourselves. We are to be convinced by reason and persuasion only, and not
governed by force. I have seen the world, brother, and know what arguments
to make use of; and if your folly had not prevented me, should have
prevailed with her to form her conduct by those rules of prudence and
discretion which I formerly taught her.” “To be sure,”
said the squire, “I am always in the wrong.” “Brother,”
answered the lady, “you are not in the wrong, unless when you meddle
with matters beyond your knowledge. You must agree that I have seen most
of the world; and happy had it been for my niece if she had not been taken
from under my care. It is by living at home with you that she hath learnt
romantic notions of love and nonsense.” “You don’t imagine, I
hope,” cries the squire, “that I have taught her any such
things.” “Your ignorance, brother,” returned she,
“as the great Milton says, almost subdues my patience.”[*]
“D—n Milton!” answered the squire: “if he had the
impudence to say so to my face, I’d lend him a douse, thof he was never so
great a man. Patience! An you come to that, sister, I have more occasion
of patience, to be used like an overgrown schoolboy, as I am by you. Do
you think no one hath any understanding, unless he hath been about at
court. Pox! the world is come to a fine pass indeed, if we are all fools,
except a parcel of round-heads and Hanover rats. Pox! I hope the times are
a coming when we shall make fools of them, and every man shall enjoy his
own. That’s all, sister; and every man shall enjoy his own. I hope to zee
it, sister, before the Hanover rats have eat up all our corn, and left us
nothing but turneps to feed upon.”—“I protest, brother,”
cries she, “you are now got beyond my understanding. Your jargon of
turneps and Hanover rats is to me perfectly unintelligible.”—“I
believe,” cries he, “you don’t care to hear o’em; but the
country interest may succeed one day or other for all that.”—“I
wish,” answered the lady, “you would think a little of your
daughter’s interest; for, believe me, she is in greater danger than the
nation.”—“Just now,” said he, “you chid me
for thinking on her, and would ha’ her left to you.”—“And
if you will promise to interpose no more,” answered she, “I
will, out of my regard to my niece, undertake the charge.”—“Well,
do then,” said the squire, “for you know I always agreed, that
women are the properest to manage women.”

Mrs Western then departed, muttering something with an air of disdain,
concerning women and management of the nation. She immediately repaired to
Sophia’s apartment, who was now, after a day’s confinement, released again
from her captivity.

BOOK VII. — CONTAINING THREE DAYS.

Chapter i. — A comparison between the world and the stage.

The world hath been often compared to the theatre; and many grave writers,
as well as the poets, have considered human life as a great drama,
resembling, in almost every particular, those scenical representations
which Thespis is first reported to have invented, and which have been
since received with so much approbation and delight in all polite
countries.

This thought hath been carried so far, and is become so general, that some
words proper to the theatre, and which were at first metaphorically
applied to the world, are now indiscriminately and literally spoken of
both; thus stage and scene are by common use grown as familiar to us, when
we speak of life in general, as when we confine ourselves to dramatic
performances: and when transactions behind the curtain are mentioned, St
James’s is more likely to occur to our thoughts than Drury-lane.

It may seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting that the
theatrical stage is nothing more than a representation, or, as Aristotle
calls it, an imitation of what really exists; and hence, perhaps, we might
fairly pay a very high compliment to those who by their writings or
actions have been so capable of imitating life, as to have their pictures
in a manner confounded with, or mistaken for, the originals.

But, in reality, we are not so fond of paying compliments to these people,
whom we use as children frequently do the instruments of their amusement;
and have much more pleasure in hissing and buffeting them, than in
admiring their excellence. There are many other reasons which have induced
us to see this analogy between the world and the stage.

Some have considered the larger part of mankind in the light of actors, as
personating characters no more their own, and to which in fact they have
no better title, than the player hath to be in earnest thought the king or
emperor whom he represents. Thus the hypocrite may be said to be a player;
and indeed the Greeks called them both by one and the same name.

The brevity of life hath likewise given occasion to this comparison. So
the immortal Shakespear—

For which hackneyed quotation I will make the reader amends by a very
noble one, which few, I believe, have read. It is taken from a poem called
the Deity, published about nine years ago, and long since buried in
oblivion; a proof that good books, no more than good men, do always
survive the bad.

In all these, however, and in every other similitude of life to the
theatre, the resemblance hath been always taken from the stage only. None,
as I remember, have at all considered the audience at this great drama.

But as Nature often exhibits some of her best performances to a very full
house, so will the behaviour of her spectators no less admit the
above-mentioned comparison than that of her actors. In this vast theatre
of time are seated the friend and the critic; here are claps and shouts,
hisses and groans; in short, everything which was ever seen or heard at
the Theatre-Royal.

Let us examine this in one example; for instance, in the behaviour of the
great audience on that scene which Nature was pleased to exhibit in the
twelfth chapter of the preceding book, where she introduced Black George
running away with the £500 from his friend and benefactor.

Those who sat in the world’s upper gallery treated that incident, I am
well convinced, with their usual vociferation; and every term of
scurrilous reproach was most probably vented on that occasion.

If we had descended to the next order of spectators, we should have found
an equal degree of abhorrence, though less of noise and scurrility; yet
here the good women gave Black George to the devil, and many of them
expected every minute that the cloven-footed gentleman would fetch his
own.

The pit, as usual, was no doubt divided; those who delight in heroic
virtue and perfect character objected to the producing such instances of
villany, without punishing them very severely for the sake of example.
Some of the author’s friends cryed, “Look’e, gentlemen, the man is a
villain, but it is nature for all that.” And all the young critics
of the age, the clerks, apprentices, &c., called it low, and fell a
groaning.

As for the boxes, they behaved with their accustomed politeness. Most of
them were attending to something else. Some of those few who regarded the
scene at all, declared he was a bad kind of man; while others refused to
give their opinion, till they had heard that of the best judges.

Now we, who are admitted behind the scenes of this great theatre of Nature
(and no author ought to write anything besides dictionaries and
spelling-books who hath not this privilege), can censure the action,
without conceiving any absolute detestation of the person, whom perhaps
Nature may not have designed to act an ill part in all her dramas; for in
this instance life most exactly resembles the stage, since it is often the
same person who represents the villain and the heroe; and he who engages
your admiration to-day will probably attract your contempt to-morrow. As
Garrick, whom I regard in tragedy to be the greatest genius the world hath
ever produced, sometimes condescends to play the fool; so did Scipio the
Great, and Laelius the Wise, according to Horace, many years ago; nay,
Cicero reports them to have been “incredibly childish.” These,
it is true, played the fool, like my friend Garrick, in jest only; but
several eminent characters have, in numberless instances of their lives,
played the fool egregiously in earnest; so far as to render it a matter of
some doubt whether their wisdom or folly was predominant; or whether they
were better intitled to the applause or censure, the admiration or
contempt, the love or hatred, of mankind.

Those persons, indeed, who have passed any time behind the scenes of this
great theatre, and are thoroughly acquainted not only with the several
disguises which are there put on, but also with the fantastic and
capricious behaviour of the Passions, who are the managers and directors
of this theatre (for as to Reason, the patentee, he is known to be a very
idle fellow and seldom to exert himself), may most probably have learned
to understand the famous nil admirari of Horace, or in the English
phrase, to stare at nothing.

A single bad act no more constitutes a villain in life, than a single bad
part on the stage. The passions, like the managers of a playhouse, often
force men upon parts without consulting their judgment, and sometimes
without any regard to their talents. Thus the man, as well as the player,
may condemn what he himself acts; nay, it is common to see vice sit as
awkwardly on some men, as the character of Iago would on the honest face
of Mr William Mills.

Upon the whole, then, the man of candour and of true understanding is
never hasty to condemn. He can censure an imperfection, or even a vice,
without rage against the guilty party. In a word, they are the same folly,
the same childishness, the same ill-breeding, and the same ill-nature,
which raise all the clamours and uproars both in life and on the stage.
The worst of men generally have the words rogue and villain most in their
mouths, as the lowest of all wretches are the aptest to cry out low in the
pit.

Chapter ii. — Containing a conversation which Mr Jones had with
himself.

Jones received his effects from Mr Allworthy’s early in the morning, with
the following answer to his letter:—

Many contending passions were raised in our heroe’s mind by this letter;
but the tender prevailed at last over the indignant and irascible, and a
flood of tears came seasonably to his assistance, and possibly prevented
his misfortunes from either turning his head, or bursting his heart.

He grew, however, soon ashamed of indulging this remedy; and starting up,
he cried, “Well, then, I will give Mr Allworthy the only instance he
requires of my obedience. I will go this moment—but whither?—why,
let Fortune direct; since there is no other who thinks it of any
consequence what becomes of this wretched person, it shall be a matter of
equal indifference to myself. Shall I alone regard what no other—Ha!
have I not reason to think there is another?—one whose value is
above that of the whole world!—I may, I must imagine my Sophia is
not indifferent to what becomes of me. Shall I then leave this only friend—and
such a friend? Shall I not stay with her?—Where—how can I stay
with her? Have I any hopes of ever seeing her, though she was as desirous
as myself, without exposing her to the wrath of her father, and to what
purpose? Can I think of soliciting such a creature to consent to her own
ruin? Shall I indulge any passion of mine at such a price? Shall I lurk
about this country like a thief, with such intentions?—No, I
disdain, I detest the thought. Farewel, Sophia; farewel, most lovely, most
beloved—” Here passion stopped his mouth, and found a vent at
his eyes.

And now having taken a resolution to leave the country, he began to debate
with himself whither he should go. The world, as Milton phrases it, lay
all before him; and Jones, no more than Adam, had any man to whom he might
resort for comfort or assistance. All his acquaintance were the
acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and he had no reason to expect any
countenance from them, as that gentleman had withdrawn his favour from
him. Men of great and good characters should indeed be very cautious how
they discard their dependents; for the consequence to the unhappy sufferer
is being discarded by all others.

What course of life to pursue, or to what business to apply himself, was a
second consideration: and here the prospect was all a melancholy void.
Every profession, and every trade, required length of time, and what was
worse, money; for matters are so constituted, that “nothing out of
nothing” is not a truer maxim in physics than in politics; and every
man who is greatly destitute of money, is on that account entirely
excluded from all means of acquiring it.

At last the Ocean, that hospitable friend to the wretched, opened her
capacious arms to receive him; and he instantly resolved to accept her
kind invitation. To express myself less figuratively, he determined to go
to sea.

This thought indeed no sooner suggested itself, than he eagerly embraced
it; and having presently hired horses, he set out for Bristol to put it in
execution.

But before we attend him on this expedition, we shall resort awhile to Mr
Western’s, and see what further happened to the charming Sophia.

Chapter iii. — Containing several dialogues.

The morning in which Mr Jones departed, Mrs Western summoned Sophia into
her apartment; and having first acquainted her that she had obtained her
liberty of her father, she proceeded to read her a long lecture on the
subject of matrimony; which she treated not as a romantic scheme of
happiness arising from love, as it hath been described by the poets; nor
did she mention any of those purposes for which we are taught by divines
to regard it as instituted by sacred authority; she considered it rather
as a fund in which prudent women deposit their fortunes to the best
advantage, in order to receive a larger interest for them than they could
have elsewhere.

When Mrs Western had finished, Sophia answered, “That she was very
incapable of arguing with a lady of her aunt’s superior knowledge and
experience, especially on a subject which she had so very little
considered, as this of matrimony.”

“Argue with me, child!” replied the other; “I do not
indeed expect it. I should have seen the world to very little purpose
truly, if I am to argue with one of your years. I have taken this trouble,
in order to instruct you. The antient philosophers, such as Socrates,
Alcibiades, and others, did not use to argue with their scholars. You are
to consider me, child, as Socrates, not asking your opinion, but only
informing you of mine.” From which last words the reader may
possibly imagine, that this lady had read no more of the philosophy of
Socrates, than she had of that of Alcibiades; and indeed we cannot resolve
his curiosity as to this point.

“Madam,” cries Sophia, “I have never presumed to
controvert any opinion of yours; and this subject, as I said, I have never
yet thought of, and perhaps never may.”

“Indeed, Sophy,” replied the aunt, “this dissimulation
with me is very foolish. The French shall as soon persuade me that they
take foreign towns in defence only of their own country, as you can impose
on me to believe you have never yet thought seriously of matrimony. How
can you, child, affect to deny that you have considered of contracting an
alliance, when you so well know I am acquainted with the party with whom
you desire to contract it?—an alliance as unnatural, and contrary to
your interest, as a separate league with the French would be to the
interest of the Dutch! But however, if you have not hitherto considered of
this matter, I promise you it is now high time, for my brother is resolved
immediately to conclude the treaty with Mr Blifil; and indeed I am a sort
of guarantee in the affair, and have promised your concurrence.”

“Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “this is the only
instance in which I must disobey both yourself and my father. For this is
a match which requires very little consideration in me to refuse.”

“If I was not as great a philosopher as Socrates himself,”
returned Mrs Western, “you would overcome my patience. What
objection can you have to the young gentleman?”

“A very solid objection, in my opinion,” says Sophia—“I
hate him.”

“Will you never learn a proper use of words?” answered the
aunt. “Indeed, child, you should consult Bailey’s Dictionary. It is
impossible you should hate a man from whom you have received no injury. By
hatred, therefore, you mean no more than dislike, which is no sufficient
objection against your marrying of him. I have known many couples, who
have entirely disliked each other, lead very comfortable genteel lives.
Believe me, child, I know these things better than you. You will allow me,
I think, to have seen the world, in which I have not an acquaintance who
would not rather be thought to dislike her husband than to like him. The
contrary is such out-of-fashion romantic nonsense, that the very
imagination of it is shocking.”

“Indeed, madam,” replied Sophia, “I shall never marry a
man I dislike. If I promise my father never to consent to any marriage
contrary to his inclinations, I think I may hope he will never force me
into that state contrary to my own.”

“Inclinations!” cries the aunt, with some warmth. “Inclinations!
I am astonished at your assurance. A young woman of your age, and
unmarried, to talk of inclinations! But whatever your inclinations may be,
my brother is resolved; nay, since you talk of inclinations, I shall
advise him to hasten the treaty. Inclinations!”

Sophia then flung herself upon her knees, and tears began to trickle from
her shining eyes. She entreated her aunt, “to have mercy upon her,
and not to resent so cruelly her unwillingness to make herself miserable;”
often urging, “that she alone was concerned, and that her happiness
only was at stake.”

As a bailiff, when well authorized by his writ, having possessed himself
of the person of some unhappy debtor, views all his tears without concern;
in vain the wretched captive attempts to raise compassion; in vain the
tender wife bereft of her companion, the little prattling boy, or frighted
girl, are mentioned as inducements to reluctance. The noble bumtrap, blind
and deaf to every circumstance of distress, greatly rises above all the
motives to humanity, and into the hands of the gaoler resolves to deliver
his miserable prey.

Not less blind to the tears, or less deaf to every entreaty of Sophia was
the politic aunt, nor less determined was she to deliver over the
trembling maid into the arms of the gaoler Blifil. She answered with great
impetuosity, “So far, madam, from your being concerned alone, your
concern is the least, or surely the least important. It is the honour of
your family which is concerned in this alliance; you are only the
instrument. Do you conceive, mistress, that in an intermarriage between
kingdoms, as when a daughter of France is married into Spain, the princess
herself is alone considered in the match? No! it is a match between two
kingdoms, rather than between two persons. The same happens in great
families such as ours. The alliance between the families is the principal
matter. You ought to have a greater regard for the honour of your family
than for your own person; and if the example of a princess cannot inspire
you with these noble thoughts, you cannot surely complain at being used no
worse than all princesses are used.”

“I hope, madam,” cries Sophia, with a little elevation of
voice, “I shall never do anything to dishonour my family; but as for
Mr Blifil, whatever may be the consequence, I am resolved against him, and
no force shall prevail in his favour.”

Western, who had been within hearing during the greater part of the
preceding dialogue, had now exhausted all his patience; he therefore
entered the room in a violent passion, crying, “D—n me then if
shatunt ha’un, d—n me if shatunt, that’s all—that’s all; d—n
me if shatunt.”

Mrs Western had collected a sufficient quantity of wrath for the use of
Sophia; but she now transferred it all to the squire. “Brother,”
said she, “it is astonishing that you will interfere in a matter
which you had totally left to my negotiation. Regard to my family hath
made me take upon myself to be the mediating power, in order to rectify
those mistakes in policy which you have committed in your daughter’s
education. For, brother, it is you—it is your preposterous conduct
which hath eradicated all the seeds that I had formerly sown in her tender
mind. It is you yourself who have taught her disobedience.”—“Blood!”
cries the squire, foaming at the mouth, “you are enough to conquer
the patience of the devil! Have I ever taught my daughter disobedience?—Here
she stands; speak honestly, girl, did ever I bid you be disobedient to me?
Have not I done everything to humour and to gratify you, and to make you
obedient to me? And very obedient to me she was when a little child,
before you took her in hand and spoiled her, by filling her head with a
pack of court notions. Why—why—why—did I not overhear
you telling her she must behave like a princess? You have made a Whig of
the girl; and how should her father, or anybody else, expect any obedience
from her?”—“Brother,” answered Mrs Western, with
an air of great disdain, “I cannot express the contempt I have for
your politics of all kinds; but I will appeal likewise to the young lady
herself, whether I have ever taught her any principles of disobedience. On
the contrary, niece, have I not endeavoured to inspire you with a true
idea of the several relations in which a human creature stands in society?
Have I not taken infinite pains to show you, that the law of nature hath
enjoined a duty on children to their parents? Have I not told you what
Plato says on that subject?—a subject on which you was so
notoriously ignorant when you came first under my care, that I verily
believe you did not know the relation between a daughter and a father.”—“’Tis
a lie,” answered Western. “The girl is no such fool, as to
live to eleven years old without knowing that she was her father’s
relation.”—“O! more than Gothic ignorance,”
answered the lady. “And as for your manners, brother, I must tell
you, they deserve a cane.”—“Why then you may gi’ it me,
if you think you are able,” cries the squire; “nay, I suppose
your niece there will be ready enough to help you.”—“Brother,”
said Mrs Western, “though I despise you beyond expression, yet I
shall endure your insolence no longer; so I desire my coach may be got
ready immediately, for I am resolved to leave your house this very
morning.”—“And a good riddance too,” answered he;
“I can bear your insolence no longer, an you come to that. Blood! it
is almost enough of itself to make my daughter undervalue my sense, when
she hears you telling me every minute you despise me.”—“It
is impossible, it is impossible,” cries the aunt; “no one can
undervalue such a boor.”—“Boar,” answered the
squire, “I am no boar; no, nor ass; no, nor rat neither, madam.
Remember that—I am no rat. I am a true Englishman, and not of your
Hanover breed, that have eat up the nation.”—“Thou art
one of those wise men,” cries she, “whose nonsensical
principles have undone the nation; by weakening the hands of our
government at home, and by discouraging our friends and encouraging our
enemies abroad.”—“Ho! are you come back to your
politics?” cries the squire: “as for those I despise them as
much as I do a f—t.” Which last words he accompanied and
graced with the very action, which, of all others, was the most proper to
it. And whether it was this word or the contempt exprest for her politics,
which most affected Mrs Western, I will not determine; but she flew into
the most violent rage, uttered phrases improper to be here related, and
instantly burst out of the house. Nor did her brother or her niece think
proper either to stop or to follow her; for the one was so much possessed
by concern, and the other by anger, that they were rendered almost
motionless.

The squire, however, sent after his sister the same holloa which attends
the departure of a hare, when she is first started before the hounds. He
was indeed a great master of this kind of vociferation, and had a holla
proper for most occasions in life.

Women who, like Mrs Western, know the world, and have applied themselves
to philosophy and politics, would have immediately availed themselves of
the present disposition of Mr Western’s mind, by throwing in a few artful
compliments to his understanding at the expense of his absent adversary;
but poor Sophia was all simplicity. By which word we do not intend to
insinuate to the reader, that she was silly, which is generally understood
as a synonymous term with simple; for she was indeed a most sensible girl,
and her understanding was of the first rate; but she wanted all that
useful art which females convert to so many good purposes in life, and
which, as it rather arises from the heart than from the head, is often the
property of the silliest of women.

Chapter iv. — A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the
life.

Mr Western having finished his holla, and taken a little breath, began to
lament, in very pathetic terms, the unfortunate condition of men, who are,
says he, “always whipt in by the humours of some d—n’d b—
or other. I think I was hard run enough by your mother for one man; but
after giving her a dodge, here’s another b— follows me upon the
foil; but curse my jacket if I will be run down in this manner by any
o’um.”

Sophia never had a single dispute with her father, till this unlucky
affair of Blifil, on any account, except in defence of her mother, whom
she had loved most tenderly, though she lost her in the eleventh year of
her age. The squire, to whom that poor woman had been a faithful
upper-servant all the time of their marriage, had returned that behaviour
by making what the world calls a good husband. He very seldom swore at her
(perhaps not above once a week) and never beat her; she had not the least
occasion for jealousy, and was perfect mistress of her time; for she was
never interrupted by her husband, who was engaged all the morning in his
field exercises, and all the evening with bottle companions. She scarce
indeed ever saw him but at meals; where she had the pleasure of carving
those dishes which she had before attended at the dressing. From these
meals she retired about five minutes after the other servants, having only
stayed to drink “the king over the water.” Such were, it
seems, Mr Western’s orders; for it was a maxim with him, that women should
come in with the first dish, and go out after the first glass. Obedience
to these orders was perhaps no difficult task; for the conversation (if it
may be called so) was seldom such as could entertain a lady. It consisted
chiefly of hallowing, singing, relations of sporting adventures, b—d—y,
and abuse of women, and of the government.

These, however, were the only seasons when Mr Western saw his wife; for
when he repaired to her bed, he was generally so drunk that he could not
see; and in the sporting season he always rose from her before it was
light. Thus was she perfect mistress of her time, and had besides a coach
and four usually at her command; though unhappily, indeed, the badness of
the neighbourhood, and of the roads, made this of little use; for none who
had set much value on their necks would have passed through the one, or
who had set any value on their hours, would have visited the other. Now to
deal honestly with the reader, she did not make all the return expected to
so much indulgence; for she had been married against her will by a fond
father, the match having been rather advantageous on her side; for the
squire’s estate was upward of £3000 a year, and her fortune no more than a
bare £8000. Hence perhaps she had contracted a little gloominess of
temper, for she was rather a good servant than a good wife; nor had she
always the gratitude to return the extraordinary degree of roaring mirth,
with which the squire received her, even with a good-humoured smile. She
would, moreover, sometimes interfere with matters which did not concern
her, as the violent drinking of her husband, which in the gentlest terms
she would take some of the few opportunities he gave her of remonstrating
against. And once in her life she very earnestly entreated him to carry
her for two months to London, which he peremptorily denied; nay, was angry
with his wife for the request ever after, being well assured that all the
husbands in London are cuckolds.

For this last, and many other good reasons, Western at length heartily
hated his wife; and as he never concealed this hatred before her death, so
he never forgot it afterwards; but when anything in the least soured him,
as a bad scenting day, or a distemper among his hounds, or any other such
misfortune, he constantly vented his spleen by invectives against the
deceased, saying, “If my wife was alive now, she would be glad of
this.”

These invectives he was especially desirous of throwing forth before
Sophia; for as he loved her more than he did any other, so he was really
jealous that she had loved her mother better than him. And this jealousy
Sophia seldom failed of heightening on these occasions; for he was not
contented with violating her ears with the abuse of her mother, but
endeavoured to force an explicit approbation of all this abuse; with which
desire he never could prevail upon her by any promise or threats to
comply.

Hence some of my readers will, perhaps, wonder that the squire had not
hated Sophia as much as he had hated her mother; but I must inform them,
that hatred is not the effect of love, even through the medium of
jealousy. It is, indeed, very possible for jealous persons to kill the
objects of their jealousy, but not to hate them. Which sentiment being a
pretty hard morsel, and bearing something of the air of a paradox, we
shall leave the reader to chew the cud upon it to the end of the chapter.

Chapter v. — The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.

Sophia kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, nor did she
once answer otherwise than with a sigh; but as he understood none of the
language, or, as he called it, lingo of the eyes, so he was not satisfied
without some further approbation of his sentiments, which he now demanded
of his daughter; telling her, in the usual way, “he expected she was
ready to take the part of everybody against him, as she had always done
that of the b— her mother.” Sophia remaining still silent, he
cryed out, “What, art dumb? why dost unt speak? Was not thy mother a
d—d b— to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you despise your
father too, and don’t think him good enough to speak to?”

“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give
so cruel a turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die than be guilty
of any disrespect towards you; but how can I venture to speak, when every
word must either offend my dear papa, or convict me of the blackest
ingratitude as well as impiety to the memory of the best of mothers; for
such, I am certain, my mamma was always to me?”

“And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!”
replied the squire. “Will you be so kind as to allow that she is a b—?
I may fairly insist upon that, I think?”

“Indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to
my aunt. She hath been a second mother to me.”

“And a second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so you
will take her part too! You won’t confess that she hath acted the part of
the vilest sister in the world?”

“Upon my word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my
heart wickedly if I did. I know my aunt and you differ very much in your
ways of thinking; but I have heard her a thousand times express the
greatest affection for you; and I am convinced, so far from her being the
worst sister in the world, there are very few who love a brother better.”

“The English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that
I am in the wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is in the
right, and the man in the wrong always.”

“Pardon me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.”

“What don’t you say?” answered the father: “you have the
impudence to say she’s in the right: doth it not follow then of course
that I am in the wrong? And perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a
Presbyterian Hanoverian b— to come into my house. She may ‘dite me
of a plot for anything I know, and give my estate to the government.”

“So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia,
“if my aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would have left
you her whole fortune.”

Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to assert; but
certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep into the ears of her
father, and produced a much more sensible effect than all she had said
before. He received the sound with much the same action as a man receives
a bullet in his head. He started, staggered, and turned pale. After which
he remained silent above a minute, and then began in the following
hesitating manner: “Yesterday! she would have left me her esteate
yesterday! would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the year? I
suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody else, and
perhaps out of the vamily.”—“My aunt, sir,” cries
Sophia, “hath very violent passions, and I can’t answer what she may
do under their influence.”

“You can’t!” returned the father: “and pray who hath
been the occasion of putting her into those violent passions? Nay, who
hath actually put her into them? Was not you and she hard at it before I
came into the room? Besides, was not all our quarrel about you? I have not
quarrelled with sister this many years but upon your account; and now you
would throw the whole blame upon me, as thof I should be the occasion of
her leaving the esteate out o’ the vamily. I could have expected no better
indeed; this is like the return you make to all the rest of my fondness.”

“I beseech you then,” cries Sophia, “upon my knees I
beseech you, if I have been the unhappy occasion of this difference, that
you will endeavour to make it up with my aunt, and not suffer her to leave
your house in this violent rage of anger: she is a very good-natured
woman, and a few civil words will satisfy her. Let me entreat you, sir.”

“So I must go and ask pardon for your fault, must I?” answered
Western. “You have lost the hare, and I must draw every way to find
her again? Indeed, if I was certain”—Here he stopt, and Sophia
throwing in more entreaties, at length prevailed upon him; so that after
venting two or three bitter sarcastical expressions against his daughter,
he departed as fast as he could to recover his sister, before her equipage
could be gotten ready.

Sophia then returned to her chamber of mourning, where she indulged
herself (if the phrase may be allowed me) in all the luxury of tender
grief. She read over more than once the letter which she had received from
Jones; her muff too was used on this occasion; and she bathed both these,
as well as herself, with her tears. In this situation the friendly Mrs
Honour exerted her utmost abilities to comfort her afflicted mistress. She
ran over the names of many young gentlemen: and having greatly commended
their parts and persons, assured Sophia that she might take her choice of
any. These methods must have certainly been used with some success in
disorders of the like kind, or so skilful a practitioner as Mrs Honour
would never have ventured to apply them; nay, I have heard that the
college of chambermaids hold them to be as sovereign remedies as any in
the female dispensary; but whether it was that Sophia’s disease differed
inwardly from those cases with which it agreed in external symptoms, I
will not assert; but, in fact, the good waiting-woman did more harm than
good, and at last so incensed her mistress (which was no easy matter) that
with an angry voice she dismissed her from her presence.

Chapter vi. — Containing great variety of matter.

The squire overtook his sister just as she was stepping into the coach,
and partly by force, and partly by solicitations, prevailed upon her to
order her horses back into their quarters. He succeeded in this attempt
without much difficulty; for the lady was, as we have already hinted, of a
most placable disposition, and greatly loved her brother, though she
despised his parts, or rather his little knowledge of the world.

Poor Sophia, who had first set on foot this reconciliation, was now made
the sacrifice to it. They both concurred in their censures on her conduct;
jointly declared war against her, and directly proceeded to counsel, how
to carry it on in the most vigorous manner. For this purpose, Mrs Western
proposed not only an immediate conclusion of the treaty with Allworthy,
but as immediately to carry it into execution; saying, “That there
was no other way to succeed with her niece, but by violent methods, which
she was convinced Sophia had not sufficient resolution to resist. By
violent,” says she, “I mean rather, hasty measures; for as to
confinement or absolute force, no such things must or can be attempted.
Our plan must be concerted for a surprize, and not for a storm.”

These matters were resolved on, when Mr Blifil came to pay a visit to his
mistress. The squire no sooner heard of his arrival, than he stept aside,
by his sister’s advice, to give his daughter orders for the proper
reception of her lover: which he did with the most bitter execrations and
denunciations of judgment on her refusal.

The impetuosity of the squire bore down all before him; and Sophia, as her
aunt very wisely foresaw, was not able to resist him. She agreed,
therefore, to see Blifil, though she had scarce spirits or strength
sufficient to utter her assent. Indeed, to give a peremptory denial to a
father whom she so tenderly loved, was no easy task. Had this circumstance
been out of the case, much less resolution than what she was really
mistress of, would, perhaps, have served her; but it is no unusual thing
to ascribe those actions entirely to fear, which are in a great measure
produced by love.

In pursuance, therefore, of her father’s peremptory command, Sophia now
admitted Mr Blifil’s visit. Scenes like this, when painted at large,
afford, as we have observed, very little entertainment to the reader.
Here, therefore, we shall strictly adhere to a rule of Horace; by which
writers are directed to pass over all those matters which they despair of
placing in a shining light;—a rule, we conceive, of excellent use as
well to the historian as to the poet; and which, if followed, must at
least have this good effect, that many a great evil (for so all great
books are called) would thus be reduced to a small one.

It is possible the great art used by Blifil at this interview would have
prevailed on Sophia to have made another man in his circumstances her
confident, and to have revealed the whole secret of her heart to him; but
she had contracted so ill an opinion of this young gentleman, that she was
resolved to place no confidence in him; for simplicity, when set on its
guard, is often a match for cunning. Her behaviour to him, therefore, was
entirely forced, and indeed such as is generally prescribed to virgins
upon the second formal visit from one who is appointed for their husband.

But though Blifil declared himself to the squire perfectly satisfied with
his reception; yet that gentleman, who, in company with his sister, had
overheard all, was not so well pleased. He resolved, in pursuance of the
advice of the sage lady, to push matters as forward as possible; and
addressing himself to his intended son-in-law in the hunting phrase, he
cried, after a loud holla, “Follow her, boy, follow her; run in, run
in; that’s it, honeys. Dead, dead, dead. Never be bashful, nor stand shall
I, shall I? Allworthy and I can finish all matters between us this
afternoon, and let us ha’ the wedding to-morrow.”

Blifil having conveyed the utmost satisfaction into his countenance,
answered, “As there is nothing, sir, in this world which I so
eagerly desire as an alliance with your family, except my union with the
most amiable and deserving Sophia, you may easily imagine how impatient I
must be to see myself in possession of my two highest wishes. If I have
not therefore importuned you on this head, you will impute it only to my
fear of offending the lady, by endeavouring to hurry on so blessed an
event faster than a strict compliance with all the rules of decency and
decorum will permit. But if, by your interest, sir, she might be induced
to dispense with any formalities—”

“Formalities! with a pox!” answered the squire. “Pooh,
all stuff and nonsense! I tell thee, she shall ha’ thee to-morrow: you
will know the world better hereafter, when you come to my age. Women never
gi’ their consent, man, if they can help it, ’tis not the fashion. If I
had stayed for her mother’s consent, I might have been a batchelor to this
day.—To her, to her, co to her, that’s it, you jolly dog. I tell
thee shat ha’ her to-morrow morning.”

Blifil suffered himself to be overpowered by the forcible rhetoric of the
squire; and it being agreed that Western should close with Allworthy that
very afternoon, the lover departed home, having first earnestly begged
that no violence might be offered to the lady by this haste, in the same
manner as a popish inquisitor begs the lay power to do no violence to the
heretic delivered over to it, and against whom the church hath passed
sentence.

And, to say the truth, Blifil had passed sentence against Sophia; for,
however pleased he had declared himself to Western with his reception, he
was by no means satisfied, unless it was that he was convinced of the
hatred and scorn of his mistress: and this had produced no less reciprocal
hatred and scorn in him. It may, perhaps, be asked, Why then did he not
put an immediate end to all further courtship? I answer, for that very
reason, as well as for several others equally good, which we shall now
proceed to open to the reader.

Though Mr Blifil was not of the complexion of Jones, nor ready to eat
every woman he saw; yet he was far from being destitute of that appetite
which is said to be the common property of all animals. With this, he had
likewise that distinguishing taste, which serves to direct men in their
choice of the object or food of their several appetites; and this taught
him to consider Sophia as a most delicious morsel, indeed to regard her
with the same desires which an ortolan inspires into the soul of an
epicure. Now the agonies which affected the mind of Sophia, rather
augmented than impaired her beauty; for her tears added brightness to her
eyes, and her breasts rose higher with her sighs. Indeed, no one hath seen
beauty in its highest lustre who hath never seen it in distress. Blifil
therefore looked on this human ortolan with greater desire than when he
viewed her last; nor was his desire at all lessened by the aversion which
he discovered in her to himself. On the contrary, this served rather to
heighten the pleasure he proposed in rifling her charms, as it added
triumph to lust; nay, he had some further views, from obtaining the
absolute possession of her person, which we detest too much even to
mention; and revenge itself was not without its share in the
gratifications which he promised himself. The rivalling poor Jones, and
supplanting him in her affections, added another spur to his pursuit, and
promised another additional rapture to his enjoyment.

Besides all these views, which to some scrupulous persons may seem to
savour too much of malevolence, he had one prospect, which few readers
will regard with any great abhorrence. And this was the estate of Mr
Western; which was all to be settled on his daughter and her issue; for so
extravagant was the affection of that fond parent, that, provided his
child would but consent to be miserable with the husband he chose, he
cared not at what price he purchased him.

For these reasons Mr Blifil was so desirous of the match that he intended
to deceive Sophia, by pretending love to her; and to deceive her father
and his own uncle, by pretending he was beloved by her. In doing this he
availed himself of the piety of Thwackum, who held, that if the end
proposed was religious (as surely matrimony is), it mattered not how
wicked were the means. As to other occasions, he used to apply the
philosophy of Square, which taught, that the end was immaterial, so that
the means were fair and consistent with moral rectitude. To say truth,
there were few occurrences in life on which he could not draw advantage
from the precepts of one or other of those great masters.

Little deceit was indeed necessary to be practised on Mr Western; who
thought the inclinations of his daughter of as little consequence as
Blifil himself conceived them to be; but as the sentiments of Mr Allworthy
were of a very different kind, so it was absolutely necessary to impose on
him. In this, however, Blifil was so well assisted by Western, that he
succeeded without difficulty; for as Mr Allworthy had been assured by her
father that Sophia had a proper affection for Blifil, and that all which
he had suspected concerning Jones was entirely false, Blifil had nothing
more to do than to confirm these assertions; which he did with such
equivocations, that he preserved a salvo for his conscience; and had the
satisfaction of conveying a lie to his uncle, without the guilt of telling
one. When he was examined touching the inclinations of Sophia by
Allworthy, who said, “He would on no account be accessary to forcing
a young lady into a marriage contrary to her own will;” he answered,
“That the real sentiments of young ladies were very difficult to be
understood; that her behaviour to him was full as forward as he wished it,
and that if he could believe her father, she had all the affection for him
which any lover could desire. As for Jones,” said he, “whom I
am loth to call villain, though his behaviour to you, sir, sufficiently
justifies the appellation, his own vanity, or perhaps some wicked views,
might make him boast of a falsehood; for if there had been any reality in
Miss Western’s love to him, the greatness of her fortune would never have
suffered him to desert her, as you are well informed he hath. Lastly, sir,
I promise you I would not myself, for any consideration, no, not for the
whole world, consent to marry this young lady, if I was not persuaded she
had all the passion for me which I desire she should have.”

This excellent method of conveying a falsehood with the heart only,
without making the tongue guilty of an untruth, by the means of
equivocation and imposture, hath quieted the conscience of many a notable
deceiver; and yet, when we consider that it is Omniscience on which these
endeavour to impose, it may possibly seem capable of affording only a very
superficial comfort; and that this artful and refined distinction between
communicating a lie, and telling one, is hardly worth the pains it costs
them.

Allworthy was pretty well satisfied with what Mr Western and Mr Blifil
told him: and the treaty was now, at the end of two days, concluded.
Nothing then remained previous to the office of the priest, but the office
of the lawyers, which threatened to take up so much time, that Western
offered to bind himself by all manner of covenants, rather than defer the
happiness of the young couple. Indeed, he was so very earnest and
pressing, that an indifferent person might have concluded he was more a
principal in this match than he really was; but this eagerness was natural
to him on all occasions: and he conducted every scheme he undertook in
such a manner, as if the success of that alone was sufficient to
constitute the whole happiness of his life.

The joint importunities of both father and son-in-law would probably have
prevailed on Mr Allworthy, who brooked but ill any delay of giving
happiness to others, had not Sophia herself prevented it, and taken
measures to put a final end to the whole treaty, and to rob both church
and law of those taxes which these wise bodies have thought proper to
receive from the propagation of the human species in a lawful manner. Of
which in the next chapter.

Chapter vii. — A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange
stratagem of Mrs Honour.

Though Mrs Honour was principally attached to her own interest, she was
not without some little attachment to Sophia. To say truth, it was very
difficult for any one to know that young lady without loving her. She no
sooner therefore heard a piece of news, which she imagined to be of great
importance to her mistress, than, quite forgetting the anger which she had
conceived two days before, at her unpleasant dismission from Sophia’s
presence, she ran hastily to inform her of the news.

The beginning of her discourse was as abrupt as her entrance into the
room. “O dear ma’am!” says she, “what doth your la’ship
think? To be sure I am frightened out of my wits; and yet I thought it my
duty to tell your la’ship, though perhaps it may make you angry, for we
servants don’t always know what will make our ladies angry; for, to be
sure, everything is always laid to the charge of a servant. When our
ladies are out of humour, to be sure we must be scolded; and to be sure I
should not wonder if your la’ship should be out of humour; nay, it must
surprize you certainly, ay, and shock you too.”—“Good
Honour, let me know it without any longer preface,” says Sophia;
“there are few things, I promise you, which will surprize, and fewer
which will shock me.”—“Dear ma’am,” answered
Honour, “to be sure, I overheard my master talking to parson Supple
about getting a licence this very afternoon; and to be sure I heard him
say, your la’ship should be married to-morrow morning.” Sophia
turned pale at these words, and repeated eagerly, “To-morrow
morning!”—“Yes, ma’am,” replied the trusty
waiting-woman, “I will take my oath I heard my master say so.”—“Honour,”
says Sophia, “you have both surprized and shocked me to such a
degree that I have scarce any breath or spirits left. What is to be done
in my dreadful situation?”—“I wish I was able to advise
your la’ship,” says she. “Do advise me,” cries Sophia;
“pray, dear Honour, advise me. Think what you would attempt if it
was your own case.”—“Indeed, ma’am,” cries Honour,
“I wish your la’ship and I could change situations; that is, I mean
without hurting your la’ship; for to be sure I don’t wish you so bad as to
be a servant; but because that if so be it was my case, I should find no
manner of difficulty in it; for, in my poor opinion, young Squire Blifil
is a charming, sweet, handsome man.”—“Don’t mention such
stuff,” cries Sophia. “Such stuff!” repeated Honour;
“why, there. Well, to be sure, what’s one man’s meat is another
man’s poison, and the same is altogether as true of women.”—“Honour,”
says Sophia, “rather than submit to be the wife of that contemptible
wretch, I would plunge a dagger into my heart.”—“O lud!
ma’am!” answered the other, “I am sure you frighten me out of
my wits now. Let me beseech your la’ship not to suffer such wicked
thoughts to come into your head. O lud! to be sure I tremble every inch of
me. Dear ma’am, consider, that to be denied Christian burial, and to have
your corpse buried in the highway, and a stake drove through you, as
farmer Halfpenny was served at Ox Cross; and, to be sure, his ghost hath
walked there ever since, for several people have seen him. To be sure it
can be nothing but the devil which can put such wicked thoughts into the
head of anybody; for certainly it is less wicked to hurt all the world
than one’s own dear self; and so I have heard said by more parsons than
one. If your la’ship hath such a violent aversion, and hates the young
gentleman so very bad, that you can’t bear to think of going into bed to
him; for to be sure there may be such antipathies in nature, and one had
lieverer touch a toad than the flesh of some people.”—

Sophia had been too much wrapt in contemplation to pay any great attention
to the foregoing excellent discourse of her maid; interrupting her
therefore, without making any answer to it, she said, “Honour, I am
come to a resolution. I am determined to leave my father’s house this very
night; and if you have the friendship for me which you have often
professed, you will keep me company.”—“That I will,
ma’am, to the world’s end,” answered Honour; “but I beg your
la’ship to consider the consequence before you undertake any rash action.
Where can your la’ship possibly go?”—“There is,”
replied Sophia, “a lady of quality in London, a relation of mine,
who spent several months with my aunt in the country; during all which
time she treated me with great kindness, and expressed so much pleasure in
my company, that she earnestly desired my aunt to suffer me to go with her
to London. As she is a woman of very great note, I shall easily find her
out, and I make no doubt of being very well and kindly received by her.”—“I
would not have your la’ship too confident of that,” cries Honour;
“for the first lady I lived with used to invite people very
earnestly to her house; but if she heard afterwards they were coming, she
used to get out of the way. Besides, though this lady would be very glad
to see your la’ship, as to be sure anybody would be glad to see your
la’ship, yet when she hears your la’ship is run away from my master—”
“You are mistaken, Honour,” says Sophia: “she looks upon
the authority of a father in a much lower light than I do; for she pressed
me violently to go to London with her, and when I refused to go without my
father’s consent, she laughed me to scorn, called me silly country girl,
and said, I should make a pure loving wife, since I could be so dutiful a
daughter. So I have no doubt but she will both receive me and protect me
too, till my father, finding me out of his power, can be brought to some
reason.”

“Well, but, ma’am,” answered Honour, “how doth your
la’ship think of making your escape? Where will you get any horses or
conveyance? For as for your own horse, as all the servants know a little
how matters stand between my master and your la’ship, Robin will be hanged
before he will suffer it to go out of the stable without my master’s
express orders.” “I intend to escape,” said Sophia,
“by walking out of the doors when they are open. I thank Heaven my
legs are very able to carry me. They have supported me many a long evening”—“Yes,
to be sure,” cries Honour, “I will follow your la’ship through
the world; but your la’ship had almost as good be alone: for I should not
be able to defend you, if any robbers, or other villains, should meet with
you. Nay, I should be in as horrible a fright as your la’ship; for to be
certain, they would ravish us both. Besides, ma’am, consider how cold the
nights are now; we shall be frozen to death.”—“A good
brisk pace,” answered Sophia, “will preserve us from the cold;
and if you cannot defend me from a villain, Honour, I will defend you; for
I will take a pistol with me. There are two always charged in the hall.”—“Dear
ma’am, you frighten me more and more,” cries Honour: “sure
your la’ship would not venture to fire it off! I had rather run any chance
than your la’ship should do that.”—“Why so?” says
Sophia, smiling; “would not you, Honour, fire a pistol at any one
who should attack your virtue?”—“To be sure, ma’am,”
cries Honour, “one’s virtue is a dear thing, especially to us poor
servants; for it is our livelihood, as a body may say: yet I mortally hate
fire-arms; for so many accidents happen by them.”—“Well,
well,” says Sophia, “I believe I may ensure your virtue at a
very cheap rate, without carrying any arms with us; for I intend to take
horses at the very first town we come to, and we shall hardly be attacked
in our way thither. Look’ee, Honour, I am resolved to go; and if you will
attend me, I promise you I will reward you to the very utmost of my power.”

This last argument had a stronger effect on Honour than all the preceding.
And since she saw her mistress so determined, she desisted from any
further dissuasions. They then entered into a debate on ways and means of
executing their project. Here a very stubborn difficulty occurred, and
this was the removal of their effects, which was much more easily got over
by the mistress than by the maid; for when a lady hath once taken a
resolution to run to a lover, or to run from him, all obstacles are
considered as trifles. But Honour was inspired by no such motive; she had
no raptures to expect, nor any terrors to shun; and besides the real value
of her clothes, in which consisted a great part of her fortune, she had a
capricious fondness for several gowns, and other things; either because
they became her, or because they were given her by such a particular
person; because she had bought them lately, or because she had had them
long; or for some other reasons equally good; so that she could not endure
the thoughts of leaving the poor things behind her exposed to the mercy of
Western, who, she doubted not, would in his rage make them suffer
martyrdom.

The ingenious Mrs Honour having applied all her oratory to dissuade her
mistress from her purpose, when she found her positively determined, at
last started the following expedient to remove her clothes, viz., to get
herself turned out of doors that very evening. Sophia highly approved this
method, but doubted how it might be brought about. “O, ma’am,”
cries Honour, “your la’ship may trust that to me; we servants very
well know how to obtain this favour of our masters and mistresses; though
sometimes, indeed, where they owe us more wages than they can readily pay,
they will put up with all our affronts, and will hardly take any warning
we can give them; but the squire is none of those; and since your la’ship
is resolved upon setting out to-night, I warrant I get discharged this
afternoon.” It was then resolved that she should pack up some linen
and a night-gown for Sophia, with her own things; and as for all her other
clothes, the young lady abandoned them with no more remorse than the
sailor feels when he throws over the goods of others, in order to save his
own life.

Chapter viii. — Containing scenes of altercation, of no very
uncommon kind.

Mrs Honour had scarce sooner parted from her young lady, than something
(for I would not, like the old woman in Quevedo, injure the devil by any
false accusation, and possibly he might have no hand in it)—but
something, I say, suggested itself to her, that by sacrificing Sophia and
all her secrets to Mr Western, she might probably make her fortune. Many
considerations urged this discovery. The fair prospect of a handsome
reward for so great and acceptable a service to the squire, tempted her
avarice; and again, the danger of the enterprize she had undertaken; the
uncertainty of its success; night, cold, robbers, ravishers, all alarmed
her fears. So forcibly did all these operate upon her, that she was almost
determined to go directly to the squire, and to lay open the whole affair.
She was, however, too upright a judge to decree on one side, before she
had heard the other. And here, first, a journey to London appeared very
strongly in support of Sophia. She eagerly longed to see a place in which
she fancied charms short only of those which a raptured saint imagines in
heaven. In the next place, as she knew Sophia to have much more generosity
than her master, so her fidelity promised her a greater reward than she
could gain by treachery. She then cross-examined all the articles which
had raised her fears on the other side, and found, on fairly sifting the
matter, that there was very little in them. And now both scales being
reduced to a pretty even balance, her love to her mistress being thrown
into the scale of her integrity, made that rather preponderate, when a
circumstance struck upon her imagination which might have had a dangerous
effect, had its whole weight been fairly put into the other scale. This
was the length of time which must intervene before Sophia would be able to
fulfil her promises; for though she was intitled to her mother’s fortune
at the death of her father, and to the sum of £3000 left her by an uncle
when she came of age; yet these were distant days, and many accidents
might prevent the intended generosity of the young lady; whereas the
rewards she might expect from Mr Western were immediate. But while she was
pursuing this thought the good genius of Sophia, or that which presided
over the integrity of Mrs Honour, or perhaps mere chance, sent an accident
in her way, which at once preserved her fidelity, and even facilitated the
intended business.

Mrs Western’s maid claimed great superiority over Mrs Honour on several
accounts. First, her birth was higher; for her great-grandmother by the
mother’s side was a cousin, not far removed, to an Irish peer. Secondly,
her wages were greater. And lastly, she had been at London, and had of
consequence seen more of the world. She had always behaved, therefore, to
Mrs Honour with that reserve, and had always exacted of her those marks of
distinction, which every order of females preserves and requires in
conversation with those of an inferior order. Now as Honour did not at all
times agree with this doctrine, but would frequently break in upon the
respect which the other demanded, Mrs Western’s maid was not at all
pleased with her company; indeed, she earnestly longed to return home to
the house of her mistress, where she domineered at will over all the other
servants. She had been greatly, therefore, disappointed in the morning,
when Mrs Western had changed her mind on the very point of departure; and
had been in what is vulgarly called a glouting humour ever since.

In this humour, which was none of the sweetest, she came into the room
where Honour was debating with herself in the manner we have above
related. Honour no sooner saw her, than she addressed her in the following
obliging phrase: “Soh, madam, I find we are to have the pleasure of
your company longer, which I was afraid the quarrel between my master and
your lady would have robbed us of.”—“I don’t know,
madam,” answered the other, “what you mean by we and us. I
assure you I do not look on any of the servants in this house to be proper
company for me. I am company, I hope, for their betters every day in the
week. I do not speak on your account, Mrs Honour; for you are a civilized
young woman; and when you have seen a little more of the world, I should
not be ashamed to walk with you in St James’s Park.”—“Hoity
toity!” cries Honour, “madam is in her airs, I protest. Mrs
Honour, forsooth! sure, madam, you might call me by my sir-name; for
though my lady calls me Honour, I have a sir-name as well as other folks.
Ashamed to walk with me, quotha! marry, as good as yourself, I hope.”—“Since
you make such a return to my civility,” said the other, “I
must acquaint you, Mrs Honour, that you are not so good as me. In the
country, indeed, one is obliged to take up with all kind of trumpery; but
in town I visit none but the women of women of quality. Indeed, Mrs
Honour, there is some difference, I hope, between you and me.”—“I
hope so too,” answered Honour: “there is some difference in
our ages, and—I think in our persons.” Upon speaking which
last words, she strutted by Mrs Western’s maid with the most provoking air
of contempt; turning up her nose, tossing her head, and violently brushing
the hoop of her competitor with her own. The other lady put on one of her
most malicious sneers, and said, “Creature! you are below my anger;
and it is beneath me to give ill words to such an audacious saucy trollop;
but, hussy, I must tell you, your breeding shows the meanness of your
birth as well as of your education; and both very properly qualify you to
be the mean serving-woman of a country girl.”—“Don’t
abuse my lady,” cries Honour: “I won’t take that of you; she’s
as much better than yours as she is younger, and ten thousand times more
handsomer.”

Here ill luck, or rather good luck, sent Mrs Western to see her maid in
tears, which began to flow plentifully at her approach; and of which being
asked the reason by her mistress, she presently acquainted her that her
tears were occasioned by the rude treatment of that creature there—meaning
Honour. “And, madam,” continued she, “I could have
despised all she said to me; but she hath had the audacity to affront your
ladyship, and to call you ugly—Yes, madam, she called you ugly old
cat to my face. I could not bear to hear your ladyship called ugly.”—“Why
do you repeat her impudence so often?” said Mrs Western. And then
turning to Mrs Honour, she asked her “How she had the assurance to
mention her name with disrespect?”—“Disrespect, madam!”
answered Honour; “I never mentioned your name at all: I said
somebody was not as handsome as my mistress, and to be sure you know that
as well as I.”—“Hussy,” replied the lady, “I
will make such a saucy trollop as yourself know that I am not a proper
subject of your discourse. And if my brother doth not discharge you this
moment, I will never sleep in his house again. I will find him out, and
have you discharged this moment.”—“Discharged!”
cries Honour; “and suppose I am: there are more places in the world
than one. Thank Heaven, good servants need not want places; and if you
turn away all who do not think you handsome, you will want servants very
soon; let me tell you that.”

Mrs Western spoke, or rather thundered, in answer; but as she was hardly
articulate, we cannot be very certain of the identical words; we shall
therefore omit inserting a speech which at best would not greatly redound
to her honour. She then departed in search of her brother, with a
countenance so full of rage, that she resembled one of the furies rather
than a human creature.

The two chambermaids being again left alone, began a second bout at
altercation, which soon produced a combat of a more active kind. In this
the victory belonged to the lady of inferior rank, but not without some
loss of blood, of hair, and of lawn and muslin.

Chapter ix. — The wise demeanour of Mr Western in the character of a
magistrate. A hint to justices of peace, concerning the necessary
qualifications of a clerk; with extraordinary instances of paternal
madness and

filial affection.

Logicians sometimes prove too much by an argument, and politicians often
overreach themselves in a scheme. Thus had it like to have happened to Mrs
Honour, who, instead of recovering the rest of her clothes, had like to
have stopped even those she had on her back from escaping; for the squire
no sooner heard of her having abused his sister, than he swore twenty
oaths he would send her to Bridewell.

Mrs Western was a very good-natured woman, and ordinarily of a forgiving
temper. She had lately remitted the trespass of a stage-coachman, who had
overturned her post-chaise into a ditch; nay, she had even broken the law,
in refusing to prosecute a highwayman who had robbed her, not only of a
sum of money, but of her ear-rings; at the same time d—ning her, and
saying, “Such handsome b—s as you don’t want jewels to set
them off, and be d—n’d to you.” But now, so uncertain are our
tempers, and so much do we at different times differ from ourselves, she
would hear of no mitigation; nor could all the affected penitence of
Honour, nor all the entreaties of Sophia for her own servant, prevail with
her to desist from earnestly desiring her brother to execute justiceship
(for it was indeed a syllable more than justice) on the wench.

But luckily the clerk had a qualification, which no clerk to a justice of
peace ought ever to be without, namely, some understanding in the law of
this realm. He therefore whispered in the ear of the justice that he would
exceed his authority by committing the girl to Bridewell, as there had
been no attempt to break the peace; “for I am afraid, sir,”
says he, “you cannot legally commit any one to Bridewell only for
ill-breeding.”

In matters of high importance, particularly in cases relating to the game,
the justice was not always attentive to these admonitions of his clerk;
for, indeed, in executing the laws under that head, many justices of peace
suppose they have a large discretionary power, by virtue of which, under
the notion of searching for and taking away engines for the destruction of
the game, they often commit trespasses, and sometimes felony, at their
pleasure.

But this offence was not of quite so high a nature, nor so dangerous to
the society. Here, therefore, the justice behaved with some attention to
the advice of his clerk; for, in fact, he had already had two informations
exhibited against him in the King’s Bench, and had no curiosity to try a
third.

The squire, therefore, putting on a most wise and significant countenance,
after a preface of several hums and hahs, told his sister, that upon more
mature deliberation, he was of opinion, that “as there was no
breaking up of the peace, such as the law,” says he, “calls
breaking open a door, or breaking a hedge, or breaking a head, or any such
sort of breaking, the matter did not amount to a felonious kind of a
thing, nor trespasses, nor damages, and, therefore, there was no
punishment in the law for it.”

Mrs Western said, “she knew the law much better; that she had known
servants very severely punished for affronting their masters;” and
then named a certain justice of the peace in London, “who,”
she said, “would commit a servant to Bridewell at any time when a
master or mistress desired it.”

“Like enough,” cries the squire; “it may be so in
London; but the law is different in the country.” Here followed a
very learned dispute between the brother and sister concerning the law,
which we would insert, if we imagined many of our readers could understand
it. This was, however, at length referred by both parties to the clerk,
who decided it in favour of the magistrate; and Mrs Western was, in the
end, obliged to content herself with the satisfaction of having Honour
turned away; to which Sophia herself very readily and cheerfully
consented.

Thus Fortune, after having diverted herself, according to custom, with two
or three frolicks, at last disposed all matters to the advantage of our
heroine; who indeed succeeded admirably well in her deceit, considering it
was the first she had ever practised. And, to say the truth, I have often
concluded, that the honest part of mankind would be much too hard for the
knavish, if they could bring themselves to incur the guilt, or thought it
worth their while to take the trouble.

Honour acted her part to the utmost perfection. She no sooner saw herself
secure from all danger of Bridewell, a word which had raised most horrible
ideas in her mind, than she resumed those airs which her terrors before
had a little abated; and laid down her place, with as much affectation of
content, and indeed of contempt, as was ever practised at the resignation
of places of much greater importance. If the reader pleases, therefore, we
chuse rather to say she resigned—which hath, indeed, been always
held a synonymous expression with being turned out, or turned away.

Mr Western ordered her to be very expeditious in packing; for his sister
declared she would not sleep another night under the same roof with so
impudent a slut. To work therefore she went, and that so earnestly, that
everything was ready early in the evening; when, having received her
wages, away packed bag and baggage, to the great satisfaction of every
one, but of none more than of Sophia; who, having appointed her maid to
meet her at a certain place not far from the house, exactly at the
dreadful and ghostly hour of twelve, began to prepare for her own
departure.

But first she was obliged to give two painful audiences, the one to her
aunt, and the other to her father. In these Mrs Western herself began to
talk to her in a more peremptory stile than before: but her father treated
her in so violent and outrageous a manner, that he frightened her into an
affected compliance with his will; which so highly pleased the good
squire, that he changed his frowns into smiles, and his menaces into
promises: he vowed his whole soul was wrapt in hers; that her consent (for
so he construed the words, “You know, sir, I must not, nor can,
refuse to obey any absolute command of yours”) had made him the
happiest of mankind. He then gave her a large bank-bill to dispose of in
any trinkets she pleased, and kissed and embraced her in the fondest
manner, while tears of joy trickled from those eyes which a few moments
before had darted fire and rage against the dear object of all his
affection.

Instances of this behaviour in parents are so common, that the reader, I
doubt not, will be very little astonished at the whole conduct of Mr
Western. If he should, I own I am not able to account for it; since that
he loved his daughter most tenderly, is, I think, beyond dispute. So
indeed have many others, who have rendered their children most completely
miserable by the same conduct; which, though it is almost universal in
parents, hath always appeared to me to be the most unaccountable of all
the absurdities which ever entered into the brain of that strange
prodigious creature man.

The latter part of Mr Western’s behaviour had so strong an effect on the
tender heart of Sophia, that it suggested a thought to her, which not all
the sophistry of her politic aunt, nor all the menaces of her father, had
ever once brought into her head. She reverenced her father so piously, and
loved him so passionately, that she had scarce ever felt more pleasing
sensations, than what arose from the share she frequently had of
contributing to his amusement, and sometimes, perhaps, to higher
gratifications; for he never could contain the delight of hearing her
commended, which he had the satisfaction of hearing almost every day of
her life. The idea, therefore, of the immense happiness she should convey
to her father by her consent to this match, made a strong impression on
her mind. Again, the extreme piety of such an act of obedience worked very
forcibly, as she had a very deep sense of religion. Lastly, when she
reflected how much she herself was to suffer, being indeed to become
little less than a sacrifice, or a martyr, to filial love and duty, she
felt an agreeable tickling in a certain little passion, which though it
bears no immediate affinity either to religion or virtue, is often so kind
as to lend great assistance in executing the purposes of both.

Sophia was charmed with the contemplation of so heroic an action, and
began to compliment herself with much premature flattery, when Cupid, who
lay hid in her muff, suddenly crept out, and like Punchinello in a
puppet-show, kicked all out before him. In truth (for we scorn to deceive
our reader, or to vindicate the character of our heroine by ascribing her
actions to supernatural impulse) the thoughts of her beloved Jones, and
some hopes (however distant) in which he was very particularly concerned,
immediately destroyed all which filial love, piety, and pride had, with
their joint endeavours, been labouring to bring about.

But before we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now look back to Mr
Jones.

Chapter x. — Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but
low.

The reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr Jones, in the
beginning of this book, on his road to Bristol; being determined to seek
his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, to fly away from his fortune on
shore.

It happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who undertook to
conduct him on his way, was unluckily unacquainted with the road; so that
having missed his right track, and being ashamed to ask information, he
rambled about backwards and forwards till night came on, and it began to
grow dark. Jones suspecting what had happened, acquainted the guide with
his apprehensions; but he insisted on it, that they were in the right
road, and added, it would be very strange if he should not know the road
to Bristol; though, in reality, it would have been much stranger if he had
known it, having never past through it in his life before.

Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on their arrival
at a village he inquired of the first fellow he saw, whether they were in
the road to Bristol. “Whence did you come?” cries the fellow.
“No matter,” says Jones, a little hastily; “I want to
know if this be the road to Bristol?”—“The road to
Bristol!” cries the fellow, scratching his head: “why,
measter, I believe you will hardly get to Bristol this way to-night.”—“Prithee,
friend, then,” answered Jones, “do tell us which is the way.”—“Why,
measter,” cries the fellow, “you must be come out of your road
the Lord knows whither; for thick way goeth to Glocester.”—“Well,
and which way goes to Bristol?” said Jones. “Why, you be going
away from Bristol,” answered the fellow. “Then,” said
Jones, “we must go back again?”—“Ay, you must,”
said the fellow. “Well, and when we come back to the top of the
hill, which way must we take?”—“Why, you must keep the
strait road.”—“But I remember there are two roads, one
to the right and the other to the left.”—“Why, you must
keep the right-hand road, and then gu strait vorwards; only remember to
turn vurst to your right, and then to your left again, and then to your
right, and that brings you to the squire’s; and then you must keep strait
vorwards, and turn to the left.”

Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gentlemen were going;
of which being informed by Jones, he first scratched his head, and then
leaning upon a pole he had in his hand, began to tell him, “That he
must keep the right-hand road for about a mile, or a mile and a half, or
such a matter, and then he must turn short to the left, which would bring
him round by Measter Jin Bearnes’s.”—“But which is Mr
John Bearnes’s?” says Jones. “O Lord!” cries the fellow,
“why, don’t you know Measter Jin Bearnes? Whence then did you come?”

These two fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, when a plain
well-looking man (who was indeed a Quaker) accosted him thus: “Friend,
I perceive thou hast lost thy way; and if thou wilt take my advice, thou
wilt not attempt to find it to-night. It is almost dark, and the road is
difficult to hit; besides, there have been several robberies committed
lately between this and Bristol. Here is a very creditable good house just
by, where thou may’st find good entertainment for thyself and thy cattle
till morning.” Jones, after a little persuasion, agreed to stay in
this place till the morning, and was conducted by his friend to the
public-house.

The landlord, who was a very civil fellow, told Jones, “He hoped he
would excuse the badness of his accommodation; for that his wife was gone
from home, and had locked up almost everything, and carried the keys along
with her.” Indeed the fact was, that a favourite daughter of hers
was just married, and gone that morning home with her husband; and that
she and her mother together had almost stript the poor man of all his
goods, as well as money; for though he had several children, this daughter
only, who was the mother’s favourite, was the object of her consideration;
and to the humour of this one child she would with pleasure have
sacrificed all the rest, and her husband into the bargain.

Though Jones was very unfit for any kind of company, and would have
preferred being alone, yet he could not resist the importunities of the
honest Quaker; who was the more desirous of sitting with him, from having
remarked the melancholy which appeared both in his countenance and
behaviour; and which the poor Quaker thought his conversation might in
some measure relieve.

After they had past some time together, in such a manner that my honest
friend might have thought himself at one of his silent meetings, the
Quaker began to be moved by some spirit or other, probably that of
curiosity, and said, “Friend, I perceive some sad disaster hath
befallen thee; but pray be of comfort. Perhaps thou hast lost a friend. If
so, thou must consider we are all mortal. And why shouldst thou grieve,
when thou knowest thy grief will do thy friend no good? We are all born to
affliction. I myself have my sorrows as well as thee, and most probably
greater sorrows. Though I have a clear estate of £100 a year, which is as
much as I want, and I have a conscience, I thank the Lord, void of
offence; my constitution is sound and strong, and there is no man can
demand a debt of me, nor accuse me of an injury; yet, friend, I should be
concerned to think thee as miserable as myself.”

Here the Quaker ended with a deep sigh; and Jones presently answered,
“I am very sorry, sir, for your unhappiness, whatever is the
occasion of it.”—“Ah! friend,” replied the Quaker,
“one only daughter is the occasion; one who was my greatest delight
upon earth, and who within this week is run away from me, and is married
against my consent. I had provided her a proper match, a sober man and one
of substance; but she, forsooth, would chuse for herself, and away she is
gone with a young fellow not worth a groat. If she had been dead, as I
suppose thy friend is, I should have been happy.”—“That
is very strange, sir,” said Jones. “Why, would it not be
better for her to be dead, than to be a beggar?” replied the Quaker:
“for, as I told you, the fellow is not worth a groat; and surely she
cannot expect that I shall ever give her a shilling. No, as she hath
married for love, let her live on love if she can; let her carry her love
to market, and see whether any one will change it into silver, or even
into halfpence.”—“You know your own concerns best, sir,”
said Jones. “It must have been,” continued the Quaker, “a
long premeditated scheme to cheat me: for they have known one another from
their infancy; and I always preached to her against love, and told her a
thousand times over it was all folly and wickedness. Nay, the cunning slut
pretended to hearken to me, and to despise all wantonness of the flesh;
and yet at last broke out at a window two pair of stairs: for I began,
indeed, a little to suspect her, and had locked her up carefully,
intending the very next morning to have married her up to my liking. But
she disappointed me within a few hours, and escaped away to the lover of
her own chusing; who lost no time, for they were married and bedded and
all within an hour. But it shall be the worst hour’s work for them both
that ever they did; for they may starve, or beg, or steal together, for
me. I will never give either of them a farthing.” Here Jones
starting up cried, “I really must be excused: I wish you would leave
me.”—“Come, come, friend,” said the Quaker,
“don’t give way to concern. You see there are other people miserable
besides yourself.”—“I see there are madmen, and fools,
and villains in the world,” cries Jones. “But let me give you
a piece of advice: send for your daughter and son-in-law home, and don’t
be yourself the only cause of misery to one you pretend to love.”—“Send
for her and her husband home!” cries the Quaker loudly; “I
would sooner send for the two greatest enemies I have in the world!”—“Well,
go home yourself, or where you please,” said Jones, “for I
will sit no longer in such company.”—“Nay, friend,”
answered the Quaker, “I scorn to impose my company on any one.”
He then offered to pull money from his pocket, but Jones pushed him with
some violence out of the room.

The subject of the Quaker’s discourse had so deeply affected Jones, that
he stared very wildly all the time he was speaking. This the Quaker had
observed, and this, added to the rest of his behaviour, inspired honest
Broadbrim with a conceit, that his companion was in reality out of his
senses. Instead of resenting the affront, therefore, the Quaker was moved
with compassion for his unhappy circumstances; and having communicated his
opinion to the landlord, he desired him to take great care of his guest,
and to treat him with the highest civility.

“Indeed,” says the landlord, “I shall use no such
civility towards him; for it seems, for all his laced waistcoat there, he
is no more a gentleman than myself, but a poor parish bastard, bred up at
a great squire’s about thirty miles off, and now turned out of doors (not
for any good to be sure). I shall get him out of my house as soon as
possible. If I do lose my reckoning, the first loss is always the best. It
is not above a year ago that I lost a silver spoon.”

“What dost thou talk of a parish bastard, Robin?” answered the
Quaker. “Thou must certainly be mistaken in thy man.”

“Not at all,” replied Robin; “the guide, who knows him
very well, told it me.” For, indeed, the guide had no sooner taken
his place at the kitchen fire, than he acquainted the whole company with
all he knew or had ever heard concerning Jones.

The Quaker was no sooner assured by this fellow of the birth and low
fortune of Jones, than all compassion for him vanished; and the honest
plain man went home fired with no less indignation than a duke would have
felt at receiving an affront from such a person.

The landlord himself conceived an equal disdain for his guest; so that
when Jones rung the bell in order to retire to bed, he was acquainted that
he could have no bed there. Besides disdain of the mean condition of his
guest, Robin entertained violent suspicion of his intentions, which were,
he supposed, to watch some favourable opportunity of robbing the house. In
reality, he might have been very well eased of these apprehensions, by the
prudent precautions of his wife and daughter, who had already removed
everything which was not fixed to the freehold; but he was by nature
suspicious, and had been more particularly so since the loss of his spoon.
In short, the dread of being robbed totally absorbed the comfortable
consideration that he had nothing to lose.

Jones being assured that he could have no bed, very contentedly betook
himself to a great chair made with rushes, when sleep, which had lately
shunned his company in much better apartments, generously paid him a visit
in his humble cell.

As for the landlord, he was prevented by his fears from retiring to rest.
He returned therefore to the kitchen fire, whence he could survey the only
door which opened into the parlour, or rather hole, where Jones was
seated; and as for the window to that room, it was impossible for any
creature larger than a cat to have made his escape through it.

Chapter xi. — The adventure of a company of soldiers.

The landlord having taken his seat directly opposite to the door of the
parlour, determined to keep guard there the whole night. The guide and
another fellow remained long on duty with him, though they neither knew
his suspicions, nor had any of their own. The true cause of their watching
did, indeed, at length, put an end to it; for this was no other than the
strength and goodness of the beer, of which having tippled a very large
quantity, they grew at first very noisy and vociferous, and afterwards
fell both asleep.

But it was not in the power of liquor to compose the fears of Robin. He
continued still waking in his chair, with his eyes fixed stedfastly on the
door which led into the apartment of Mr Jones, till a violent thundering
at his outward gate called him from his seat, and obliged him to open it;
which he had no sooner done, than his kitchen was immediately full of
gentlemen in red coats, who all rushed upon him in as tumultuous a manner
as if they intended to take his little castle by storm.

The landlord was now forced from his post to furnish his numerous guests
with beer, which they called for with great eagerness; and upon his second
or third return from the cellar, he saw Mr Jones standing before the fire
in the midst of the soldiers; for it may easily be believed, that the
arrival of so much good company should put an end to any sleep, unless
that from which we are to be awakened only by the last trumpet.

The company having now pretty well satisfied their thirst, nothing
remained but to pay the reckoning, a circumstance often productive of much
mischief and discontent among the inferior rank of gentry, who are apt to
find great difficulty in assessing the sum, with exact regard to
distributive justice, which directs that every man shall pay according to
the quantity which he drinks. This difficulty occurred upon the present
occasion; and it was the greater, as some gentlemen had, in their extreme
hurry, marched off, after their first draught, and had entirely forgot to
contribute anything towards the said reckoning.

A violent dispute now arose, in which every word may be said to have been
deposed upon oath; for the oaths were at least equal to all the other
words spoken. In this controversy the whole company spoke together, and
every man seemed wholly bent to extenuate the sum which fell to his share;
so that the most probable conclusion which could be foreseen was, that a
large portion of the reckoning would fall to the landlord’s share to pay,
or (what is much the same thing) would remain unpaid.

All this while Mr Jones was engaged in conversation with the serjeant; for
that officer was entirely unconcerned in the present dispute, being
privileged by immemorial custom from all contribution.

The dispute now grew so very warm that it seemed to draw towards a
military decision, when Jones, stepping forward, silenced all their
clamours at once, by declaring that he would pay the whole reckoning,
which indeed amounted to no more than three shillings and fourpence.

This declaration procured Jones the thanks and applause of the whole
company. The terms honourable, noble, and worthy gentleman, resounded
through the room; nay, my landlord himself began to have a better opinion
of him, and almost to disbelieve the account which the guide had given.

The serjeant had informed Mr Jones that they were marching against the
rebels, and expected to be commanded by the glorious Duke of Cumberland.
By which the reader may perceive (a circumstance which we have not thought
necessary to communicate before) that this was the very time when the late
rebellion was at the highest; and indeed the banditti were now marched
into England, intending, as it was thought, to fight the king’s forces,
and to attempt pushing forward to the metropolis.

Jones had some heroic ingredients in his composition, and was a hearty
well-wisher to the glorious cause of liberty, and of the Protestant
religion. It is no wonder, therefore, that in circumstances which would
have warranted a much more romantic and wild undertaking, it should occur
to him to serve as a volunteer in this expedition.

Our commanding officer had said all in his power to encourage and promote
this good disposition, from the first moment he had been acquainted with
it. He now proclaimed the noble resolution aloud, which was received with
great pleasure by the whole company, who all cried out, “God bless
King George and your honour;” and then added, with many oaths,
“We will stand by you both to the last drops of our blood.”

The gentleman who had been all night tippling at the alehouse, was
prevailed on by some arguments which a corporal had put into his hands, to
undertake the same expedition. And now the portmanteau belonging to Mr
Jones being put up in the baggage-cart, the forces were about to move
forwards; when the guide, stepping up to Jones, said, “Sir, I hope
you will consider that the horses have been kept out all night, and we
have travelled a great ways out of our way.” Jones was surprized at
the impudence of this demand, and acquainted the soldiers with the merits
of his cause, who were all unanimous in condemning the guide for his
endeavours to put upon a gentleman. Some said, he ought to be tied neck
and heels; others that he deserved to run the gantlope; and the serjeant
shook his cane at him, and wished he had him under his command, swearing
heartily he would make an example of him.

Jones contented himself however with a negative punishment, and walked off
with his new comrades, leaving the guide to the poor revenge of cursing
and reviling him; in which latter the landlord joined, saying, “Ay,
ay, he is a pure one, I warrant you. A pretty gentleman, indeed, to go for
a soldier! He shall wear a laced wastecoat truly. It is an old proverb and
a true one, all is not gold that glisters. I am glad my house is well rid
of him.”

All that day the serjeant and the young soldier marched together; and the
former, who was an arch fellow, told the latter many entertaining stories
of his campaigns, though in reality he had never made any; for he was but
lately come into the service, and had, by his own dexterity, so well
ingratiated himself with his officers, that he had promoted himself to a
halberd; chiefly indeed by his merit in recruiting, in which he was most
excellently well skilled.

Much mirth and festivity passed among the soldiers during their march. In
which the many occurrences that had passed at their last quarters were
remembered, and every one, with great freedom, made what jokes he pleased
on his officers, some of which were of the coarser kind, and very near
bordering on scandal. This brought to our heroe’s mind the custom which he
had read of among the Greeks and Romans, of indulging, on certain
festivals and solemn occasions, the liberty to slaves, of using an
uncontrouled freedom of speech towards their masters.

Our little army, which consisted of two companies of foot, were now
arrived at the place where they were to halt that evening. The serjeant
then acquainted his lieutenant, who was the commanding officer, that they
had picked up two fellows in that day’s march, one of which, he said, was
as fine a man as ever he saw (meaning the tippler), for that he was near
six feet, well proportioned, and strongly limbed; and the other (meaning
Jones) would do well enough for the rear rank.

The new soldiers were now produced before the officer, who having examined
the six-feet man, he being first produced, came next to survey Jones: at
the first sight of whom, the lieutenant could not help showing some
surprize; for besides that he was very well dressed, and was naturally
genteel, he had a remarkable air of dignity in his look, which is rarely
seen among the vulgar, and is indeed not inseparably annexed to the
features of their superiors.

“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “my serjeant informed me
that you are desirous of enlisting in the company I have at present under
my command; if so, sir, we shall very gladly receive a gentleman who
promises to do much honour to the company by bearing arms in it.”

Jones answered: “That he had not mentioned anything of enlisting
himself; that he was most zealously attached to the glorious cause for
which they were going to fight, and was very desirous of serving as a
volunteer;” concluding with some compliments to the lieutenant, and
expressing the great satisfaction he should have in being under his
command.

The lieutenant returned his civility, commended his resolution, shook him
by the hand, and invited him to dine with himself and the rest of the
officers.

Chapter xii. — The adventure of a company of officers.

The lieutenant, whom we mentioned in the preceding chapter, and who
commanded this party, was now near sixty years of age. He had entered very
young into the army, and had served in the capacity of an ensign at the
battle of Tannieres; here he had received two wounds, and had so well
distinguished himself, that he was by the Duke of Marlborough advanced to
be a lieutenant, immediately after that battle.

In this commission he had continued ever since, viz., near forty years;
during which time he had seen vast numbers preferred over his head, and
had now the mortification to be commanded by boys, whose fathers were at
nurse when he first entered into the service.

Nor was this ill success in his profession solely owing to his having no
friends among the men in power. He had the misfortune to incur the
displeasure of his colonel, who for many years continued in the command of
this regiment. Nor did he owe the implacable ill-will which this man bore
him to any neglect or deficiency as an officer, nor indeed to any fault in
himself; but solely to the indiscretion of his wife, who was a very
beautiful woman, and who, though she was remarkably fond of her husband,
would not purchase his preferment at the expense of certain favours which
the colonel required of her.

The poor lieutenant was more peculiarly unhappy in this, that while he
felt the effects of the enmity of his colonel, he neither knew, nor
suspected, that he really bore him any; for he could not suspect an
ill-will for which he was not conscious of giving any cause; and his wife,
fearing what her husband’s nice regard to his honour might have
occasioned, contented herself with preserving her virtue without enjoying
the triumphs of her conquest.

This unfortunate officer (for so I think he may be called) had many good
qualities besides his merit in his profession; for he was a religious,
honest, good-natured man; and had behaved so well in his command, that he
was highly esteemed and beloved not only by the soldiers of his own
company, but by the whole regiment.

The other officers who marched with him were a French lieutenant, who had
been long enough out of France to forget his own language, but not long
enough in England to learn ours, so that he really spoke no language at
all, and could barely make himself understood on the most ordinary
occasions. There were likewise two ensigns, both very young fellows; one
of whom had been bred under an attorney, and the other was son to the wife
of a nobleman’s butler.

As soon as dinner was ended, Jones informed the company of the merriment
which had passed among the soldiers upon their march; “and yet,”
says he, “notwithstanding all their vociferation, I dare swear they
will behave more like Grecians than Trojans when they come to the enemy.”—“Grecians
and Trojans!” says one of the ensigns, “who the devil are
they? I have heard of all the troops in Europe, but never of any such as
these.”

“Don’t pretend to more ignorance than you have, Mr Northerton,”
said the worthy lieutenant. “I suppose you have heard of the Greeks
and Trojans, though perhaps you never read Pope’s Homer; who, I remember,
now the gentleman mentions it, compares the march of the Trojans to the
cackling of geese, and greatly commends the silence of the Grecians. And
upon my honour there is great justice in the cadet’s observation.”

“Begar, me remember dem ver well,” said the French lieutenant:
“me ave read them at school in dans Madam Daciere, des Greek, des
Trojan, dey fight for von woman—ouy, ouy, me ave read all dat.”

“D—n Homo with all my heart,” says Northerton; “I
have the marks of him on my a— yet. There’s Thomas, of our regiment,
always carries a Homo in his pocket; d—n me, if ever I come at it,
if I don’t burn it. And there’s Corderius, another d—n’d son of a
whore, that hath got me many a flogging.”

“Then you have been at school, Mr Northerton?” said the
lieutenant.

“Ay, d—n me, have I,” answered he; “the devil take
my father for sending me thither! The old put wanted to make a parson of
me, but d—n me, thinks I to myself, I’ll nick you there, old cull;
the devil a smack of your nonsense shall you ever get into me. There’s
Jemmy Oliver, of our regiment, he narrowly escaped being a pimp too, and
that would have been a thousand pities; for d—n me if he is not one
of the prettiest fellows in the whole world; but he went farther than I
with the old cull, for Jimmey can neither write nor read.”

“You give your friend a very good character,” said the
lieutenant, “and a very deserved one, I dare say. But prithee,
Northerton, leave off that foolish as well as wicked custom of swearing;
for you are deceived, I promise you, if you think there is wit or
politeness in it. I wish, too, you would take my advice, and desist from
abusing the clergy. Scandalous names, and reflections cast on any body of
men, must be always unjustifiable; but especially so, when thrown on so
sacred a function; for to abuse the body is to abuse the function itself;
and I leave to you to judge how inconsistent such behaviour is in men who
are going to fight in defence of the Protestant religion.”

Mr Adderly, which was the name of the other ensign, had sat hitherto
kicking his heels and humming a tune, without seeming to listen to the
discourse; he now answered, “O, Monsieur, on ne parle pas de la
religion dans la guerre.”—“Well said, Jack,”
cries Northerton: “if la religion was the only matter, the
parsons should fight their own battles for me.”

“I don’t know, gentlemen,” said Jones, “what may be your
opinion; but I think no man can engage in a nobler cause than that of his
religion; and I have observed, in the little I have read of history, that
no soldiers have fought so bravely as those who have been inspired with a
religious zeal: for my own part, though I love my king and country, I
hope, as well as any man in it, yet the Protestant interest is no small
motive to my becoming a volunteer in the cause.”

Northerton now winked on Adderly, and whispered to him slily, “Smoke
the prig, Adderly, smoke him.” Then turning to Jones, said to him,
“I am very glad, sir, you have chosen our regiment to be a volunteer
in; for if our parson should at any time take a cup too much, I find you
can supply his place. I presume, sir, you have been at the university; may
I crave the favour to know what college?”

“Sir,” answered Jones, “so far from having been at the
university, I have even had the advantage of yourself, for I was never at
school.”

“I presumed,” cries the ensign, “only upon the
information of your great learning.”—“Oh! sir,”
answered Jones, “it is as possible for a man to know something
without having been at school, as it is to have been at school and to know
nothing.”

“Well said, young volunteer,” cries the lieutenant. “Upon
my word, Northerton, you had better let him alone; for he will be too hard
for you.”

Northerton did not very well relish the sarcasm of Jones; but he thought
the provocation was scarce sufficient to justify a blow, or a rascal, or
scoundrel, which were the only repartees that suggested themselves. He
was, therefore, silent at present; but resolved to take the first
opportunity of returning the jest by abuse.

It now came to the turn of Mr Jones to give a toast, as it is called; who
could not refrain from mentioning his dear Sophia. This he did the more
readily, as he imagined it utterly impossible that any one present should
guess the person he meant.

But the lieutenant, who was the toast-master, was not contented with
Sophia only. He said, he must have her sir-name; upon which Jones
hesitated a little, and presently after named Miss Sophia Western. Ensign
Northerton declared he would not drink her health in the same round with
his own toast, unless somebody would vouch for her. “I knew one
Sophy Western,” says he, “that was lain with by half the young
fellows at Bath; and perhaps this is the same woman.” Jones very
solemnly assured him of the contrary; asserting that the young lady he
named was one of great fashion and fortune. “Ay, ay,” says the
ensign, “and so she is: d—n me, it is the same woman; and I’ll
hold half a dozen of Burgundy, Tom French of our regiment brings her into
company with us at any tavern in Bridges-street.” He then proceeded
to describe her person exactly (for he had seen her with her aunt), and
concluded with saying, “that her father had a great estate in
Somersetshire.”

The tenderness of lovers can ill brook the least jesting with the names of
their mistresses. However, Jones, though he had enough of the lover and of
the heroe too in his disposition, did not resent these slanders as hastily
as, perhaps, he ought to have done. To say the truth, having seen but
little of this kind of wit, he did not readily understand it, and for a
long time imagined Mr Northerton had really mistaken his charmer for some
other. But now, turning to the ensign with a stern aspect, he said,
“Pray, sir, chuse some other subject for your wit; for I promise you
I will bear no jesting with this lady’s character.” “Jesting!”
cries the other, “d—n me if ever I was more in earnest in my
life. Tom French of our regiment had both her and her aunt at Bath.”
“Then I must tell you in earnest,” cries Jones, “that
you are one of the most impudent rascals upon earth.”

He had no sooner spoken these words, than the ensign, together with a
volley of curses, discharged a bottle full at the head of Jones, which
hitting him a little above the right temple, brought him instantly to the
ground.

The conqueror perceiving the enemy to lie motionless before him, and blood
beginning to flow pretty plentifully from his wound, began now to think of
quitting the field of battle, where no more honour was to be gotten; but
the lieutenant interposed, by stepping before the door, and thus cut off
his retreat.

Northerton was very importunate with the lieutenant for his liberty;
urging the ill consequences of his stay, asking him, what he could have
done less? “Zounds!” says he, “I was but in jest with
the fellow. I never heard any harm of Miss Western in my life.”
“Have not you?” said the lieutenant; “then you richly
deserve to be hanged, as well for making such jests, as for using such a
weapon: you are my prisoner, sir; nor shall you stir from hence till a
proper guard comes to secure you.”

Such an ascendant had our lieutenant over this ensign, that all that
fervency of courage which had levelled our poor heroe with the floor,
would scarce have animated the said ensign to have drawn his sword against
the lieutenant, had he then had one dangling at his side: but all the
swords being hung up in the room, were, at the very beginning of the fray,
secured by the French officer. So that Mr Northerton was obliged to attend
the final issue of this affair.

The French gentleman and Mr Adderly, at the desire of their commanding
officer, had raised up the body of Jones, but as they could perceive but
little (if any) sign of life in him, they again let him fall, Adderly
damning him for having blooded his wastecoat; and the Frenchman declaring,
“Begar, me no tush the Engliseman de mort: me have heard de Englise
ley, law, what you call, hang up de man dat tush him last.”

When the good lieutenant applied himself to the door, he applied himself
likewise to the bell; and the drawer immediately attending, he dispatched
him for a file of musqueteers and a surgeon. These commands, together with
the drawer’s report of what he had himself seen, not only produced the
soldiers, but presently drew up the landlord of the house, his wife, and
servants, and, indeed, every one else who happened at that time to be in
the inn.

To describe every particular, and to relate the whole conversation of the
ensuing scene, is not within my power, unless I had forty pens, and could,
at once, write with them all together, as the company now spoke. The
reader must, therefore, content himself with the most remarkable
incidents, and perhaps he may very well excuse the rest.

The first thing done was securing the body of Northerton, who being
delivered into the custody of six men with a corporal at their head, was
by them conducted from a place which he was very willing to leave, but it
was unluckily to a place whither he was very unwilling to go. To say the
truth, so whimsical are the desires of ambition, the very moment this
youth had attained the above-mentioned honour, he would have been well
contented to have retired to some corner of the world, where the fame of
it should never have reached his ears.

It surprizes us, and so perhaps, it may the reader, that the lieutenant, a
worthy and good man, should have applied his chief care, rather to secure
the offender, than to preserve the life of the wounded person. We mention
this observation, not with any view of pretending to account for so odd a
behaviour, but lest some critic should hereafter plume himself on
discovering it. We would have these gentlemen know we can see what is odd
in characters as well as themselves, but it is our business to relate
facts as they are; which, when we have done, it is the part of the learned
and sagacious reader to consult that original book of nature, whence every
passage in our work is transcribed, though we quote not always the
particular page for its authority.

The company which now arrived were of a different disposition. They
suspended their curiosity concerning the person of the ensign, till they
should see him hereafter in a more engaging attitude. At present, their
whole concern and attention were employed about the bloody object on the
floor; which being placed upright in a chair, soon began to discover some
symptoms of life and motion. These were no sooner perceived by the company
(for Jones was at first generally concluded to be dead) than they all fell
at once to prescribing for him (for as none of the physical order was
present, every one there took that office upon him).

Bleeding was the unanimous voice of the whole room; but unluckily there
was no operator at hand; every one then cried, “Call the barber;”
but none stirred a step. Several cordials was likewise prescribed in the
same ineffective manner; till the landlord ordered up a tankard of strong
beer, with a toast, which he said was the best cordial in England.

The person principally assistant on this occasion, indeed the only one who
did any service, or seemed likely to do any, was the landlady: she cut off
some of her hair, and applied it to the wound to stop the blood; she fell
to chafing the youth’s temples with her hand; and having exprest great
contempt for her husband’s prescription of beer, she despatched one of her
maids to her own closet for a bottle of brandy, of which, as soon as it
was brought, she prevailed on Jones, who was just returned to his senses,
to drink a very large and plentiful draught.

Soon afterwards arrived the surgeon, who having viewed the wound, having
shaken his head, and blamed everything which was done, ordered his patient
instantly to bed; in which place we think proper to leave him some time to
his repose, and shall here, therefore, put an end to this chapter.

Chapter xiii. — Containing the great address of the landlady, the
great learning of a surgeon, and the solid skill in casuistry of the
worthy lieutenant.

When the wounded man was carried to his bed, and the house began again to
clear up from the hurry which this accident had occasioned, the landlady
thus addressed the commanding officer: “I am afraid, sir,”
said she, “this young man did not behave himself as well as he
should do to your honours; and if he had been killed, I suppose he had but
his desarts: to be sure, when gentlemen admit inferior parsons into their
company, they oft to keep their distance; but, as my first husband used to
say, few of ’em know how to do it. For my own part, I am sure I should not
have suffered any fellows to include themselves into gentlemen’s
company; but I thoft he had been an officer himself, till the serjeant
told me he was but a recruit.”

“Landlady,” answered the lieutenant, “you mistake the
whole matter. The young man behaved himself extremely well, and is, I
believe, a much better gentleman than the ensign who abused him. If the
young fellow dies, the man who struck him will have most reason to be
sorry for it: for the regiment will get rid of a very troublesome fellow,
who is a scandal to the army; and if he escapes from the hands of justice,
blame me, madam, that’s all.”

“Ay! ay! good lack-a-day!” said the landlady; “who could
have thoft it? Ay, ay, ay, I am satisfied your honour will see justice
done; and to be sure it oft to be to every one. Gentlemen oft not to kill
poor folks without answering for it. A poor man hath a soul to be saved,
as well as his betters.”

“Indeed, madam,” said the lieutenant, “you do the
volunteer wrong: I dare swear he is more of a gentleman than the officer.”

“Ay!” cries the landlady; “why, look you there, now:
well, my first husband was a wise man; he used to say, you can’t always
know the inside by the outside. Nay, that might have been well enough too;
for I never saw’d him till he was all over blood. Who would have
thoft it? mayhap, some young gentleman crossed in love. Good lack-a-day,
if he should die, what a concern it will be to his parents! why, sure the
devil must possess the wicked wretch to do such an act. To be sure, he is
a scandal to the army, as your honour says; for most of the gentlemen of
the army that ever I saw, are quite different sort of people, and look as
if they would scorn to spill any Christian blood as much as any men: I
mean, that is, in a civil way, as my first husband used to say. To be
sure, when they come into the wars, there must be bloodshed: but that they
are not to be blamed for. The more of our enemies they kill there, the
better: and I wish, with all my heart, they could kill every mother’s son
of them.”

“O fie, madam!” said the lieutenant, smiling; “all
is rather too bloody-minded a wish.”

“Not at all, sir,” answered she; “I am not at all
bloody-minded, only to our enemies; and there is no harm in that. To be
sure it is natural for us to wish our enemies dead, that the wars may be
at an end, and our taxes be lowered; for it is a dreadful thing to pay as
we do. Why now, there is above forty shillings for window-lights, and yet
we have stopt up all we could; we have almost blinded the house, I am
sure. Says I to the exciseman, says I, I think you oft to favour us; I am
sure we are very good friends to the government: and so we are for
sartain, for we pay a mint of money to ‘um. And yet I often think to
myself the government doth not imagine itself more obliged to us, than to
those that don’t pay ‘um a farthing. Ay, ay, it is the way of the world.”

She was proceeding in this manner when the surgeon entered the room. The
lieutenant immediately asked how his patient did. But he resolved him only
by saying, “Better, I believe, than he would have been by this time,
if I had not been called; and even as it is, perhaps it would have been
lucky if I could have been called sooner.”—“I hope, sir,”
said the lieutenant, “the skull is not fractured.”—“Hum,”
cries the surgeon: “fractures are not always the most dangerous
symptoms. Contusions and lacerations are often attended with worse
phaenomena, and with more fatal consequences, than fractures. People who
know nothing of the matter conclude, if the skull is not fractured, all is
well; whereas, I had rather see a man’s skull broke all to pieces, than
some contusions I have met with.”—“I hope,” says
the lieutenant, “there are no such symptoms here.”—“Symptoms,”
answered the surgeon, “are not always regular nor constant. I have
known very unfavourable symptoms in the morning change to favourable ones
at noon, and return to unfavourable again at night. Of wounds, indeed, it
is rightly and truly said, Nemo repente fuit turpissimus. I was
once, I remember, called to a patient who had received a violent contusion
in his tibia, by which the exterior cutis was lacerated, so that there was
a profuse sanguinary discharge; and the interior membranes were so
divellicated, that the os or bone very plainly appeared through the
aperture of the vulnus or wound. Some febrile symptoms intervening at the
same time (for the pulse was exuberant and indicated much phlebotomy), I
apprehended an immediate mortification. To prevent which, I presently made
a large orifice in the vein of the left arm, whence I drew twenty ounces
of blood; which I expected to have found extremely sizy and glutinous, or
indeed coagulated, as it is in pleuretic complaints; but, to my surprize,
it appeared rosy and florid, and its consistency differed little from the
blood of those in perfect health. I then applied a fomentation to the
part, which highly answered the intention; and after three or four times
dressing, the wound began to discharge a thick pus or matter, by which
means the cohesion—But perhaps I do not make myself perfectly well
understood?”—“No, really,” answered the
lieutenant, “I cannot say I understand a syllable.”—“Well,
sir,” said the surgeon, “then I shall not tire your patience;
in short, within six weeks my patient was able to walk upon his legs as
perfectly as he could have done before he received the contusion.”—“I
wish, sir,” said the lieutenant, “you would be so kind only to
inform me, whether the wound this young gentleman hath had the misfortune
to receive, is likely to prove mortal.”—“Sir,”
answered the surgeon, “to say whether a wound will prove mortal or
not at first dressing, would be very weak and foolish presumption: we are
all mortal, and symptoms often occur in a cure which the greatest of our
profession could never foresee.”—“But do you think him
in danger?” says the other.—“In danger! ay, surely,”
cries the doctor: “who is there among us, who, in the most perfect
health, can be said not to be in danger? Can a man, therefore, with so bad
a wound as this be said to be out of danger? All I can say at present is,
that it is well I was called as I was, and perhaps it would have been
better if I had been called sooner. I will see him again early in the
morning; and in the meantime let him be kept extremely quiet, and drink
liberally of water-gruel.”—“Won’t you allow him
sack-whey?” said the landlady.—“Ay, ay, sack-whey,”
cries the doctor, “if you will, provided it be very small.”—“And
a little chicken broth too?” added she.—“Yes, yes,
chicken broth,” said the doctor, “is very good.”—“Mayn’t
I make him some jellies too?” said the landlady.—“Ay,
ay,” answered the doctor, “jellies are very good for wounds,
for they promote cohesion.” And indeed it was lucky she had not
named soup or high sauces, for the doctor would have complied, rather than
have lost the custom of the house.

The doctor was no sooner gone, than the landlady began to trumpet forth
his fame to the lieutenant, who had not, from their short acquaintance,
conceived quite so favourable an opinion of his physical abilities as the
good woman, and all the neighbourhood, entertained (and perhaps very
rightly); for though I am afraid the doctor was a little of a coxcomb, he
might be nevertheless very much of a surgeon.

The lieutenant having collected from the learned discourse of the surgeon
that Mr Jones was in great danger, gave orders for keeping Mr Northerton
under a very strict guard, designing in the morning to attend him to a
justice of peace, and to commit the conducting the troops to Gloucester to
the French lieutenant, who, though he could neither read, write, nor speak
any language, was, however, a good officer.

In the evening, our commander sent a message to Mr Jones, that if a visit
would not be troublesome, he would wait on him. This civility was very
kindly and thankfully received by Jones, and the lieutenant accordingly
went up to his room, where he found the wounded man much better than he
expected; nay, Jones assured his friend, that if he had not received
express orders to the contrary from the surgeon, he should have got up
long ago; for he appeared to himself to be as well as ever, and felt no
other inconvenience from his wound but an extreme soreness on that side of
his head.

“I should be very glad,” quoth the lieutenant, “if you
was as well as you fancy yourself, for then you could be able to do
yourself justice immediately; for when a matter can’t be made up, as in
case of a blow, the sooner you take him out the better; but I am afraid
you think yourself better than you are, and he would have too much
advantage over you.”

“I’ll try, however,” answered Jones, “if you please, and
will be so kind to lend me a sword, for I have none here of my own.”

“My sword is heartily at your service, my dear boy,” cries the
lieutenant, kissing him; “you are a brave lad, and I love your
spirit; but I fear your strength; for such a blow, and so much loss of
blood, must have very much weakened you; and though you feel no want of
strength in your bed, yet you most probably would after a thrust or two. I
can’t consent to your taking him out tonight; but I hope you will be able
to come up with us before we get many days’ march advance; and I give you
my honour you shall have satisfaction, or the man who hath injured you
shan’t stay in our regiment.”

“I wish,” said Jones, “it was possible to decide this
matter to-night: now you have mentioned it to me, I shall not be able to
rest.”

“Oh, never think of it,” returned the other: “a few days
will make no difference. The wounds of honour are not like those in your
body: they suffer nothing by the delay of cure. It will be altogether as
well for you to receive satisfaction a week hence as now.”

“But suppose,” says Jones, “I should grow worse, and die
of the consequences of my present wound?”

“Then your honour,” answered the lieutenant, “will
require no reparation at all. I myself will do justice to your character,
and testify to the world your intention to have acted properly, if you had
recovered.”

“Still,” replied Jones, “I am concerned at the delay. I
am almost afraid to mention it to you who are a soldier; but though I have
been a very wild young fellow, still in my most serious moments, and at
the bottom, I am really a Christian.”

“So am I too, I assure you,” said the officer; “and so
zealous a one, that I was pleased with you at dinner for taking up the
cause of your religion; and I am a little offended with you now, young
gentleman, that you should express a fear of declaring your faith before
any one.”

“But how terrible must it be,” cries Jones, “to any one
who is really a Christian, to cherish malice in his breast, in opposition
to the command of Him who hath expressly forbid it? How can I bear to do
this on a sick-bed? Or how shall I make up my account, with such an
article as this in my bosom against me?”

“Why, I believe there is such a command,” cries the
lieutenant; “but a man of honour can’t keep it. And you must be a
man of honour, if you will be in the army. I remember I once put the case
to our chaplain over a bowl of punch, and he confessed there was much
difficulty in it; but he said, he hoped there might be a latitude granted
to soldiers in this one instance; and to be sure it is our duty to hope
so; for who would bear to live without his honour? No, no, my dear boy, be
a good Christian as long as you live; but be a man of honour too, and
never put up an affront; not all the books, nor all the parsons in the
world, shall ever persuade me to that. I love my religion very well, but I
love my honour more. There must be some mistake in the wording the text,
or in the translation, or in the understanding it, or somewhere or other.
But however that be, a man must run the risque, for he must preserve his
honour. So compose yourself to-night, and I promise you you shall have an
opportunity of doing yourself justice.” Here he gave Jones a hearty
buss, shook him by the hand, and took his leave.

But though the lieutenant’s reasoning was very satisfactory to himself, it
was not entirely so to his friend. Jones therefore, having revolved this
matter much in his thoughts, at last came to a resolution, which the
reader will find in the next chapter.

Chapter xiv. — A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers
ought to venture upon in an evening, especially when alone.

Jones swallowed a large mess of chicken, or rather cock, broth, with a
very good appetite, as indeed he would have done the cock it was made of,
with a pound of bacon into the bargain; and now, finding in himself no
deficiency of either health or spirit, he resolved to get up and seek his
enemy.

But first he sent for the serjeant, who was his first acquaintance among
these military gentlemen. Unluckily that worthy officer having, in a
literal sense, taken his fill of liquor, had been some time retired to his
bolster, where he was snoring so loud that it was not easy to convey a
noise in at his ears capable of drowning that which issued from his
nostrils.

However, as Jones persisted in his desire of seeing him, a vociferous
drawer at length found means to disturb his slumbers, and to acquaint him
with the message. Of which the serjeant was no sooner made sensible, than
he arose from his bed, and having his clothes already on, immediately
attended. Jones did not think fit to acquaint the serjeant with his
design; though he might have done it with great safety, for the halberdier
was himself a man of honour, and had killed his man. He would therefore
have faithfully kept this secret, or indeed any other which no reward was
published for discovering. But as Jones knew not those virtues in so short
an acquaintance, his caution was perhaps prudent and commendable enough.

He began therefore by acquainting the serjeant, that as he was now entered
into the army, he was ashamed of being without what was perhaps the most
necessary implement of a soldier; namely, a sword; adding, that he should
be infinitely obliged to him, if he could procure one. “For which,”
says he, “I will give you any reasonable price; nor do I insist upon
its being silver-hilted; only a good blade, and such as may become a
soldier’s thigh.”

The serjeant, who well knew what had happened, and had heard that Jones
was in a very dangerous condition, immediately concluded, from such a
message, at such a time of night, and from a man in such a situation, that
he was light-headed. Now as he had his wit (to use that word in its common
signification) always ready, he bethought himself of making his advantage
of this humour in the sick man. “Sir,” says he, “I
believe I can fit you. I have a most excellent piece of stuff by me. It is
not indeed silver-hilted, which, as you say, doth not become a soldier;
but the handle is decent enough, and the blade one of the best in Europe.
It is a blade that—a blade that—in short, I will fetch it you
this instant, and you shall see it and handle it. I am glad to see your
honour so well with all my heart.”

Being instantly returned with the sword, he delivered it to Jones, who
took it and drew it; and then told the serjeant it would do very well, and
bid him name his price.

The serjeant now began to harangue in praise of his goods. He said (nay he
swore very heartily), “that the blade was taken from a French
officer, of very high rank, at the battle of Dettingen. I took it myself,”
says he, “from his side, after I had knocked him o’ the head. The
hilt was a golden one. That I sold to one of our fine gentlemen; for there
are some of them, an’t please your honour, who value the hilt of a sword
more than the blade.”

Here the other stopped him, and begged him to name a price. The serjeant,
who thought Jones absolutely out of his senses, and very near his end, was
afraid lest he should injure his family by asking too little. However,
after a moment’s hesitation, he contented himself with naming twenty
guineas, and swore he would not sell it for less to his own brother.

“Twenty guineas!” says Jones, in the utmost surprize: “sure
you think I am mad, or that I never saw a sword in my life. Twenty
guineas, indeed! I did not imagine you would endeavour to impose upon me.
Here, take the sword—No, now I think on’t, I will keep it myself,
and show it your officer in the morning, acquainting him, at the same
time, what a price you asked me for it.”

The serjeant, as we have said, had always his wit (in sensu praedicto)
about him, and now plainly saw that Jones was not in the condition he had
apprehended him to be; he now, therefore, counterfeited as great surprize
as the other had shown, and said, “I am certain, sir, I have not
asked you so much out of the way. Besides, you are to consider, it is the
only sword I have, and I must run the risque of my officer’s displeasure,
by going without one myself. And truly, putting all this together, I don’t
think twenty shillings was so much out of the way.”

“Twenty shillings!” cries Jones; “why, you just now
asked me twenty guineas.”—“How!” cries the
serjeant, “sure your honour must have mistaken me: or else I mistook
myself—and indeed I am but half awake. Twenty guineas, indeed! no
wonder your honour flew into such a passion. I say twenty guineas too. No,
no, I mean twenty shillings, I assure you. And when your honour comes to
consider everything, I hope you will not think that so extravagant a
price. It is indeed true, you may buy a weapon which looks as well for
less money. But——”

Here Jones interrupted him, saying, “I will be so far from making
any words with you, that I will give you a shilling more than your demand.”
He then gave him a guinea, bid him return to his bed, and wished him a
good march; adding, he hoped to overtake them before the division reached
Worcester.

The serjeant very civilly took his leave, fully satisfied with his
merchandize, and not a little pleased with his dexterous recovery from
that false step into which his opinion of the sick man’s light-headedness
had betrayed him.

As soon as the serjeant was departed, Jones rose from his bed, and dressed
himself entirely, putting on even his coat, which, as its colour was
white, showed very visibly the streams of blood which had flowed down it;
and now, having grasped his new-purchased sword in his hand, he was going
to issue forth, when the thought of what he was about to undertake laid
suddenly hold of him, and he began to reflect that in a few minutes he
might possibly deprive a human being of life, or might lose his own.
“Very well,” said he, “and in what cause do I venture my
life? Why, in that of my honour. And who is this human being? A rascal who
hath injured and insulted me without provocation. But is not revenge
forbidden by Heaven? Yes, but it is enjoined by the world. Well, but shall
I obey the world in opposition to the express commands of Heaven? Shall I
incur the Divine displeasure rather than be called—ha—coward—scoundrel?—I’ll
think no more; I am resolved, and must fight him.”

The clock had now struck twelve, and every one in the house were in their
beds, except the centinel who stood to guard Northerton, when Jones softly
opening his door, issued forth in pursuit of his enemy, of whose place of
confinement he had received a perfect description from the drawer. It is
not easy to conceive a much more tremendous figure than he now exhibited.
He had on, as we have said, a light-coloured coat, covered with streams of
blood. His face, which missed that very blood, as well as twenty ounces
more drawn from him by the surgeon, was pallid. Round his head was a
quantity of bandage, not unlike a turban. In the right hand he carried a
sword, and in the left a candle. So that the bloody Banquo was not worthy
to be compared to him. In fact, I believe a more dreadful apparition was
never raised in a church-yard, nor in the imagination of any good people
met in a winter evening over a Christmas fire in Somersetshire.

When the centinel first saw our heroe approach, his hair began gently to
lift up his grenadier cap; and in the same instant his knees fell to blows
with each other. Presently his whole body was seized with worse than an
ague fit. He then fired his piece, and fell flat on his face.

Whether fear or courage was the occasion of his firing, or whether he took
aim at the object of his terror, I cannot say. If he did, however, he had
the good fortune to miss his man.

Jones seeing the fellow fall, guessed the cause of his fright, at which he
could not forbear smiling, not in the least reflecting on the danger from
which he had just escaped. He then passed by the fellow, who still
continued in the posture in which he fell, and entered the room where
Northerton, as he had heard, was confined. Here, in a solitary situation,
he found—an empty quart pot standing on the table, on which some
beer being spilt, it looked as if the room had lately been inhabited; but
at present it was entirely vacant.

Jones then apprehended it might lead to some other apartment; but upon
searching all round it, he could perceive no other door than that at which
he entered, and where the centinel had been posted. He then proceeded to
call Northerton several times by his name; but no one answered; nor did
this serve to any other purpose than to confirm the centinel in his
terrors, who was now convinced that the volunteer was dead of his wounds,
and that his ghost was come in search of the murderer: he now lay in all
the agonies of horror; and I wish, with all my heart, some of those actors
who are hereafter to represent a man frighted out of his wits had seen
him, that they might be taught to copy nature, instead of performing
several antic tricks and gestures, for the entertainment and applause of
the galleries.

Perceiving the bird was flown, at least despairing to find him, and
rightly apprehending that the report of the firelock would alarm the whole
house, our heroe now blew out his candle, and gently stole back again to
his chamber, and to his bed; whither he would not have been able to have
gotten undiscovered, had any other person been on the same staircase, save
only one gentleman who was confined to his bed by the gout; for before he
could reach the door to his chamber, the hall where the centinel had been
posted was half full of people, some in their shirts, and others not half
drest, all very earnestly enquiring of each other what was the matter.

The soldier was now found lying in the same place and posture in which we
just now left him. Several immediately applied themselves to raise him,
and some concluded him dead; but they presently saw their mistake, for he
not only struggled with those who laid their hands on him, but fell a
roaring like a bull. In reality, he imagined so many spirits or devils
were handling him; for his imagination being possessed with the horror of
an apparition, converted every object he saw or felt into nothing but
ghosts and spectres.

At length he was overpowered by numbers, and got upon his legs; when
candles being brought, and seeing two or three of his comrades present, he
came a little to himself; but when they asked him what was the matter? he
answered, “I am a dead man, that’s all, I am a dead man, I can’t
recover it, I have seen him.” “What hast thou seen, Jack?”
says one of the soldiers. “Why, I have seen the young volunteer that
was killed yesterday.” He then imprecated the most heavy curses on
himself, if he had not seen the volunteer, all over blood, vomiting fire
out of his mouth and nostrils, pass by him into the chamber where Ensign
Northerton was, and then seizing the ensign by the throat, fly away with
him in a clap of thunder.

This relation met with a gracious reception from the audience. All the
women present believed it firmly, and prayed Heaven to defend them from
murder. Amongst the men too, many had faith in the story; but others
turned it into derision and ridicule; and a serjeant who was present
answered very coolly, “Young man, you will hear more of this, for
going to sleep and dreaming on your post.”

The soldier replied, “You may punish me if you please; but I was as
broad awake as I am now; and the devil carry me away, as he hath the
ensign, if I did not see the dead man, as I tell you, with eyes as big and
as fiery as two large flambeaux.”

The commander of the forces, and the commander of the house, were now both
arrived; for the former being awake at the time, and hearing the centinel
fire his piece, thought it his duty to rise immediately, though he had no
great apprehensions of any mischief; whereas the apprehensions of the
latter were much greater, lest her spoons and tankards should be upon the
march, without having received any such orders from her.

Our poor centinel, to whom the sight of this officer was not much more
welcome than the apparition, as he thought it, which he had seen before,
again related the dreadful story, and with many additions of blood and
fire; but he had the misfortune to gain no credit with either of the
last-mentioned persons: for the officer, though a very religious man, was
free from all terrors of this kind; besides, having so lately left Jones
in the condition we have seen, he had no suspicion of his being dead. As
for the landlady, though not over religious, she had no kind of aversion
to the doctrine of spirits; but there was a circumstance in the tale which
she well knew to be false, as we shall inform the reader presently.

But whether Northerton was carried away in thunder or fire, or in whatever
other manner he was gone, it was now certain that his body was no longer
in custody. Upon this occasion the lieutenant formed a conclusion not very
different from what the serjeant is just mentioned to have made before,
and immediately ordered the centinel to be taken prisoner. So that, by a
strange reverse of fortune (though not very uncommon in a military life),
the guard became the guarded.

Chapter xv. — The conclusion of the foregoing adventure.

Besides the suspicion of sleep, the lieutenant harboured another and worse
doubt against the poor centinel, and this was, that of treachery; for as
he believed not one syllable of the apparition, so he imagined the whole
to be an invention formed only to impose upon him, and that the fellow had
in reality been bribed by Northerton to let him escape. And this he
imagined the rather, as the fright appeared to him the more unnatural in
one who had the character of as brave and bold a man as any in the
regiment, having been in several actions, having received several wounds,
and, in a word, having behaved himself always like a good and valiant
soldier.

That the reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill opinion of such
a person, we shall not delay a moment in rescuing his character from the
imputation of this guilt.

Mr Northerton then, as we have before observed, was fully satisfied with
the glory which he had obtained from this action. He had perhaps seen, or
heard, or guessed, that envy is apt to attend fame. Not that I would here
insinuate that he was heathenishly inclined to believe in or to worship
the goddess Nemesis; for, in fact, I am convinced he never heard of her
name. He was, besides, of an active disposition, and had a great antipathy
to those close quarters in the castle of Gloucester, for which a justice
of peace might possibly give him a billet. Nor was he moreover free from
some uneasy meditations on a certain wooden edifice, which I forbear to
name, in conformity to the opinion of mankind, who, I think, rather ought
to honour than to be ashamed of this building, as it is, or at least might
be made, of more benefit to society than almost any other public erection.
In a word, to hint at no more reasons for his conduct, Mr Northerton was
desirous of departing that evening, and nothing remained for him but to
contrive the quomodo, which appeared to be a matter of some difficulty.

Now this young gentleman, though somewhat crooked in his morals, was
perfectly straight in his person, which was extremely strong and well
made. His face too was accounted handsome by the generality of women, for
it was broad and ruddy, with tolerably good teeth. Such charms did not
fail making an impression on my landlady, who had no little relish for
this kind of beauty. She had, indeed, a real compassion for the young man;
and hearing from the surgeon that affairs were like to go ill with the
volunteer, she suspected they might hereafter wear no benign aspect with
the ensign. Having obtained, therefore, leave to make him a visit, and
finding him in a very melancholy mood, which she considerably heightened
by telling him there were scarce any hopes of the volunteer’s life, she
proceeded to throw forth some hints, which the other readily and eagerly
taking up, they soon came to a right understanding; and it was at length
agreed that the ensign should, at a certain signal, ascend the chimney,
which communicating very soon with that of the kitchen, he might there
again let himself down; for which she would give him an opportunity by
keeping the coast clear.

But lest our readers, of a different complexion, should take this occasion
of too hastily condemning all compassion as a folly, and pernicious to
society, we think proper to mention another particular which might
possibly have some little share in this action. The ensign happened to be
at this time possessed of the sum of fifty pounds, which did indeed belong
to the whole company; for the captain having quarrelled with his
lieutenant, had entrusted the payment of his company to the ensign. This
money, however, he thought proper to deposit in my landlady’s hand,
possibly by way of bail or security that he would hereafter appear and
answer to the charge against him; but whatever were the conditions,
certain it is, that she had the money and the ensign his liberty.

The reader may perhaps expect, from the compassionate temper of this good
woman, that when she saw the poor centinel taken prisoner for a fact of
which she knew him innocent, she should immediately have interposed in his
behalf; but whether it was that she had already exhausted all her
compassion in the above-mentioned instance, or that the features of this
fellow, though not very different from those of the ensign, could not
raise it, I will not determine; but, far from being an advocate for the
present prisoner, she urged his guilt to his officer, declaring, with
uplifted eyes and hands, that she would not have had any concern in the
escape of a murderer for all the world.

Everything was now once more quiet, and most of the company returned again
to their beds; but the landlady, either from the natural activity of her
disposition, or from her fear for her plate, having no propensity to
sleep, prevailed with the officers, as they were to march within little
more than an hour, to spend that time with her over a bowl of punch.

Jones had lain awake all this while, and had heard great part of the hurry
and bustle that had passed, of which he had now some curiosity to know the
particulars. He therefore applied to his bell, which he rung at least
twenty times without any effect: for my landlady was in such high mirth
with her company, that no clapper could be heard there but her own; and
the drawer and chambermaid, who were sitting together in the kitchen (for
neither durst he sit up nor she lie in bed alone), the more they heard the
bell ring the more they were frightened, and as it were nailed down in
their places.

At last, at a lucky interval of chat, the sound reached the ears of our
good landlady, who presently sent forth her summons, which both her
servants instantly obeyed. “Joe,” says the mistress, “don’t
you hear the gentleman’s bell ring? Why don’t you go up?”—“It
is not my business,” answered the drawer, “to wait upon the
chambers—it is Betty Chambermaid’s.”—“If you come
to that,” answered the maid, “it is not my business to wait
upon gentlemen. I have done it indeed sometimes; but the devil fetch me if
ever I do again, since you make your preambles about it.” The bell
still ringing violently, their mistress fell into a passion, and swore, if
the drawer did not go up immediately, she would turn him away that very
morning. “If you do, madam,” says he, “I can’t help it.
I won’t do another servant’s business.” She then applied herself to
the maid, and endeavoured to prevail by gentle means; but all in vain:
Betty was as inflexible as Joe. Both insisted it was not their business,
and they would not do it.

The lieutenant then fell a laughing, and said, “Come, I will put an
end to this contention;” and then turning to the servants, commended
them for their resolution in not giving up the point; but added, he was
sure, if one would consent to go the other would. To which proposal they
both agreed in an instant, and accordingly went up very lovingly and close
together. When they were gone, the lieutenant appeased the wrath of the
landlady, by satisfying her why they were both so unwilling to go alone.

They returned soon after, and acquainted their mistress, that the sick
gentleman was so far from being dead, that he spoke as heartily as if he
was well; and that he gave his service to the captain, and should be very
glad of the favour of seeing him before he marched.

The good lieutenant immediately complied with his desires, and sitting
down by his bed-side, acquainted him with the scene which had happened
below, concluding with his intentions to make an example of the centinel.

Upon this Jones related to him the whole truth, and earnestly begged him
not to punish the poor soldier, “who, I am confident,” says
he, “is as innocent of the ensign’s escape, as he is of forging any
lie, or of endeavouring to impose on you.”

The lieutenant hesitated a few moments, and then answered: “Why, as
you have cleared the fellow of one part of the charge, so it will be
impossible to prove the other, because he was not the only centinel. But I
have a good mind to punish the rascal for being a coward. Yet who knows
what effect the terror of such an apprehension may have? and, to say the
truth, he hath always behaved well against an enemy. Come, it is a good
thing to see any sign of religion in these fellows; so I promise you he
shall be set at liberty when we march. But hark, the general beats. My
dear boy, give me another buss. Don’t discompose nor hurry yourself; but
remember the Christian doctrine of patience, and I warrant you will soon
be able to do yourself justice, and to take an honourable revenge on the
fellow who hath injured you.” The lieutenant then departed, and
Jones endeavoured to compose himself to rest.

BOOK VIII. — CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.

Chapter i. — A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous;
being much the longest of all our introductory chapters.

As we are now entering upon a book in which the course of our history will
oblige us to relate some matters of a more strange and surprizing kind
than any which have hitherto occurred, it may not be amiss, in the
prolegomenous or introductory chapter, to say something of that species of
writing which is called the marvellous. To this we shall, as well for the
sake of ourselves as of others, endeavour to set some certain bounds, and
indeed nothing can be more necessary, as critics[*] of different
complexions are here apt to run into very different extremes; for while
some are, with M. Dacier, ready to allow, that the same thing which is
impossible may be yet probable,[**] others have so little historic or
poetic faith, that they believe nothing to be either possible or probable,
the like to which hath not occurred to their own observation.

First, then, I think it may very reasonably be required of every writer,
that he keeps within the bounds of possibility; and still remembers that
what it is not possible for man to perform, it is scarce possible for man
to believe he did perform. This conviction perhaps gave birth to many
stories of the antient heathen deities (for most of them are of poetical
original). The poet, being desirous to indulge a wanton and extravagant
imagination, took refuge in that power, of the extent of which his readers
were no judges, or rather which they imagined to be infinite, and
consequently they could not be shocked at any prodigies related of it.
This hath been strongly urged in defence of Homer’s miracles; and it is
perhaps a defence; not, as Mr Pope would have it, because Ulysses told a
set of foolish lies to the Phaeacians, who were a very dull nation; but
because the poet himself wrote to heathens, to whom poetical fables were
articles of faith. For my own part, I must confess, so compassionate is my
temper, I wish Polypheme had confined himself to his milk diet, and
preserved his eye; nor could Ulysses be much more concerned than myself,
when his companions were turned into swine by Circe, who showed, I think,
afterwards, too much regard for man’s flesh to be supposed capable of
converting it into bacon. I wish, likewise, with all my heart, that Homer
could have known the rule prescribed by Horace, to introduce supernatural
agents as seldom as possible. We should not then have seen his gods coming
on trivial errands, and often behaving themselves so as not only to
forfeit all title to respect, but to become the objects of scorn and
derision. A conduct which must have shocked the credulity of a pious and
sagacious heathen; and which could never have been defended, unless by
agreeing with a supposition to which I have been sometimes almost
inclined, that this most glorious poet, as he certainly was, had an intent
to burlesque the superstitious faith of his own age and country.

But I have rested too long on a doctrine which can be of no use to a
Christian writer; for as he cannot introduce into his works any of that
heavenly host which make a part of his creed, so it is horrid puerility to
search the heathen theology for any of those deities who have been long
since dethroned from their immortality. Lord Shaftesbury observes, that
nothing is more cold than the invocation of a muse by a modern; he might
have added, that nothing can be more absurd. A modern may with much more
elegance invoke a ballad, as some have thought Homer did, or a mug of ale,
with the author of Hudibras; which latter may perhaps have inspired much
more poetry, as well as prose, than all the liquors of Hippocrene or
Helicon.

The only supernatural agents which can in any manner be allowed to us
moderns, are ghosts; but of these I would advise an author to be extremely
sparing. These are indeed, like arsenic, and other dangerous drugs in
physic, to be used with the utmost caution; nor would I advise the
introduction of them at all in those works, or by those authors, to which,
or to whom, a horse-laugh in the reader would be any great prejudice or
mortification.

As for elves and fairies, and other such mummery, I purposely omit the
mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any
bounds those surprizing imaginations, for whose vast capacity the limits
of human nature are too narrow; whose works are to be considered as a new
creation; and who have consequently just right to do what they will with
their own.

Man therefore is the highest subject (unless on very extraordinary
occasions indeed) which presents itself to the pen of our historian, or of
our poet; and, in relating his actions, great care is to be taken that we
do not exceed the capacity of the agent we describe.

Nor is possibility alone sufficient to justify us; we must keep likewise
within the rules of probability. It is, I think, the opinion of Aristotle;
or if not, it is the opinion of some wise man, whose authority will be as
weighty when it is as old, “That it is no excuse for a poet who
relates what is incredible, that the thing related is really matter of
fact.” This may perhaps be allowed true with regard to poetry, but
it may be thought impracticable to extend it to the historian; for he is
obliged to record matters as he finds them, though they may be of so
extraordinary a nature as will require no small degree of historical faith
to swallow them. Such was the successless armament of Xerxes described by
Herodotus, or the successful expedition of Alexander related by Arrian.
Such of later years was the victory of Agincourt obtained by Harry the
Fifth, or that of Narva won by Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. All which
instances, the more we reflect on them, appear still the more astonishing.

Such facts, however, as they occur in the thread of the story, nay,
indeed, as they constitute the essential parts of it, the historian is not
only justifiable in recording as they really happened, but indeed would be
unpardonable should he omit or alter them. But there are other facts not
of such consequence nor so necessary, which, though ever so well attested,
may nevertheless be sacrificed to oblivion in complacence to the
scepticism of a reader. Such is that memorable story of the ghost of
George Villiers, which might with more propriety have been made a present
of to Dr Drelincourt, to have kept the ghost of Mrs Veale company, at the
head of his Discourse upon Death, than have been introduced into so solemn
a work as the History of the Rebellion.

To say the truth, if the historian will confine himself to what really
happened, and utterly reject any circumstance, which, though never so well
attested, he must be well assured is false, he will sometimes fall into
the marvellous, but never into the incredible. He will often raise the
wonder and surprize of his reader, but never that incredulous hatred
mentioned by Horace. It is by falling into fiction, therefore, that we
generally offend against this rule, of deserting probability, which the
historian seldom, if ever, quits, till he forsakes his character and
commences a writer of romance. In this, however, those historians who
relate public transactions, have the advantage of us who confine ourselves
to scenes of private life. The credit of the former is by common notoriety
supported for a long time; and public records, with the concurrent
testimony of many authors, bear evidence to their truth in future ages.
Thus a Trajan and an Antoninus, a Nero and a Caligula, have all met with
the belief of posterity; and no one doubts but that men so very good, and
so very bad, were once the masters of mankind.

But we who deal in private character, who search into the most retired
recesses, and draw forth examples of virtue and vice from holes and
corners of the world, are in a more dangerous situation. As we have no
public notoriety, no concurrent testimony, no records to support and
corroborate what we deliver, it becomes us to keep within the limits not
only of possibility, but of probability too; and this more especially in
painting what is greatly good and amiable. Knavery and folly, though never
so exorbitant, will more easily meet with assent; for ill-nature adds
great support and strength to faith.

Thus we may, perhaps, with little danger, relate the history of Fisher;
who having long owed his bread to the generosity of Mr Derby, and having
one morning received a considerable bounty from his hands, yet, in order
to possess himself of what remained in his friend’s scrutore, concealed
himself in a public office of the Temple, through which there was a
passage into Mr Derby’s chambers. Here he overheard Mr Derby for many
hours solacing himself at an entertainment which he that evening gave his
friends, and to which Fisher had been invited. During all this time, no
tender, no grateful reflections arose to restrain his purpose; but when
the poor gentleman had let his company out through the office, Fisher came
suddenly from his lurking-place, and walking softly behind his friend into
his chamber, discharged a pistol-ball into his head. This may be believed
when the bones of Fisher are as rotten as his heart. Nay, perhaps, it will
be credited, that the villain went two days afterwards with some young
ladies to the play of Hamlet; and with an unaltered countenance heard one
of the ladies, who little suspected how near she was to the person, cry
out, “Good God! if the man that murdered Mr Derby was now present!”
manifesting in this a more seared and callous conscience than even Nero
himself; of whom we are told by Suetonius, “that the consciousness
of his guilt, after the death of his mother, became immediately
intolerable, and so continued; nor could all the congratulations of the
soldiers, of the senate, and the people, allay the horrors of his
conscience.”

But now, on the other hand, should I tell my reader, that I had known a
man whose penetrating genius had enabled him to raise a large fortune in a
way where no beginning was chaulked out to him; that he had done this with
the most perfect preservation of his integrity, and not only without the
least injustice or injury to any one individual person, but with the
highest advantage to trade, and a vast increase of the public revenue;
that he had expended one part of the income of this fortune in discovering
a taste superior to most, by works where the highest dignity was united
with the purest simplicity, and another part in displaying a degree of
goodness superior to all men, by acts of charity to objects whose only
recommendations were their merits, or their wants; that he was most
industrious in searching after merit in distress, most eager to relieve
it, and then as careful (perhaps too careful) to conceal what he had done;
that his house, his furniture, his gardens, his table, his private
hospitality, and his public beneficence, all denoted the mind from which
they flowed, and were all intrinsically rich and noble, without tinsel, or
external ostentation; that he filled every relation in life with the most
adequate virtue; that he was most piously religious to his Creator, most
zealously loyal to his sovereign; a most tender husband to his wife, a
kind relation, a munificent patron, a warm and firm friend, a knowing and
a chearful companion, indulgent to his servants, hospitable to his
neighbours, charitable to the poor, and benevolent to all mankind. Should
I add to these the epithets of wise, brave, elegant, and indeed every
other amiable epithet in our language, I might surely say,

and yet I know a man who is all I have here described. But a single
instance (and I really know not such another) is not sufficient to justify
us, while we are writing to thousands who never heard of the person, nor
of anything like him. Such rarae aves should be remitted to the
epitaph writer, or to some poet who may condescend to hitch him in a
distich, or to slide him into a rhime with an air of carelessness and
neglect, without giving any offence to the reader.

In the last place, the actions should be such as may not only be within
the compass of human agency, and which human agents may probably be
supposed to do; but they should be likely for the very actors and
characters themselves to have performed; for what may be only wonderful
and surprizing in one man, may become improbable, or indeed impossible,
when related of another.

This last requisite is what the dramatic critics call conversation of
character; and it requires a very extraordinary degree of judgment, and a
most exact knowledge of human nature.

It is admirably remarked by a most excellent writer, that zeal can no more
hurry a man to act in direct opposition to itself, than a rapid stream can
carry a boat against its own current. I will venture to say, that for a
man to act in direct contradiction to the dictates of his nature, is, if
not impossible, as improbable and as miraculous as anything which can well
be conceived. Should the best parts of the story of M. Antoninus be
ascribed to Nero, or should the worst incidents of Nero’s life be imputed
to Antoninus, what would be more shocking to belief than either instance?
whereas both these being related of their proper agent, constitute the
truly marvellous.

Our modern authors of comedy have fallen almost universally into the error
here hinted at; their heroes generally are notorious rogues, and their
heroines abandoned jades, during the first four acts; but in the fifth,
the former become very worthy gentlemen, and the latter women of virtue
and discretion: nor is the writer often so kind as to give himself the
least trouble to reconcile or account for this monstrous change and
incongruity. There is, indeed, no other reason to be assigned for it, than
because the play is drawing to a conclusion; as if it was no less natural
in a rogue to repent in the last act of a play, than in the last of his
life; which we perceive to be generally the case at Tyburn, a place which
might indeed close the scene of some comedies with much propriety, as the
heroes in these are most commonly eminent for those very talents which not
only bring men to the gallows, but enable them to make an heroic figure
when they are there.

Within these few restrictions, I think, every writer may be permitted to
deal as much in the wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps within
the rules of credibility, the more he can surprize the reader the more he
will engage his attention, and the more he will charm him. As a genius of
the highest rank observes in his fifth chapter of the Bathos, “The
great art of all poetry is to mix truth with fiction, in order to join the
credible with the surprizing.”

For though every good author will confine himself within the bounds of
probability, it is by no means necessary that his characters, or his
incidents, should be trite, common, or vulgar; such as happen in every
street, or in every house, or which may be met with in the home articles
of a newspaper. Nor must he be inhibited from showing many persons and
things, which may possibly have never fallen within the knowledge of great
part of his readers. If the writer strictly observes the rules
above-mentioned, he hath discharged his part; and is then intitled to some
faith from his reader, who is indeed guilty of critical infidelity if he
disbelieves him.

For want of a portion of such faith, I remember the character of a young
lady of quality, which was condemned on the stage for being unnatural, by
the unanimous voice of a very large assembly of clerks and apprentices;
though it had the previous suffrages of many ladies of the first rank; one
of whom, very eminent for her understanding, declared it was the picture
of half the young people of her acquaintance.

Chapter ii. — In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.

When Jones had taken leave of his friend the lieutenant, he endeavoured to
close his eyes, but all in vain; his spirits were too lively and wakeful
to be lulled to sleep. So having amused, or rather tormented, himself with
the thoughts of his Sophia till it was open daylight, he called for some
tea; upon which occasion my landlady herself vouchsafed to pay him a
visit.

This was indeed the first time she had seen him, or at least had taken any
notice of him; but as the lieutenant had assured her that he was certainly
some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined to show him all the
respect in her power; for, to speak truly, this was one of those houses
where gentlemen, to use the language of advertisements, meet with civil
treatment for their money.

She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she likewise began to
discourse:—“La! sir,” said she, “I think it is
great pity that such a pretty young gentleman should under-value himself
so, as to go about with these soldier fellows. They call themselves
gentlemen, I warrant you; but, as my first husband used to say, they
should remember it is we that pay them. And to be sure it is very hard
upon us to be obliged to pay them, and to keep ‘um too, as we publicans
are. I had twenty of ‘um last night, besides officers: nay, for matter o’
that, I had rather have the soldiers than officers: for nothing is ever
good enough for those sparks; and I am sure, if you was to see the bills;
la! sir, it is nothing. I have had less trouble, I warrant you, with a
good squire’s family, where we take forty or fifty shillings of a night,
besides horses. And yet I warrants me, there is narrow a one of those
officer fellows but looks upon himself to be as good as arrow a squire of
£500 a year. To be sure it doth me good to hear their men run about after
‘um, crying your honour, and your honour. Marry come up with such honour,
and an ordinary at a shilling a head. Then there’s such swearing among
‘um, to be sure it frightens me out o’ my wits: I thinks nothing can ever
prosper with such wicked people. And here one of ‘um has used you in so
barbarous a manner. I thought indeed how well the rest would secure him;
they all hang together; for if you had been in danger of death, which I am
glad to see you are not, it would have been all as one to such wicked
people. They would have let the murderer go. Laud have mercy upon ‘um; I
would not have such a sin to answer for, for the whole world. But though
you are likely, with the blessing, to recover, there is laa for him yet;
and if you will employ lawyer Small, I darest be sworn he’ll make the
fellow fly the country for him; though perhaps he’ll have fled the country
before; for it is here to-day and gone to-morrow with such chaps. I hope,
however, you will learn more wit for the future, and return back to your
friends; I warrant they are all miserable for your loss; and if they was
but to know what had happened—La, my seeming! I would not for the
world they should. Come, come, we know very well what all the matter is;
but if one won’t, another will; so pretty a gentleman need never want a
lady. I am sure, if I was you, I would see the finest she that ever wore a
head hanged, before I would go for a soldier for her.—Nay, don’t
blush so” (for indeed he did to a violent degree). “Why, you
thought, sir, I knew nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam
Sophia.”—“How,” says Jones, starting up, “do
you know my Sophia?”—“Do I! ay marry,” cries the
landlady; “many’s the time hath she lain in this house.”—“With
her aunt, I suppose,” says Jones. “Why, there it is now,”
cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay, I know the old lady very well. And
a sweet young creature is Madam Sophia, that’s the truth on’t.”—“A
sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O heavens!”

“And could I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia!”—“I
wish,” says the landlady, “you knew half so much of her. What
would you have given to have sat by her bed-side? What a delicious neck
she hath! Her lovely limbs have stretched themselves in that very bed you
now lie in.”—“Here!” cries Jones: “hath
Sophia ever laid here?”—“Ay, ay, here; there, in that
very bed,” says the landlady; “where I wish you had her this
moment; and she may wish so too for anything I know to the contrary, for
she hath mentioned your name to me.”—“Ha!” cries
he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You flatter me now: I can
never believe so much.”—“Why, then,” answered she,
“as I hope to be saved, and may the devil fetch me if I speak a
syllable more than the truth, I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a
civil and modest way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great
deal more than she said.”—“O my dear woman!” cries
Jones, “her thoughts of me I shall never be worthy of. Oh, she is
all gentleness, kindness, goodness! Why was such a rascal as I born, ever
to give her soft bosom a moment’s uneasiness? Why am I cursed? I, who
would undergo all the plagues and miseries which any daemon ever invented
for mankind, to procure her any good; nay, torture itself could not be
misery to me, did I but know that she was happy.”—“Why,
look you there now,” says the landlady; “I told her you was a
constant lovier.”—“But pray, madam, tell me when or
where you knew anything of me; for I never was here before, nor do I
remember ever to have seen you.”—“Nor is it possible you
should,” answered she; “for you was a little thing when I had
you in my lap at the squire’s.”—“How, the squire’s?”
says Jones: “what, do you know that great and good Mr Allworthy
then?”—“Yes, marry, do I,” says she: “who in
the country doth not?”—“The fame of his goodness indeed,”
answered Jones, “must have extended farther than this; but heaven
only can know him—can know that benevolence which it copied from
itself, and sent upon earth as its own pattern. Mankind are as ignorant of
such divine goodness, as they are unworthy of it; but none so unworthy of
it as myself. I, who was raised by him to such a height; taken in, as you
must well know, a poor base-born child, adopted by him, and treated as his
own son, to dare by my follies to disoblige him, to draw his vengeance
upon me. Yes, I deserve it all; for I will never be so ungrateful as ever
to think he hath done an act of injustice by me. No, I deserve to be
turned out of doors, as I am. And now, madam,” says he, “I
believe you will not blame me for turning soldier, especially with such a
fortune as this in my pocket.” At which words he shook a purse,
which had but very little in it, and which still appeared to the landlady
to have less.

My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck all of a heap by
this relation. She answered coldly, “That to be sure people were the
best judges what was most proper for their circumstances. But hark,”
says she, “I think I hear somebody call. Coming! coming! the devil’s
in all our volk; nobody hath any ears. I must go down-stairs; if you want
any more breakfast the maid will come up. Coming!” At which words,
without taking any leave, she flung out of the room; for the lower sort of
people are very tenacious of respect; and though they are contented to
give this gratis to persons of quality, yet they never confer it on those
of their own order without taking care to be well paid for their pains.

Chapter iii. — In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.

Before we proceed any farther, that the reader may not be mistaken in
imagining the landlady knew more than she did, nor surprized that she knew
so much, it may be necessary to inform him that the lieutenant had
acquainted her that the name of Sophia had been the occasion of the
quarrel; and as for the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious reader will
observe how she came by it in the preceding scene. Great curiosity was
indeed mixed with her virtues; and she never willingly suffered any one to
depart from her house, without enquiring as much as possible into their
names, families, and fortunes.

She was no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadverting on her
behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed which he was informed had
held his dear Sophia. This occasioned a thousand fond and tender thoughts,
which we would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that such kind of
lovers will make a very inconsiderable part of our readers. In this
situation the surgeon found him, when he came to dress his wound. The
doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his pulse was disordered, and
hearing that he had not slept, declared that he was in great danger; for
he apprehended a fever was coming on, which he would have prevented by
bleeding, but Jones would not submit, declaring he would lose no more
blood; “and, doctor,” says he, “if you will be so kind
only to dress my head, I have no doubt of being well in a day or two.”

“I wish,” answered the surgeon, “I could assure your
being well in a month or two. Well, indeed! No, no, people are not so soon
well of such contusions; but, sir, I am not at this time of day to be
instructed in my operations by a patient, and I insist on making a
revulsion before I dress you.”

Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and the doctor at last
yielded; telling him at the same time that he would not be answerable for
the ill consequence, and hoped he would do him the justice to acknowledge
that he had given him a contrary advice; which the patient promised he
would.

The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing himself to the
landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful behaviour of his
patient, who would not be blooded, though he was in a fever.

“It is an eating fever then,” says the landlady; “for he
hath devoured two swinging buttered toasts this morning for breakfast.”

“Very likely,” says the doctor: “I have known people eat
in a fever; and it is very easily accounted for; because the acidity
occasioned by the febrile matter may stimulate the nerves of the
diaphragm, and thereby occasion a craving which will not be easily
distinguishable from a natural appetite; but the aliment will not be
concreted, nor assimilated into chyle, and so will corrode the vascular
orifices, and thus will aggravate the febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think
the gentleman in a very dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am
afraid will die.”

“Every man must die some time or other,” answered the good
woman; “it is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, you would not
have me hold him while you bleed him. But, hark’ee, a word in your ear; I
would advise you, before you proceed too far, to take care who is to be
your paymaster.”

“Paymaster!” said the doctor, staring; “why, I’ve a
gentleman under my hands, have I not?”

“I imagined so as well as you,” said the landlady; “but,
as my first husband used to say, everything is not what it looks to be. He
is an arrant scrub, I assure you. However, take no notice that I mentioned
anything to you of the matter; but I think people in business oft always
to let one another know such things.”

“And have I suffered such a fellow as this,” cries the doctor,
in a passion, “to instruct me? Shall I hear my practice insulted by
one who will not pay me? I am glad I have made this discovery in time. I
will see now whether he will be blooded or no.” He then immediately
went upstairs, and flinging open the door of the chamber with much
violence, awaked poor Jones from a very sound nap, into which he was
fallen, and, what was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning
Sophia.

“Will you be blooded or no?” cries the doctor, in a rage.
“I have told you my resolution already,” answered Jones,
“and I wish with all my heart you had taken my answer; for you have
awaked me out of the sweetest sleep which I ever had in my life.”

“Ay, ay,” cries the doctor; “many a man hath dozed away
his life. Sleep is not always good, no more than food; but remember, I
demand of you for the last time, will you be blooded?”—“I
answer you for the last time,” said Jones, “I will not.”—“Then
I wash my hands of you,” cries the doctor; “and I desire you
to pay me for the trouble I have had already. Two journeys at 5s. each,
two dressings at 5s. more, and half a crown for phlebotomy.”—“I
hope,” said Jones, “you don’t intend to leave me in this
condition.”—“Indeed but I shall,” said the other.
“Then,” said Jones, “you have used me rascally, and I
will not pay you a farthing.”—“Very well,” cries
the doctor; “the first loss is the best. What a pox did my landlady
mean by sending for me to such vagabonds!” At which words he flung
out of the room, and his patient turning himself about soon recovered his
sleep; but his dream was unfortunately gone.

Chapter iv. — In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers
that was ever recorded in history, the barber of Bagdad, or he in Don
Quixote, not excepted.

The clock had now struck five when Jones awaked from a nap of seven hours,
so much refreshed, and in such perfect health and spirits, that he
resolved to get up and dress himself; for which purpose he unlocked his
portmanteau, and took out clean linen, and a suit of cloaths; but first he
slipt on a frock, and went down into the kitchen to bespeak something that
might pacify certain tumults he found rising within his stomach.

Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, and asked,
“What he could have for dinner?”—“For dinner!”
says she; “it is an odd time a day to think about dinner. There is
nothing drest in the house, and the fire is almost out.”—“Well,
but,” says he, “I must have something to eat, and it is almost
indifferent to me what; for, to tell you the truth, I was never more
hungry in my life.”—“Then,” says she, “I
believe there is a piece of cold buttock and carrot, which will fit you.”—“Nothing
better,” answered Jones; “but I should be obliged to you, if
you would let it be fried.” To which the landlady consented, and
said, smiling, “she was glad to see him so well recovered;”
for the sweetness of our heroe’s temper was almost irresistible; besides,
she was really no ill-humoured woman at the bottom; but she loved money so
much, that she hated everything which had the semblance of poverty.

Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his dinner was
preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended by the barber.

This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was a fellow of
great oddity and humour, which had frequently let him into small
inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, kicks in the breech, broken
bones, &c. For every one doth not understand a jest; and those who do
are often displeased with being themselves the subjects of it. This vice
was, however, incurable in him; and though he had often smarted for it,
yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be delivered of it,
without the least respect of persons, time, or place.

He had a great many other particularities in his character, which I shall
not mention, as the reader will himself very easily perceive them, on his
farther acquaintance with this extraordinary person.

Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may be easily
imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in preparing his suds, and
begged him to make haste; to which the other answered with much gravity,
for he never discomposed his muscles on any account, “Festina
lente, is a proverb which I learned long before I ever touched a
razor.”—“I find, friend, you are a scholar,”
replied Jones. “A poor one,” said the barber, “non
omnia possumus omnes.”—“Again!” said Jones;
“I fancy you are good at capping verses.”—“Excuse
me, sir,” said the barber, “non tanto me dignor honore.”
And then proceeding to his operation, “Sir,” said he, “since
I have dealt in suds, I could never discover more than two reasons for
shaving; the one is to get a beard, and the other to get rid of one. I
conjecture, sir, it may not be long since you shaved from the former of
these motives. Upon my word, you have had good success; for one may say of
your beard, that it is tondenti gravior.”—“I
conjecture,” says Jones, “that thou art a very comical fellow.”—“You
mistake me widely, sir,” said the barber: “I am too much
addicted to the study of philosophy; hinc illae lacrymae, sir;
that’s my misfortune. Too much learning hath been my ruin.”—“Indeed,”
says Jones, “I confess, friend, you have more learning than
generally belongs to your trade; but I can’t see how it can have injured
you.”—“Alas! sir,” answered the shaver, “my
father disinherited me for it. He was a dancing-master; and because I
could read before I could dance, he took an aversion to me, and left every
farthing among his other children.—Will you please to have your
temples—O la! I ask your pardon, I fancy there is hiatus in
manuscriptis. I heard you was going to the wars; but I find it was a
mistake.”—“Why do you conclude so?” says Jones.
“Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too wise a
man to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying coals to
Newcastle.”

“Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd
fellow, and I like thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt
come to me after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I long to be better
acquainted with thee.”

“O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty
times as great a favour, if you will accept of it.”—“What
is that, my friend?” cries Jones. “Why, I will drink a bottle
with you if you please; for I dearly love good-nature; and as you have
found me out to be a comical fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if
you are not one of the best-natured gentlemen in the universe.”
Jones now walked downstairs neatly drest, and perhaps the fair Adonis was
not a lovelier figure; and yet he had no charms for my landlady; for as
that good woman did not resemble Venus at all in her person, so neither
did she in her taste. Happy had it been for Nanny the chambermaid, if she
had seen with the eyes of her mistress, for that poor girl fell so
violently in love with Jones in five minutes, that her passion afterwards
cost her many a sigh. This Nanny was extremely pretty, and altogether as
coy; for she had refused a drawer, and one or two young farmers in the
neighbourhood, but the bright eyes of our heroe thawed all her ice in a
moment.

When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet laid; nor indeed
was there any occasion it should, his dinner remaining in statu quo,
as did the fire which was to dress it. This disappointment might have put
many a philosophical temper into a passion; but it had no such effect on
Jones. He only gave the landlady a gentle rebuke, saying, “Since it
was so difficult to get it heated he would eat the beef cold.” But
now the good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by shame, or by
whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave her servants a round
scold for disobeying the orders which she had never given, and then
bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set about the matter in
good earnest, and soon accomplished it.

This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named, as lucus
a non lucendo; for it was an apartment into which the sun had scarce
ever looked. It was indeed the worst room in the house; and happy was it
for Jones that it was so. However, he was now too hungry to find any
fault; but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered the drawer to
carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and expressed some resentment
at having been shown into a dungeon.

The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after some time, attended
by the barber, who would not indeed have suffered him to wait so long for
his company had he not been listening in the kitchen to the landlady, who
was entertaining a circle that she had gathered round her with the history
of poor Jones, part of which she had extracted from his own lips, and the
other part was her own ingenious composition; for she said “he was a
poor parish boy, taken into the house of Squire Allworthy, where he was
bred up as an apprentice, and now turned out of doors for his misdeeds,
particularly for making love to his young mistress, and probably for
robbing the house; for how else should he come by the little money he
hath; and this,” says she, “is your gentleman, forsooth!”—“A
servant of Squire Allworthy!” says the barber; “what’s his
name?”—“Why he told me his name was Jones,” says
she: “perhaps he goes by a wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too,
that the squire had maintained him as his own son, thof he had quarrelled
with him now.”—“And if his name be Jones, he told you
the truth,” said the barber; “for I have relations who live in
that country; nay, and some people say he is his son.”—“Why
doth he not go by the name of his father?”—“I can’t tell
that,” said the barber; “many people’s sons don’t go by the
name of their father.”—“Nay,” said the landlady,
“if I thought he was a gentleman’s son, thof he was a bye-blow, I
should behave to him in another guess manner; for many of these bye-blows
come to be great men, and, as my poor first husband used to say, never
affront any customer that’s a gentleman.”

Chapter v. — A dialogue between Mr Jones and the barber.

This conversation passed partly while Jones was at dinner in his dungeon,
and partly while he was expecting the barber in the parlour. And, as soon
as it was ended, Mr Benjamin, as we have said, attended him, and was very
kindly desired to sit down. Jones then filling out a glass of wine, drank
his health by the appellation of doctissime tonsorum. “Ago
tibi gratias, domine” said the barber; and then looking very
steadfastly at Jones, he said, with great gravity, and with a seeming
surprize, as if he had recollected a face he had seen before, “Sir,
may I crave the favour to know if your name is not Jones?” To which
the other answered, “That it was.”—“Proh deum
atque hominum fidem!” says the barber; “how strangely
things come to pass! Mr Jones, I am your most obedient servant. I find you
do not know me, which indeed is no wonder, since you never saw me but
once, and then you was very young. Pray, sir, how doth the good Squire
Allworthy? how doth ille optimus omnium patronus?”—“I
find,” said Jones, “you do indeed know me; but I have not the
like happiness of recollecting you.”—“I do not wonder at
that,” cries Benjamin; “but I am surprized I did not know you
sooner, for you are not in the least altered. And pray, sir, may I,
without offence, enquire whither you are travelling this way?”—“Fill
the glass, Mr Barber,” said Jones, “and ask no more questions.”—“Nay,
sir,” answered Benjamin, “I would not be troublesome; and I
hope you don’t think me a man of an impertinent curiosity, for that is a
vice which nobody can lay to my charge; but I ask pardon; for when a
gentleman of your figure travels without his servants, we may suppose him
to be, as we say, in casu incognito, and perhaps I ought not to
have mentioned your name.”—“I own,” says Jones,
“I did not expect to have been so well known in this country as I
find I am; yet, for particular reasons, I shall be obliged to you if you
will not mention my name to any other person till I am gone from hence.”—“Pauca
verba,” answered the barber;” and I wish no other here
knew you but myself; for some people have tongues; but I promise you I can
keep a secret. My enemies will allow me that virtue.”—“And
yet that is not the characteristic of your profession, Mr Barber,”
answered Jones. “Alas! sir,” replied Benjamin, “Non
si male nunc et olim sic erit. I was not born nor bred a barber, I
assure you. I have spent most of my time among gentlemen, and though I say
it, I understand something of gentility. And if you had thought me as
worthy of your confidence as you have some other people, I should have
shown you I could have kept a secret better. I should not have degraded
your name in a public kitchen; for indeed, sir, some people have not used
you well; for besides making a public proclamation of what you told them
of a quarrel between yourself and Squire Allworthy, they added lies of
their own, things which I knew to be lies.”—“You
surprize me greatly,” cries Jones. “Upon my word, sir,”
answered Benjamin, “I tell the truth, and I need not tell you my
landlady was the person. I am sure it moved me to hear the story, and I
hope it is all false; for I have a great respect for you, I do assure you
I have, and have had ever since the good-nature you showed to Black
George, which was talked of all over the country, and I received more than
one letter about it. Indeed, it made you beloved by everybody. You will
pardon me, therefore; for it was real concern at what I heard made me ask
many questions; for I have no impertinent curiosity about me: but I love
good-nature and thence became amoris abundantia erga te.”

Every profession of friendship easily gains credit with the miserable; it
is no wonder therefore, if Jones, who, besides his being miserable, was
extremely open-hearted, very readily believed all the professions of
Benjamin, and received him into his bosom. The scraps of Latin, some of
which Benjamin applied properly enough, though it did not savour of
profound literature, seemed yet to indicate something superior to a common
barber; and so indeed did his whole behaviour. Jones therefore believed
the truth of what he had said, as to his original and education; and at
length, after much entreaty, he said, “Since you have heard, my
friend, so much of my affairs, and seem so desirous to know the truth, if
you will have patience to hear it, I will inform you of the whole.”—“Patience!”
cries Benjamin, “that I will, if the chapter was never so long; and
I am very much obliged to you for the honour you do me.”

Jones now began, and related the whole history, forgetting only a
circumstance or two, namely, everything which passed on that day in which
he had fought with Thwackum; and ended with his resolution to go to sea,
till the rebellion in the North had made him change his purpose, and had
brought him to the place where he then was.

Little Benjamin, who had been all attention, never once interrupted the
narrative; but when it was ended he could not help observing, that there
must be surely something more invented by his enemies, and told Mr
Allworthy against him, or so good a man would never have dismissed one he
had loved so tenderly, in such a manner. To which Jones answered, “He
doubted not but such villanous arts had been made use of to destroy him.”

And surely it was scarce possible for any one to have avoided making the
same remark with the barber, who had not indeed heard from Jones one
single circumstance upon which he was condemned; for his actions were not
now placed in those injurious lights in which they had been misrepresented
to Allworthy; nor could he mention those many false accusations which had
been from time to time preferred against him to Allworthy: for with none
of these he was himself acquainted. He had likewise, as we have observed,
omitted many material facts in his present relation. Upon the whole,
indeed, everything now appeared in such favourable colours to Jones, that
malice itself would have found it no easy matter to fix any blame upon
him.

Not that Jones desired to conceal or to disguise the truth; nay, he would
have been more unwilling to have suffered any censure to fall on Mr
Allworthy for punishing him, than on his own actions for deserving it;
but, in reality, so it happened, and so it always will happen; for let a
man be never so honest, the account of his own conduct will, in spite of
himself, be so very favourable, that his vices will come purified through
his lips, and, like foul liquors well strained, will leave all their
foulness behind. For though the facts themselves may appear, yet so
different will be the motives, circumstances, and consequences, when a man
tells his own story, and when his enemy tells it, that we scarce can
recognise the facts to be one and the same.

Though the barber had drank down this story with greedy ears, he was not
yet satisfied. There was a circumstance behind which his curiosity, cold
as it was, most eagerly longed for. Jones had mentioned the fact of his
amour, and of his being the rival of Blifil, but had cautiously concealed
the name of the young lady. The barber, therefore, after some hesitation,
and many hums and hahs, at last begged leave to crave the name of the
lady, who appeared to be the principal cause of all this mischief. Jones
paused a moment, and then said, “Since I have trusted you with so
much, and since, I am afraid, her name is become too publick already on
this occasion, I will not conceal it from you. Her name is Sophia Western.”

“Proh deum atque hominum fidem! Squire Western hath a
daughter grown a woman!”—“Ay, and such a woman,”
cries Jones, “that the world cannot match. No eye ever saw anything
so beautiful; but that is her least excellence. Such sense! such goodness!
Oh, I could praise her for ever, and yet should omit half her virtues!”—“Mr
Western a daughter grown up!” cries the barber: “I remember
the father a boy; well, Tempus edax rerum.”

The wine being now at an end, the barber pressed very eagerly to be his
bottle; but Jones absolutely refused, saying, “He had already drank
more than he ought: and that he now chose to retire to his room, where he
wished he could procure himself a book.”—“A book!”
cries Benjamin; “what book would you have? Latin or English? I have
some curious books in both languages; such as Erasmi Colloquia, Ovid de
Tristibus, Gradus ad Parnassum; and in English I have several of the
best books, though some of them are a little torn; but I have a great part
of Stowe’s Chronicle; the sixth volume of Pope’s Homer; the third volume
of the Spectator; the second volume of Echard’s Roman History; the
Craftsman; Robinson Crusoe; Thomas a Kempis; and two volumes of Tom
Brown’s Works.”

“Those last,” cries Jones, “are books I never saw, so if
you please lend me one of those volumes.” The barber assured him he
would be highly entertained, for he looked upon the author to have been
one of the greatest wits that ever the nation produced. He then stepped to
his house, which was hard by, and immediately returned; after which, the
barber having received very strict injunctions of secrecy from Jones, and
having sworn inviolably to maintain it, they separated; the barber went
home, and Jones retired to his chamber.

Chapter vi. — In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will
appear, as well as who this extraordinary person was.

In the morning Jones grew a little uneasy at the desertion of his surgeon,
as he apprehended some inconvenience, or even danger, might attend the not
dressing his wound; he enquired of the drawer, what other surgeons were to
be met with in that neighbourhood. The drawer told him, there was one not
far off; but he had known him often refuse to be concerned after another
had been sent before him; “but, sir,” says he, “if you
will take my advice, there is not a man in the kingdom can do your
business better than the barber who was with you last night. We look upon
him to be one of the ablest men at a cut in all this neighbourhood. For
though he hath not been her above three months, he hath done several great
cures.”

The drawer was presently dispatched for Little Benjamin, who being
acquainted in what capacity he was wanted, prepared himself accordingly,
and attended; but with so different an air and aspect from that which he
wore when his basin was under his arm, that he could scarce be known to be
the same person.

“So, tonsor,” says Jones, “I find you have more trades
than one; how came you not to inform me of this last night?”—“A
surgeon,” answered Benjamin, with great gravity, “is a
profession, not a trade. The reason why I did not acquaint you last night
that I professed this art, was, that I then concluded you was under the
hands of another gentleman, and I never love to interfere with my brethren
in their business. Ars omnibus communis. But now, sir, if you
please, I will inspect your head, and when I see into your skull, I will
give my opinion of your case.”

Jones had no great faith in this new professor; however, he suffered him
to open the bandage and to look at his wound; which as soon as he had
done, Benjamin began to groan and shake his head violently. Upon which
Jones, in a peevish manner, bid him not play the fool, but tell him in
what condition he found him. “Shall I answer you as a surgeon, or a
friend?” said Benjamin. “As a friend, and seriously,”
said Jones. “Why then, upon my soul,” cries Benjamin, “it
would require a great deal of art to keep you from being well after a very
few dressings; and if you will suffer me to apply some salve of mine, I
will answer for the success.” Jones gave his consent, and the
plaister was applied accordingly.

“There, sir,” cries Benjamin: “now I will, if you
please, resume my former self; but a man is obliged to keep up some
dignity in his countenance whilst he is performing these operations, or
the world will not submit to be handled by him. You can’t imagine, sir, of
how much consequence a grave aspect is to a grave character. A barber may
make you laugh, but a surgeon ought rather to make you cry.”

“Mr Barber, or Mr Surgeon, or Mr Barber-surgeon,” said Jones.
“O dear sir!” answered Benjamin, interrupting him, “Infandum,
regina, jubes renovare dolorem. You recall to my mind that cruel
separation of the united fraternities, so much to the prejudice of both
bodies, as all separations must be, according to the old adage, Vis
unita fortior; which to be sure there are not wanting some of one or
of the other fraternity who are able to construe. What a blow was this to
me, who unite both in my own person!” “Well, by whatever name
you please to be called,” continued Jones, “you certainly are
one of the oddest, most comical fellows I ever met with, and must have
something very surprizing in your story, which you must confess I have a
right to hear.”—“I do confess it,” answered
Benjamin, “and will very readily acquaint you with it, when you have
sufficient leisure, for I promise you it will require a good deal of time.”
Jones told him, he could never be more at leisure than at present. “Well,
then,” said Benjamin, “I will obey you; but first I will
fasten the door, that none may interrupt us.” He did so, and then
advancing with a solemn air to Jones, said: “I must begin by telling
you, sir, that you yourself have been the greatest enemy I ever had.”
Jones was a little startled at this sudden declaration. “I your
enemy, sir!” says he, with much amazement, and some sternness in his
look. “Nay, be not angry,” said Benjamin, “for I promise
you I am not. You are perfectly innocent of having intended me any wrong;
for you was then an infant: but I shall, I believe, unriddle all this the
moment I mention my name. Did you never hear, sir, of one Partridge, who
had the honour of being reputed your father, and the misfortune of being
ruined by that honour?” “I have, indeed, heard of that
Partridge,” says Jones, “and have always believed myself to be
his son.” “Well, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I am
that Partridge; but I here absolve you from all filial duty, for I do
assure you, you are no son of mine.” “How!” replied
Jones, “and is it possible that a false suspicion should have drawn
all the ill consequences upon you, with which I am too well acquainted?”
“It is possible,” cries Benjamin, “for it is so: but
though it is natural enough for men to hate even the innocent causes of
their sufferings, yet I am of a different temper. I have loved you ever
since I heard of your behaviour to Black George, as I told you; and I am
convinced, from this extraordinary meeting, that you are born to make me
amends for all I have suffered on that account. Besides, I dreamt, the
night before I saw you, that I stumbled over a stool without hurting
myself; which plainly showed me something good was towards me: and last
night I dreamt again, that I rode behind you on a milk-white mare, which
is a very excellent dream, and betokens much good fortune, which I am
resolved to pursue unless you have the cruelty to deny me.”

“I should be very glad, Mr Partridge,” answered Jones, “to
have it in my power to make you amends for your sufferings on my account,
though at present I see no likelihood of it; however, I assure you I will
deny you nothing which is in my power to grant.”

“It is in your power sure enough,” replied Benjamin; “for
I desire nothing more than leave to attend you in this expedition. Nay, I
have so entirely set my heart upon it, that if you should refuse me, you
will kill both a barber and a surgeon in one breath.”

Jones answered, smiling, that he should be very sorry to be the occasion
of so much mischief to the public. He then advanced many prudential
reasons, in order to dissuade Benjamin (whom we shall hereafter call
Partridge) from his purpose; but all were in vain. Partridge relied
strongly on his dream of the milk-white mare. “Besides, sir,”
says he, “I promise you I have as good an inclination to the cause
as any man can possibly have; and go I will, whether you admit me to go in
your company or not.”

Jones, who was as much pleased with Partridge as Partridge could be with
him, and who had not consulted his own inclination but the good of the
other in desiring him to stay behind, when he found his friend so
resolute, at last gave his consent; but then recollecting himself, he
said, “Perhaps, Mr Partridge, you think I shall be able to support
you, but I really am not;” and then taking out his purse, he told
out nine guineas, which he declared were his whole fortune.

Partridge answered, “That his dependence was only on his future
favour; for he was thoroughly convinced he would shortly have enough in
his power. At present, sir,” said he, “I believe I am rather
the richer man of the two; but all I have is at your service, and at your
disposal. I insist upon your taking the whole, and I beg only to attend
you in the quality of your servant; Nil desperandum est Teucro duce et
auspice Teucro”: but to this generous proposal concerning the
money, Jones would by no means submit.

It was resolved to set out the next morning, when a difficulty arose
concerning the baggage; for the portmanteau of Mr Jones was too large to
be carried without a horse.

“If I may presume to give my advice,” says Partridge, “this
portmanteau, with everything in it, except a few shirts, should be left
behind. Those I shall be easily able to carry for you, and the rest of
your cloaths will remain very safe locked up in my house.”

This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and then the barber
departed, in order to prepare everything for his intended expedition.

Chapter vii. — Containing better reasons than any which have yet
appeared for the conduct of Partridge; an apology for the weakness of
Jones; and some further anecdotes concerning my landlady.

Though Partridge was one of the most superstitious of men, he would hardly
perhaps have desired to accompany Jones on his expedition merely from the
omens of the joint-stool and white mare, if his prospect had been no
better than to have shared the plunder gained in the field of battle. In
fact, when Partridge came to ruminate on the relation he had heard from
Jones, he could not reconcile to himself that Mr Allworthy should turn his
son (for so he most firmly believed him to be) out of doors, for any
reason which he had heard assigned. He concluded, therefore, that the
whole was a fiction, and that Jones, of whom he had often from his
correspondents heard the wildest character, had in reality run away from
his father. It came into his head, therefore, that if he could prevail
with the young gentleman to return back to his father, he should by that
means render a service to Allworthy, which would obliterate all his former
anger; nay, indeed, he conceived that very anger was counterfeited, and
that Allworthy had sacrificed him to his own reputation. And this
suspicion indeed he well accounted for, from the tender behaviour of that
excellent man to the foundling child; from his great severity to
Partridge, who, knowing himself to be innocent, could not conceive that
any other should think him guilty; lastly, from the allowance which he had
privately received long after the annuity had been publickly taken from
him, and which he looked upon as a kind of smart-money, or rather by way
of atonement for injustice; for it is very uncommon, I believe, for men to
ascribe the benefactions they receive to pure charity, when they can
possibly impute them to any other motive. If he could by any means
therefore persuade the young gentleman to return home, he doubted not but
that he should again be received into the favour of Allworthy, and well
rewarded for his pains; nay, and should be again restored to his native
country; a restoration which Ulysses himself never wished more heartily
than poor Partridge.

As for Jones, he was well satisfied with the truth of what the other had
asserted, and believed that Partridge had no other inducements but love to
him, and zeal for the cause; a blameable want of caution and diffidence in
the veracity of others, in which he was highly worthy of censure. To say
the truth, there are but two ways by which men become possessed of this
excellent quality. The one is from long experience, and the other is from
nature; which last, I presume, is often meant by genius, or great natural
parts; and it is infinitely the better of the two, not only as we are
masters of it much earlier in life, but as it is much more infallible and
conclusive; for a man who hath been imposed on by ever so many, may still
hope to find others more honest; whereas he who receives certain necessary
admonitions from within, that this is impossible, must have very little
understanding indeed, if he ever renders himself liable to be once
deceived. As Jones had not this gift from nature, he was too young to have
gained it by experience; for at the diffident wisdom which is to be
acquired this way, we seldom arrive till very late in life; which is
perhaps the reason why some old men are apt to despise the understandings
of all those who are a little younger than themselves.

Jones spent most part of the day in the company of a new acquaintance.
This was no other than the landlord of the house, or rather the husband of
the landlady. He had but lately made his descent downstairs, after a long
fit of the gout, in which distemper he was generally confined to his room
during one half of the year; and during the rest, he walked about the
house, smoaked his pipe, and drank his bottle with his friends, without
concerning himself in the least with any kind of business. He had been
bred, as they call it, a gentleman; that is, bred up to do nothing; and
had spent a very small fortune, which he inherited from an industrious
farmer his uncle, in hunting, horse-racing, and cock-fighting, and had
been married by my landlady for certain purposes, which he had long since
desisted from answering; for which she hated him heartily. But as he was a
surly kind of fellow, so she contented herself with frequently upbraiding
him by disadvantageous comparisons with her first husband, whose praise
she had eternally in her mouth; and as she was for the most part mistress
of the profit, so she was satisfied to take upon herself the care and
government of the family, and, after a long successless struggle, to
suffer her husband to be master of himself.

In the evening, when Jones retired to his room, a small dispute arose
between this fond couple concerning him:—“What,” says
the wife, “you have been tippling with the gentleman, I see?”—“Yes,”
answered the husband, “we have cracked a bottle together, and a very
gentlemanlike man he is, and hath a very pretty notion of horse-flesh.
Indeed, he is young, and hath not seen much of the world; for I believe he
hath been at very few horse-races.”—“Oho! he is one of
your order, is he?” replies the landlady: “he must be a
gentleman to be sure, if he is a horse-racer. The devil fetch such gentry!
I am sure I wish I had never seen any of them. I have reason to love
horse-racers truly!”—“That you have,” says the
husband; “for I was one, you know.”—“Yes,”
answered she, “you are a pure one indeed. As my first husband used
to say, I may put all the good I have ever got by you in my eyes, and see
never the worse.”—“D—n your first husband!”
cries he. “Don’t d—n a better man than yourself,”
answered the wife: “if he had been alive, you durst not have done
it.”—“Then you think,” says he, “I have not
so much courage as yourself; for you have d—n’d him often in my
hearing.”—“If I did,” says she, “I have
repented of it many’s the good time and oft. And if he was so good to
forgive me a word spoken in haste or so, it doth not become such a one as
you to twitter me. He was a husband to me, he was; and if ever I did make
use of an ill word or so in a passion, I never called him rascal; I should
have told a lie, if I had called him rascal.” Much more she said,
but not in his hearing; for having lighted his pipe, he staggered off as
fast as he could. We shall therefore transcribe no more of her speech, as
it approached still nearer and nearer to a subject too indelicate to find
any place in this history.

Early in the morning Partridge appeared at the bedside of Jones, ready
equipped for the journey, with his knapsack at his back. This was his own
workmanship; for besides his other trades, he was no indifferent taylor.
He had already put up his whole stock of linen in it, consisting of four
shirts, to which he now added eight for Mr Jones; and then packing up the
portmanteau, he was departing with it towards his own house, but was stopt
in his way by the landlady, who refused to suffer any removals till after
the payment of the reckoning.

The landlady was, as we have said, absolute governess in these regions; it
was therefore necessary to comply with her rules; so the bill was
presently writ out, which amounted to a much larger sum than might have
been expected, from the entertainment which Jones had met with. But here
we are obliged to disclose some maxims, which publicans hold to be the
grand mysteries of their trade. The first is, If they have anything good
in their house (which indeed very seldom happens) to produce it only to
persons who travel with great equipages. 2dly, To charge the same for the
very worst provisions, as if they were the best. And lastly, If any of
their guests call but for little, to make them pay a double price for
everything they have; so that the amount by the head may be much the same.

The bill being made and discharged, Jones set forward with Partridge,
carrying his knapsack; nor did the landlady condescend to wish him a good
journey; for this was, it seems, an inn frequented by people of fashion;
and I know not whence it is, but all those who get their livelihood by
people of fashion, contract as much insolence to the rest of mankind, as
if they really belonged to that rank themselves.

Chapter viii. — Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell;
the character of that house, and of a petty-fogger which he there meets
with.

Mr Jones and Partridge, or Little Benjamin (which epithet of Little was
perhaps given him ironically, he being in reality near six feet high),
having left their last quarters in the manner before described, travelled
on to Gloucester without meeting any adventure worth relating.

Being arrived here, they chose for their house of entertainment the sign
of the Bell, an excellent house indeed, and which I do most seriously
recommend to every reader who shall visit this antient city. The master of
it is brother to the great preacher Whitefield; but is absolutely
untainted with the pernicious principles of Methodism, or of any other
heretical sect. He is indeed a very honest plain man, and, in my opinion,
not likely to create any disturbance either in church or state. His wife
hath, I believe, had much pretension to beauty, and is still a very fine
woman. Her person and deportment might have made a shining figure in the
politest assemblies; but though she must be conscious of this and many
other perfections, she seems perfectly contented with, and resigned to,
that state of life to which she is called; and this resignation is
entirely owing to the prudence and wisdom of her temper; for she is at
present as free from any Methodistical notions as her husband: I say at
present; for she freely confesses that her brother’s documents made at
first some impression upon her, and that she had put herself to the
expense of a long hood, in order to attend the extraordinary emotions of
the Spirit; but having found, during an experiment of three weeks, no
emotions, she says, worth a farthing, she very wisely laid by her hood,
and abandoned the sect. To be concise, she is a very friendly good-natured
woman; and so industrious to oblige, that the guests must be of a very
morose disposition who are not extremely well satisfied in her house.

Mrs Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones and his attendant
marched in. Her sagacity soon discovered in the air of our heroe something
which distinguished him from the vulgar. She ordered her servants,
therefore, immediately to show him into a room, and presently afterwards
invited him to dinner with herself; which invitation he very thankfully
accepted; for indeed much less agreeable company than that of Mrs
Whitefield, and a much worse entertainment than she had provided, would
have been welcome after so long fasting and so long a walk.

Besides Mr Jones and the good governess of the mansion, there sat down at
table an attorney of Salisbury, indeed the very same who had brought the
news of Mrs Blifil’s death to Mr Allworthy, and whose name, which I think
we did not before mention, was Dowling: there was likewise present another
person, who stiled himself a lawyer, and who lived somewhere near
Linlinch, in Somersetshire. This fellow, I say, stiled himself a lawyer,
but was indeed a most vile petty-fogger, without sense or knowledge of any
kind; one of those who may be termed train-bearers to the law; a sort of
supernumeraries in the profession, who are the hackneys of attorneys, and
will ride more miles for half-a-crown than a postboy.

During the time of dinner, the Somersetshire lawyer recollected the face
of Jones, which he had seen at Mr Allworthy’s; for he had often visited in
that gentleman’s kitchen. He therefore took occasion to enquire after the
good family there with that familiarity which would have become an
intimate friend or acquaintance of Mr Allworthy; and indeed he did all in
his power to insinuate himself to be such, though he had never had the
honour of speaking to any person in that family higher than the butler.
Jones answered all his questions with much civility, though he never
remembered to have seen the petty-fogger before; and though he concluded,
from the outward appearance and behaviour of the man, that he usurped a
freedom with his betters, to which he was by no means intitled.

As the conversation of fellows of this kind is of all others the most
detestable to men of any sense, the cloth was no sooner removed than Mr
Jones withdrew, and a little barbarously left poor Mrs Whitefield to do a
penance, which I have often heard Mr Timothy Harris, and other publicans
of good taste, lament, as the severest lot annexed to their calling,
namely, that of being obliged to keep company with their guests.

Jones had no sooner quitted the room, than the petty-fogger, in a
whispering tone, asked Mrs Whitefield, “If she knew who that fine
spark was?” She answered, “She had never seen the gentleman
before.”—“The gentleman, indeed!” replied the
petty-fogger; “a pretty gentleman, truly! Why, he’s the bastard of a
fellow who was hanged for horse-stealing. He was dropt at Squire
Allworthy’s door, where one of the servants found him in a box so full of
rain-water, that he would certainly have been drowned, had he not been
reserved for another fate.”—“Ay, ay, you need not
mention it, I protest: we understand what that fate is very well,”
cries Dowling, with a most facetious grin.—“Well,”
continued the other, “the squire ordered him to be taken in; for he
is a timbersome man everybody knows, and was afraid of drawing himself
into a scrape; and there the bastard was bred up, and fed, and cloathified
all to the world like any gentleman; and there he got one of the
servant-maids with child, and persuaded her to swear it to the squire
himself; and afterwards he broke the arm of one Mr Thwackum a clergyman,
only because he reprimanded him for following whores; and afterwards he
snapt a pistol at Mr Blifil behind his back; and once, when Squire
Allworthy was sick, he got a drum, and beat it all over the house to
prevent him from sleeping; and twenty other pranks he hath played, for all
which, about four or five days ago, just before I left the country, the
squire stripped him stark naked, and turned him out of doors.”

“And very justly too, I protest,” cries Dowling; “I
would turn my own son out of doors, if he was guilty of half as much. And
pray what is the name of this pretty gentleman?”

“The name o’ un?” answered Petty-fogger; “why, he is
called Thomas Jones.”

“Jones!” answered Dowling a little eagerly; “what, Mr
Jones that lived at Mr Allworthy’s? was that the gentleman that dined with
us?”—“The very same,” said the other. “I
have heard of the gentleman,” cries Dowling, “often; but I
never heard any ill character of him.”—“And I am sure,”
says Mrs Whitefield, “if half what this gentleman hath said be true,
Mr Jones hath the most deceitful countenance I ever saw; for sure his
looks promise something very different; and I must say, for the little I
have seen of him, he is as civil a well-bred man as you would wish to
converse with.”

Petty-fogger calling to mind that he had not been sworn, as he usually
was, before he gave his evidence, now bound what he had declared with so
many oaths and imprecations that the landlady’s ears were shocked, and she
put a stop to his swearing, by assuring him of her belief. Upon which he
said, “I hope, madam, you imagine I would scorn to tell such things
of any man, unless I knew them to be true. What interest have I in taking
away the reputation of a man who never injured me? I promise you every
syllable of what I have said is fact, and the whole country knows it.”

As Mrs Whitefield had no reason to suspect that the petty-fogger had any
motive or temptation to abuse Jones, the reader cannot blame her for
believing what he so confidently affirmed with many oaths. She accordingly
gave up her skill in physiognomy, and hence-forwards conceived so ill an
opinion of her guest, that she heartily wished him out of her house.

This dislike was now farther increased by a report which Mr Whitefield
made from the kitchen, where Partridge had informed the company, “That
though he carried the knapsack, and contented himself with staying among
servants, while Tom Jones (as he called him) was regaling in the parlour,
he was not his servant, but only a friend and companion, and as good a
gentleman as Mr Jones himself.”

Dowling sat all this while silent, biting his fingers, making faces,
grinning, and looking wonderfully arch; at last he opened his lips, and
protested that the gentleman looked like another sort of man. He then
called for his bill with the utmost haste, declared he must be at Hereford
that evening, lamented his great hurry of business, and wished he could
divide himself into twenty pieces, in order to be at once in twenty
places.

The petty-fogger now likewise departed, and then Jones desired the favour
of Mrs Whitefield’s company to drink tea with him; but she refused, and
with a manner so different from that with which she had received him at
dinner, that it a little surprized him. And now he soon perceived her
behaviour totally changed; for instead of that natural affability which we
have before celebrated, she wore a constrained severity on her
countenance, which was so disagreeable to Mr Jones, that he resolved,
however late, to quit the house that evening.

He did indeed account somewhat unfairly for this sudden change; for
besides some hard and unjust surmises concerning female fickleness and
mutability, he began to suspect that he owed this want of civility to his
want of horses; a sort of animals which, as they dirty no sheets, are
thought in inns to pay better for their beds than their riders, and are
therefore considered as the more desirable company; but Mrs Whitefield, to
do her justice, had a much more liberal way of thinking. She was perfectly
well-bred, and could be very civil to a gentleman, though he walked on
foot. In reality, she looked on our heroe as a sorry scoundrel, and
therefore treated him as such, for which not even Jones himself, had he
known as much as the reader, could have blamed her; nay, on the contrary,
he must have approved her conduct, and have esteemed her the more for the
disrespect shown towards himself. This is indeed a most aggravating
circumstance, which attends depriving men unjustly of their reputation;
for a man who is conscious of having an ill character, cannot justly be
angry with those who neglect and slight him; but ought rather to despise
such as affect his conversation, unless where a perfect intimacy must have
convinced them that their friend’s character hath been falsely and
injuriously aspersed.

This was not, however, the case of Jones; for as he was a perfect stranger
to the truth, so he was with good reason offended at the treatment he
received. He therefore paid his reckoning and departed, highly against the
will of Mr Partridge, who having remonstrated much against it to no
purpose, at last condescended to take up his knapsack and to attend his
friend.

Chapter ix. — Containing several dialogues between Jones and
Partridge, concerning love, cold, hunger, and other matters; with the
lucky and narrow escape of Partridge, as he was on the very brink of
making a fatal

discovery to his friend.

The shadows began now to descend larger from the high mountains; the
feathered creation had betaken themselves to their rest. Now the highest
order of mortals were sitting down to their dinners, and the lowest order
to their suppers. In a word, the clock struck five just as Mr Jones took
his leave of Gloucester; an hour at which (as it was now mid-winter) the
dirty fingers of Night would have drawn her sable curtain over the
universe, had not the moon forbid her, who now, with a face as broad and
as red as those of some jolly mortals, who, like her, turn night into day,
began to rise from her bed, where she had slumbered away the day, in order
to sit up all night. Jones had not travelled far before he paid his
compliments to that beautiful planet, and, turning to his companion, asked
him if he had ever beheld so delicious an evening? Partridge making no
ready answer to his question, he proceeded to comment on the beauty of the
moon, and repeated some passages from Milton, who hath certainly excelled
all other poets in his description of the heavenly luminaries. He then
told Partridge the story from the Spectator, of two lovers who had agreed
to entertain themselves when they were at a great distance from each
other, by repairing, at a certain fixed hour, to look at the moon; thus
pleasing themselves with the thought that they were both employed in
contemplating the same object at the same time. “Those lovers,”
added he, “must have had souls truly capable of feeling all the
tenderness of the sublimest of all human passions.”—“Very
probably,” cries Partridge: “but I envy them more, if they had
bodies incapable of feeling cold; for I am almost frozen to death, and am
very much afraid I shall lose a piece of my nose before we get to another
house of entertainment. Nay, truly, we may well expect some judgment
should happen to us for our folly in running away so by night from one of
the most excellent inns I ever set my foot into. I am sure I never saw
more good things in my life, and the greatest lord in the land cannot live
better in his own house than he may there. And to forsake such a house,
and go a rambling about the country, the Lord knows whither, per devia
rura viarum, I say nothing for my part; but some people might not have
charity enough to conclude we were in our sober senses.”—“Fie
upon it, Mr Partridge!” says Jones, “have a better heart;
consider you are going to face an enemy; and are you afraid of facing a
little cold? I wish, indeed, we had a guide to advise which of these roads
we should take.”—“May I be so bold,” says
Partridge, “to offer my advice? Interdum stultus opportuna
loquitur”—“Why, which of them,” cries Jones,
“would you recommend?”—“Truly neither of them,”
answered Partridge. “The only road we can be certain of finding, is
the road we came. A good hearty pace will bring us back to Gloucester in
an hour; but if we go forward, the Lord Harry knows when we shall arrive
at any place; for I see at least fifty miles before me, and no house in
all the way.”—“You see, indeed, a very fair prospect,”
says Jones, “which receives great additional beauty from the extreme
lustre of the moon. However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that
seems to lead directly to those hills, which we were informed lie not far
from Worcester. And here, if you are inclined to quit me, you may, and
return back again; but for my part, I am resolved to go forward.”

“It is unkind in you, sir,” says Partridge, “to suspect
me of any such intention. What I have advised hath been as much on your
account as on my own: but since you are determined to go on, I am as much
determined to follow. I prae sequar te.”

They now travelled some miles without speaking to each other, during which
suspense of discourse Jones often sighed, and Benjamin groaned as
bitterly, though from a very different reason. At length Jones made a full
stop, and turning about, cries, “Who knows, Partridge, but the
loveliest creature in the universe may have her eyes now fixed on that
very moon which I behold at this instant?” “Very likely, sir,”
answered Partridge; “and if my eyes were fixed on a good surloin of
roast beef, the devil might take the moon and her horns into the bargain.”
“Did ever Tramontane make such an answer?” cries Jones.
“Prithee, Partridge, wast thou ever susceptible of love in thy life,
or hath time worn away all the traces of it from thy memory?”
“Alack-a-day!” cries Partridge, “well would it have been
for me if I had never known what love was. Infandum regina jubes
renovare dolorem. I am sure I have tasted all the tenderness, and
sublimities, and bitternesses of the passion.” “Was your
mistress unkind, then?” says Jones. “Very unkind, indeed, sir,”
answered Partridge; “for she married me, and made one of the most
confounded wives in the world. However, heaven be praised, she’s gone; and
if I believed she was in the moon, according to a book I once read, which
teaches that to be the receptacle of departed spirits, I would never look
at it for fear of seeing her; but I wish, sir, that the moon was a
looking-glass for your sake, and that Miss Sophia Western was now placed
before it.” “My dear Partridge,” cries Jones, “what
a thought was there! A thought which I am certain could never have entered
into any mind but that of a lover. O Partridge! could I hope once again to
see that face; but, alas! all those golden dreams are vanished for ever,
and my only refuge from future misery is to forget the object of all my
former happiness.” “And do you really despair of ever seeing
Miss Western again?” answered Partridge; “if you will follow
my advice I will engage you shall not only see her but have her in your
arms.” “Ha! do not awaken a thought of that nature,”
cries Jones: “I have struggled sufficiently to conquer all such
wishes already.” “Nay,” answered Partridge, “if
you do not wish to have your mistress in your arms you are a most
extraordinary lover indeed.” “Well, well,” says Jones,
“let us avoid this subject; but pray what is your advice?”
“To give it you in the military phrase, then,” says Partridge,
“as we are soldiers, `To the right about.’ Let us return the way we
came; we may yet reach Gloucester to-night, though late; whereas, if we
proceed, we are likely, for aught I see, to ramble about for ever without
coming either to house or home.” “I have already told you my
resolution is to go on,” answered Jones; “but I would have you
go back. I am obliged to you for your company hither; and I beg you to
accept a guinea as a small instance of my gratitude. Nay, it would be
cruel in me to suffer you to go any farther; for, to deal plainly with
you, my chief end and desire is a glorious death in the service of my king
and country.” “As for your money,” replied Partridge,
“I beg, sir, you will put it up; I will receive none of you at this
time; for at present I am, I believe, the richer man of the two. And as
your resolution is to go on, so mine is to follow you if you do. Nay, now
my presence appears absolutely necessary to take care of you, since your
intentions are so desperate; for I promise you my views are much more
prudent; as you are resolved to fall in battle if you can, so I am
resolved as firmly to come to no hurt if I can help it. And, indeed, I
have the comfort to think there will be but little danger; for a popish
priest told me the other day the business would soon be over, and he
believed without a battle.” “A popish priest!” cries
Jones, “I have heard is not always to be believed when he speaks in
behalf of his religion.” “Yes, but so far,” answered the
other, “from speaking in behalf of his religion, he assured me the
Catholicks did not expect to be any gainers by the change; for that Prince
Charles was as good a Protestant as any in England; and that nothing but
regard to right made him and the rest of the popish party to be Jacobites.”—“I
believe him to be as much a Protestant as I believe he hath any right,”
says Jones; “and I make no doubt of our success, but not without a
battle. So that I am not so sanguine as your friend the popish priest.”
“Nay, to be sure, sir,” answered Partridge, “all the
prophecies I have ever read speak of a great deal of blood to be spilt in
the quarrel, and the miller with three thumbs, who is now alive, is to
hold the horses of three kings, up to his knees in blood. Lord, have mercy
upon us all, and send better times!” “With what stuff and
nonsense hast thou filled thy head!” answered Jones: “this
too, I suppose, comes from the popish priest. Monsters and prodigies are
the proper arguments to support monstrous and absurd doctrines. The cause
of King George is the cause of liberty and true religion. In other words,
it is the cause of common sense, my boy, and I warrant you will succeed,
though Briarius himself was to rise again with his hundred thumbs, and to
turn miller.” Partridge made no reply to this. He was, indeed, cast
into the utmost confusion by this declaration of Jones. For, to inform the
reader of a secret, which he had no proper opportunity of revealing
before, Partridge was in truth a Jacobite, and had concluded that Jones
was of the same party, and was now proceeding to join the rebels. An
opinion which was not without foundation. For the tall, long-sided dame,
mentioned by Hudibras—that many-eyed, many-tongued, many-mouthed,
many-eared monster of Virgil, had related the story of the quarrel between
Jones and the officer, with the usual regard to truth. She had, indeed,
changed the name of Sophia into that of the Pretender, and had reported,
that drinking his health was the cause for which Jones was knocked down.
This Partridge had heard, and most firmly believed. ‘Tis no wonder,
therefore, that he had thence entertained the above-mentioned opinion of
Jones; and which he had almost discovered to him before he found out his
own mistake. And at this the reader will be the less inclined to wonder,
if he pleases to recollect the doubtful phrase in which Jones first
communicated his resolution to Mr Partridge; and, indeed, had the words
been less ambiguous, Partridge might very well have construed them as he
did; being persuaded as he was that the whole nation were of the same
inclination in their hearts; nor did it stagger him that Jones had
travelled in the company of soldiers; for he had the same opinion of the
army which he had of the rest of the people.

But however well affected he might be to James or Charles, he was still
much more attached to Little Benjamin than to either; for which reason he
no sooner discovered the principles of his fellow-traveller than he
thought proper to conceal and outwardly give up his own to the man on whom
he depended for the making his fortune, since he by no means believed the
affairs of Jones to be so desperate as they really were with Mr Allworthy;
for as he had kept a constant correspondence with some of his neighbours
since he left that country, he had heard much, indeed more than was true,
of the great affection Mr Allworthy bore this young man, who, as Partridge
had been instructed, was to be that gentleman’s heir, and whom, as we have
said, he did not in the least doubt to be his son.

He imagined therefore that whatever quarrel was between them, it would be
certainly made up at the return of Mr Jones; an event from which he
promised great advantages, if he could take this opportunity of
ingratiating himself with that young gentleman; and if he could by any
means be instrumental in procuring his return, he doubted not, as we have
before said, but it would as highly advance him in the favour of Mr
Allworthy.

We have already observed, that he was a very good-natured fellow, and he
hath himself declared the violent attachment he had to the person and
character of Jones; but possibly the views which I have just before
mentioned, might likewise have some little share in prompting him to
undertake this expedition, at least in urging him to continue it, after he
had discovered that his master and himself, like some prudent fathers and
sons, though they travelled together in great friendship, had embraced
opposite parties. I am led into this conjecture, by having remarked, that
though love, friendship, esteem, and such like, have very powerful
operations in the human mind; interest, however, is an ingredient seldom
omitted by wise men, when they would work others to their own purposes.
This is indeed a most excellent medicine, and, like Ward’s pill, flies at
once to the particular part of the body on which you desire to operate,
whether it be the tongue, the hand, or any other member, where it scarce
ever fails of immediately producing the desired effect.

Chapter x. — In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary
adventure.

Just as Jones and his friend came to the end of their dialogue in the
preceding chapter, they arrived at the bottom of a very steep hill. Here
Jones stopt short, and directing his eyes upwards, stood for a while
silent. At length he called to his companion, and said, “Partridge,
I wish I was at the top of this hill; it must certainly afford a most
charming prospect, especially by this light; for the solemn gloom which
the moon casts on all objects, is beyond expression beautiful, especially
to an imagination which is desirous of cultivating melancholy ideas.”—“Very
probably,” answered Partridge; “but if the top of the hill be
properest to produce melancholy thoughts, I suppose the bottom is the
likeliest to produce merry ones, and these I take to be much the better of
the two. I protest you have made my blood run cold with the very
mentioning the top of that mountain; which seems to me to be one of the
highest in the world. No, no, if we look for anything, let it be for a
place under ground, to screen ourselves from the frost.”—“Do
so,” said Jones; “let it be but within hearing of this place,
and I will hallow to you at my return back.”—“Surely,
sir, you are not mad,” said Partridge.—“Indeed, I am,”
answered Jones, “if ascending this hill be madness; but as you
complain so much of the cold already, I would have you stay below. I will
certainly return to you within an hour.”—“Pardon me,
sir,” cries Partridge; “I have determined to follow you
wherever you go.” Indeed he was now afraid to stay behind; for
though he was coward enough in all respects, yet his chief fear was that
of ghosts, with which the present time of night, and the wildness of the
place, extremely well suited.

At this instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through some trees,
which seemed very near to them. He immediately cried out in a rapture,
“Oh, sir! Heaven hath at last heard my prayers, and hath brought us
to a house; perhaps it may be an inn. Let me beseech you, sir, if you have
any compassion either for me or yourself, do not despise the goodness of
Providence, but let us go directly to yon light. Whether it be a
public-house or no, I am sure if they be Christians that dwell there, they
will not refuse a little house-room to persons in our miserable condition.”
Jones at length yielded to the earnest supplications of Partridge, and
both together made directly towards the place whence the light issued.

They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for it might be
called either, without much impropriety. Here Jones knocked several times
without receiving any answer from within; at which Partridge, whose head
was full of nothing but of ghosts, devils, witches, and such like, began
to tremble, crying, “Lord, have mercy upon us! surely the people
must be all dead. I can see no light neither now, and yet I am certain I
saw a candle burning but a moment before.—Well! I have heard of such
things.”—“What hast thou heard of?” said Jones.
“The people are either fast asleep, or probably, as this is a lonely
place, are afraid to open their door.” He then began to vociferate
pretty loudly, and at last an old woman, opening an upper casement, asked,
Who they were, and what they wanted? Jones answered, They were travellers
who had lost their way, and having seen a light in the window, had been
led thither in hopes of finding some fire to warm themselves. “Whoever
you are,” cries the woman, “you have no business here; nor
shall I open the door to any one at this time of night.” Partridge,
whom the sound of a human voice had recovered from his fright, fell to the
most earnest supplications to be admitted for a few minutes to the fire,
saying, he was almost dead with the cold; to which fear had indeed
contributed equally with the frost. He assured her that the gentleman who
spoke to her was one of the greatest squires in the country; and made use
of every argument, save one, which Jones afterwards effectually added; and
this was, the promise of half-a-crown;—a bribe too great to be
resisted by such a person, especially as the genteel appearance of Jones,
which the light of the moon plainly discovered to her, together with his
affable behaviour, had entirely subdued those apprehensions of thieves
which she had at first conceived. She agreed, therefore, at last, to let
them in; where Partridge, to his infinite joy, found a good fire ready for
his reception.

The poor fellow, however, had no sooner warmed himself, than those
thoughts which were always uppermost in his mind, began a little to
disturb his brain. There was no article of his creed in which he had a
stronger faith than he had in witchcraft, nor can the reader conceive a
figure more adapted to inspire this idea, than the old woman who now stood
before him. She answered exactly to that picture drawn by Otway in his
Orphan. Indeed, if this woman had lived in the reign of James the First,
her appearance alone would have hanged her, almost without any evidence.

Many circumstances likewise conspired to confirm Partridge in his opinion.
Her living, as he then imagined, by herself in so lonely a place; and in a
house, the outside of which seemed much too good for her, but its inside
was furnished in the most neat and elegant manner. To say the truth, Jones
himself was not a little surprized at what he saw; for, besides the
extraordinary neatness of the room, it was adorned with a great number of
nicknacks and curiosities, which might have engaged the attention of a
virtuoso.

While Jones was admiring these things, and Partridge sat trembling with
the firm belief that he was in the house of a witch, the old woman said,
“I hope, gentlemen, you will make what haste you can; for I expect
my master presently, and I would not for double the money he should find
you here.”—“Then you have a master?” cried Jones.
“Indeed, you will excuse me, good woman, but I was surprized to see
all those fine things in your house.”—“Ah, sir,”
said she, “if the twentieth part of these things were mine, I should
think myself a rich woman. But pray, sir, do not stay much longer, for I
look for him in every minute.”—“Why, sure he would not
be angry with you,” said Jones, “for doing a common act of
charity?”—“Alack-a-day, sir!” said she, “he
is a strange man, not at all like other people. He keeps no company with
anybody, and seldom walks out but by night, for he doth not care to be
seen; and all the country people are as much afraid of meeting him; for
his dress is enough to frighten those who are not used to it. They call
him, the Man of the Hill (for there he walks by night), and the country
people are not, I believe, more afraid of the devil himself. He would be
terribly angry if he found you here.”—“Pray, sir,”
says Partridge, “don’t let us offend the gentleman; I am ready to
walk, and was never warmer in my life. Do pray, sir, let us go. Here are
pistols over the chimney: who knows whether they be charged or no, or what
he may do with them?”—“Fear nothing, Partridge,”
cries Jones; “I will secure thee from danger.”—“Nay,
for matter o’ that, he never doth any mischief,” said the woman;
“but to be sure it is necessary he should keep some arms for his own
safety; for his house hath been beset more than once; and it is not many
nights ago that we thought we heard thieves about it: for my own part, I
have often wondered that he is not murdered by some villain or other, as
he walks out by himself at such hours; but then, as I said, the people are
afraid of him; and besides, they think, I suppose, he hath nothing about
him worth taking.”—“I should imagine, by this collection
of rarities,” cries Jones, “that your master had been a
traveller.”—“Yes, sir,” answered she, “he
hath been a very great one: there be few gentlemen that know more of all
matters than he. I fancy he hath been crost in love, or whatever it is I
know not; but I have lived with him above these thirty years, and in all
that time he hath hardly spoke to six living people.” She then again
solicited their departure, in which she was backed by Partridge; but Jones
purposely protracted the time, for his curiosity was greatly raised to see
this extraordinary person. Though the old woman, therefore, concluded
every one of her answers with desiring him to be gone, and Partridge
proceeded so far as to pull him by the sleeve, he still continued to
invent new questions, till the old woman, with an affrighted countenance,
declared she heard her master’s signal; and at the same instant more than
one voice was heard without the door, crying, “D—n your blood,
show us your money this instant. Your money, you villain, or we will blow
your brains about your ears.”

“O, good heaven!” cries the old woman, “some villains,
to be sure, have attacked my master. O la! what shall I do? what shall I
do?”—“How!” cries Jones, “how!—Are
these pistols loaded?”—“O, good sir, there is nothing in
them, indeed. O pray don’t murder us, gentlemen!” (for in reality
she now had the same opinion of those within as she had of those without).
Jones made her no answer; but snatching an old broad sword which hung in
the room, he instantly sallied out, where he found the old gentleman
struggling with two ruffians, and begging for mercy. Jones asked no
questions, but fell so briskly to work with his broad sword, that the
fellows immediately quitted their hold; and without offering to attack our
heroe, betook themselves to their heels and made their escape; for he did
not attempt to pursue them, being contented with having delivered the old
gentleman; and indeed he concluded he had pretty well done their business,
for both of them, as they ran off, cried out with bitter oaths that they
were dead men.

Jones presently ran to lift up the old gentleman, who had been thrown down
in the scuffle, expressing at the same time great concern lest he should
have received any harm from the villains. The old man stared a moment at
Jones, and then cried, “No, sir, no, I have very little harm, I
thank you. Lord have mercy upon me!”—“I see, sir,”
said Jones, “you are not free from apprehensions even of those who
have had the happiness to be your deliverers; nor can I blame any
suspicions which you may have; but indeed you have no real occasion for
any; here are none but your friends present. Having mist our way this cold
night, we took the liberty of warming ourselves at your fire, whence we
were just departing when we heard you call for assistance, which, I must
say, Providence alone seems to have sent you.”—“Providence,
indeed,” cries the old gentleman, “if it be so.”—“So
it is, I assure you,” cries Jones. “Here is your own sword,
sir; I have used it in your defence, and I now return it into your hand.”
The old man having received the sword, which was stained with the blood of
his enemies, looked stedfastly at Jones during some moments, and then with
a sigh cried out, “You will pardon me, young gentleman; I was not
always of a suspicious temper, nor am I a friend to ingratitude.”

“Be thankful then,” cries Jones, “to that Providence to
which you owe your deliverance: as to my part, I have only discharged the
common duties of humanity, and what I would have done for any
fellow-creature in your situation.”—“Let me look at you
a little longer,” cries the old gentleman. “You are a human
creature then? Well, perhaps you are. Come pray walk into my little hutt.
You have been my deliverer indeed.”

The old woman was distracted between the fears which she had of her
master, and for him; and Partridge was, if possible, in a greater fright.
The former of these, however, when she heard her master speak kindly to
Jones, and perceived what had happened, came again to herself; but
Partridge no sooner saw the gentleman, than the strangeness of his dress
infused greater terrors into that poor fellow than he had before felt,
either from the strange description which he had heard, or from the uproar
which had happened at the door.

To say the truth, it was an appearance which might have affected a more
constant mind than that of Mr Partridge. This person was of the tallest
size, with a long beard as white as snow. His body was cloathed with the
skin of an ass, made something into the form of a coat. He wore likewise
boots on his legs, and a cap on his head, both composed of the skin of
some other animals.

As soon as the old gentleman came into his house, the old woman began her
congratulations on his happy escape from the ruffians. “Yes,”
cried he, “I have escaped, indeed, thanks to my preserver.”—“O
the blessing on him!” answered she: “he is a good gentleman, I
warrant him. I was afraid your worship would have been angry with me for
letting him in; and to be certain I should not have done it, had not I
seen by the moon-light, that he was a gentleman, and almost frozen to
death. And to be certain it must have been some good angel that sent him
hither, and tempted me to do it.”

“I am afraid, sir,” said the old gentleman to Jones, “that
I have nothing in this house which you can either eat or drink, unless you
will accept a dram of brandy; of which I can give you some most excellent,
and which I have had by me these thirty years.” Jones declined this
offer in a very civil and proper speech, and then the other asked him,
“Whither he was travelling when he mist his way?” saying,
“I must own myself surprized to see such a person as you appear to
be, journeying on foot at this time of night. I suppose, sir, you are a
gentleman of these parts; for you do not look like one who is used to
travel far without horses?”

“Appearances,” cried Jones, “are often deceitful; men
sometimes look what they are not. I assure you I am not of this country;
and whither I am travelling, in reality I scarce know myself.”

“Whoever you are, or whithersoever you are going,” answered
the old man, “I have obligations to you which I can never return.”

“I once more,” replied Jones, “affirm that you have
none; for there can be no merit in having hazarded that in your service on
which I set no value; and nothing is so contemptible in my eyes as life.”

“I am sorry, young gentleman,” answered the stranger, “that
you have any reason to be so unhappy at your years.”

“Indeed I am, sir,” answered Jones, “the most unhappy of
mankind.”—“Perhaps you have had a friend, or a mistress?”
replied the other. “How could you,” cries Jones, “mention
two words sufficient to drive me to distraction?”—“Either
of them are enough to drive any man to distraction,” answered the
old man. “I enquire no farther, sir; perhaps my curiosity hath led
me too far already.”

“Indeed, sir,” cries Jones, “I cannot censure a passion
which I feel at this instant in the highest degree. You will pardon me
when I assure you, that everything which I have seen or heard since I
first entered this house hath conspired to raise the greatest curiosity in
me. Something very extraordinary must have determined you to this course
of life, and I have reason to fear your own history is not without
misfortunes.”

Here the old gentleman again sighed, and remained silent for some minutes:
at last, looking earnestly on Jones, he said, “I have read that a
good countenance is a letter of recommendation; if so, none ever can be
more strongly recommended than yourself. If I did not feel some yearnings
towards you from another consideration, I must be the most ungrateful
monster upon earth; and I am really concerned it is no otherwise in my
power than by words to convince you of my gratitude.”

Jones, after a moment’s hesitation, answered, “That it was in his
power by words to gratify him extremely. I have confest a curiosity,”
said he, “sir; need I say how much obliged I should be to you, if
you would condescend to gratify it? Will you suffer me therefore to beg,
unless any consideration restrains you, that you would be pleased to
acquaint me what motives have induced you thus to withdraw from the
society of mankind, and to betake yourself to a course of life to which it
sufficiently appears you were not born?”

“I scarce think myself at liberty to refuse you anything after what
hath happened,” replied the old man. “If you desire therefore
to hear the story of an unhappy man, I will relate it to you. Indeed you
judge rightly, in thinking there is commonly something extraordinary in
the fortunes of those who fly from society; for however it may seem a
paradox, or even a contradiction, certain it is, that great philanthropy
chiefly inclines us to avoid and detest mankind; not on account so much of
their private and selfish vices, but for those of a relative kind; such as
envy, malice, treachery, cruelty, with every other species of malevolence.
These are the vices which true philanthropy abhors, and which rather than
see and converse with, she avoids society itself. However, without a
compliment to you, you do not appear to me one of those whom I should shun
or detest; nay, I must say, in what little hath dropt from you, there
appears some parity in our fortunes: I hope, however, yours will conclude
more successfully.”

Here some compliments passed between our heroe and his host, and then the
latter was going to begin his history, when Partridge interrupted him. His
apprehensions had now pretty well left him, but some effects of his
terrors remained; he therefore reminded the gentleman of that excellent
brandy which he had mentioned. This was presently brought, and Partridge
swallowed a large bumper.

The gentleman then, without any farther preface, began as you may read in
the next chapter.

Chapter xi. — In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his
history.

“I was born in a village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in the year
1657. My father was one of those whom they call gentlemen farmers. He had
a little estate of about £300 a year of his own, and rented another estate
of near the same value. He was prudent and industrious, and so good a
husbandman, that he might have led a very easy and comfortable life, had
not an arrant vixen of a wife soured his domestic quiet. But though this
circumstance perhaps made him miserable, it did not make him poor; for he
confined her almost entirely at home, and rather chose to bear eternal
upbraidings in his own house, than to injure his fortune by indulging her
in the extravagancies she desired abroad.

“By this Xanthippe” (so was the wife of Socrates called, said
Partridge)—“by this Xanthippe he had two sons, of which I was
the younger. He designed to give us both good education; but my elder
brother, who, unhappily for him, was the favourite of my mother, utterly
neglected his learning; insomuch that, after having been five or six years
at school with little or no improvement, my father, being told by his
master that it would be to no purpose to keep him longer there, at last
complied with my mother in taking him home from the hands of that tyrant,
as she called his master; though indeed he gave the lad much less
correction than his idleness deserved, but much more, it seems, than the
young gentleman liked, who constantly complained to his mother of his
severe treatment, and she as constantly gave him a hearing.”

“Yes, yes,” cries Partridge, “I have seen such mothers;
I have been abused myself by them, and very unjustly; such parents deserve
correction as much as their children.”

Jones chid the pedagogue for his interruption, and then the stranger
proceeded.

“My brother now, at the age of fifteen, bade adieu to all learning,
and to everything else but to his dog and gun; with which latter he became
so expert, that, though perhaps you may think it incredible, he could not
only hit a standing mark with great certainty, but hath actually shot a
crow as it was flying in the air. He was likewise excellent at finding a
hare sitting, and was soon reputed one of the best sportsmen in the
country; a reputation which both he and his mother enjoyed as much as if
he had been thought the finest scholar.

“The situation of my brother made me at first think my lot the
harder, in being continued at school: but I soon changed my opinion; for
as I advanced pretty fast in learning, my labours became easy, and my
exercise so delightful, that holidays were my most unpleasant time; for my
mother, who never loved me, now apprehending that I had the greater share
of my father’s affection, and finding, or at least thinking, that I was
more taken notice of by some gentlemen of learning, and particularly by
the parson of the parish, than my brother, she now hated my sight, and
made home so disagreeable to me, that what is called by school-boys Black
Monday, was to me the whitest in the whole year.

“Having at length gone through the school at Taunton, I was thence
removed to Exeter College in Oxford, where I remained four years; at the
end of which an accident took me off entirely from my studies; and hence,
I may truly date the rise of all which happened to me afterwards in life.

“There was at the same college with myself one Sir George Gresham, a
young fellow who was intitled to a very considerable fortune, which he was
not, by the will of his father, to come into full possession of till he
arrived at the age of twenty-five. However, the liberality of his
guardians gave him little cause to regret the abundant caution of his
father; for they allowed him five hundred pounds a year while he remained
at the university, where he kept his horses and his whore, and lived as
wicked and as profligate a life as he could have done had he been never so
entirely master of his fortune; for besides the five hundred a year which
he received from his guardians, he found means to spend a thousand more.
He was above the age of twenty-one, and had no difficulty in gaining what
credit he pleased.

“This young fellow, among many other tolerable bad qualities, had
one very diabolical. He had a great delight in destroying and ruining the
youth of inferior fortune, by drawing them into expenses which they could
not afford so well as himself; and the better, and worthier, and soberer
any young man was, the greater pleasure and triumph had he in his
destruction. Thus acting the character which is recorded of the devil, and
going about seeking whom he might devour.

“It was my misfortune to fall into an acquaintance and intimacy with
this gentleman. My reputation of diligence in my studies made me a
desirable object of his mischievous intention; and my own inclination made
it sufficiently easy for him to effect his purpose; for though I had
applied myself with much industry to books, in which I took great delight,
there were other pleasures in which I was capable of taking much greater;
for I was high-mettled, had a violent flow of animal spirits, was a little
ambitious, and extremely amorous.

“I had not long contracted an intimacy with Sir George before I
became a partaker of all his pleasures; and when I was once entered on
that scene, neither my inclination nor my spirit would suffer me to play
an under part. I was second to none of the company in any acts of
debauchery; nay, I soon distinguished myself so notably in all riots and
disorders, that my name generally stood first in the roll of delinquents;
and instead of being lamented as the unfortunate pupil of Sir George, I
was now accused as the person who had misled and debauched that hopeful
young gentleman; for though he was the ringleader and promoter of all the
mischief, he was never so considered. I fell at last under the censure of
the vice-chancellor, and very narrowly escaped expulsion.

“You will easily believe, sir, that such a life as I am now
describing must be incompatible with my further progress in learning; and
that in proportion as I addicted myself more and more to loose pleasure, I
must grow more and more remiss in application to my studies. This was
truly the consequence; but this was not all. My expenses now greatly
exceeded not only my former income, but those additions which I extorted
from my poor generous father, on pretences of sums being necessary for
preparing for my approaching degree of batchelor of arts. These demands,
however, grew at last so frequent and exorbitant, that my father by slow
degrees opened his ears to the accounts which he received from many
quarters of my present behaviour, and which my mother failed not to echo
very faithfully and loudly; adding, `Ay, this is the fine gentleman, the
scholar who doth so much honour to his family, and is to be the making of
it. I thought what all this learning would come to. He is to be the ruin
of us all, I find, after his elder brother hath been denied necessaries
for his sake, to perfect his education forsooth, for which he was to pay
us such interest: I thought what the interest would come to,’ with much
more of the same kind; but I have, I believe, satisfied you with this
taste.

“My father, therefore, began now to return remonstrances instead of
money to my demands, which brought my affairs perhaps a little sooner to a
crisis; but had he remitted me his whole income, you will imagine it could
have sufficed a very short time to support one who kept pace with the
expenses of Sir George Gresham.

“It is more than possible that the distress I was now in for money,
and the impracticability of going on in this manner, might have restored
me at once to my senses and to my studies, had I opened my eyes before I
became involved in debts from which I saw no hopes of ever extricating
myself. This was indeed the great art of Sir George, and by which he
accomplished the ruin of many, whom he afterwards laughed at as fools and
coxcombs, for vying, as he called it, with a man of his fortune. To bring
this about, he would now and then advance a little money himself, in order
to support the credit of the unfortunate youth with other people; till, by
means of that very credit, he was irretrievably undone.

“My mind being by these means grown as desperate as my fortune,
there was scarce a wickedness which I did not meditate, in order for my
relief. Self-murder itself became the subject of my serious deliberation;
and I had certainly resolved on it, had not a more shameful, though
perhaps less sinful, thought expelled it from my head.”—Here
he hesitated a moment, and then cried out, “I protest, so many years
have not washed away the shame of this act, and I shall blush while I
relate it.” Jones desired him to pass over anything that might give
him pain in the relation; but Partridge eagerly cried out, “Oh,
pray, sir, let us hear this; I had rather hear this than all the rest; as
I hope to be saved, I will never mention a word of it.” Jones was
going to rebuke him, but the stranger prevented it by proceeding thus:
“I had a chum, a very prudent, frugal young lad, who, though he had
no very large allowance, had by his parsimony heaped up upwards of forty
guineas, which I knew he kept in his escritore. I took therefore an
opportunity of purloining his key from his breeches-pocket, while he was
asleep, and thus made myself master of all his riches: after which I again
conveyed his key into his pocket, and counterfeiting sleep—though I
never once closed my eyes, lay in bed till after he arose and went to
prayers—an exercise to which I had long been unaccustomed.

“Timorous thieves, by extreme caution, often subject themselves to
discoveries, which those of a bolder kind escape. Thus it happened to me;
for had I boldly broke open his escritore, I had, perhaps, escaped even
his suspicion; but as it was plain that the person who robbed him had
possessed himself of his key, he had no doubt, when he first missed his
money, but that his chum was certainly the thief. Now as he was of a
fearful disposition, and much my inferior in strength, and I believe in
courage, he did not dare to confront me with my guilt, for fear of worse
bodily consequences which might happen to him. He repaired therefore
immediately to the vice-chancellor, and upon swearing to the robbery, and
to the circumstances of it, very easily obtained a warrant against one who
had now so bad a character through the whole university.

“Luckily for me, I lay out of the college the next evening; for that
day I attended a young lady in a chaise to Witney, where we staid all
night, and in our return, the next morning, to Oxford, I met one of my
cronies, who acquainted me with sufficient news concerning myself to make
me turn my horse another way.”

“Pray, sir, did he mention anything of the warrant?” said
Partridge. But Jones begged the gentleman to proceed without regarding any
impertinent questions; which he did as follows:—

“Having now abandoned all thoughts of returning to Oxford, the next
thing which offered itself was a journey to London. I imparted this
intention to my female companion, who at first remonstrated against it;
but upon producing my wealth, she immediately consented. We then struck
across the country, into the great Cirencester road, and made such haste,
that we spent the next evening, save one, in London.

“When you consider the place where I now was, and the company with
whom I was, you will, I fancy, conceive that a very short time brought me
to an end of that sum of which I had so iniquitously possessed myself.

“I was now reduced to a much higher degree of distress than before:
the necessaries of life began to be numbered among my wants; and what made
my case still the more grievous was, that my paramour, of whom I was now
grown immoderately fond, shared the same distresses with myself. To see a
woman you love in distress; to be unable to relieve her, and at the same
time to reflect that you have brought her into this situation, is perhaps
a curse of which no imagination can represent the horrors to those who
have not felt it.”—“I believe it from my soul,”
cries Jones, “and I pity you from the bottom of my heart:” he
then took two or three disorderly turns about the room, and at last begged
pardon, and flung himself into his chair, crying, “I thank Heaven, I
have escaped that!”

“This circumstance,” continued the gentleman, “so
severely aggravated the horrors of my present situation, that they became
absolutely intolerable. I could with less pain endure the raging in my own
natural unsatisfied appetites, even hunger or thirst, than I could submit
to leave ungratified the most whimsical desires of a woman on whom I so
extravagantly doated, that, though I knew she had been the mistress of
half my acquaintance, I firmly intended to marry her. But the good
creature was unwilling to consent to an action which the world might think
so much to my disadvantage. And as, possibly, she compassionated the daily
anxieties which she must have perceived me suffer on her account, she
resolved to put an end to my distress. She soon, indeed, found means to
relieve me from my troublesome and perplexed situation; for while I was
distracted with various inventions to supply her with pleasures, she very
kindly—betrayed me to one of her former lovers at Oxford, by whose
care and diligence I was immediately apprehended and committed to gaol.

“Here I first began seriously to reflect on the miscarriages of my
former life; on the errors I had been guilty of; on the misfortunes which
I had brought on myself; and on the grief which I must have occasioned to
one of the best of fathers. When I added to all these the perfidy of my
mistress, such was the horror of my mind, that life, instead of being
longer desirable, grew the object of my abhorrence; and I could have
gladly embraced death as my dearest friend, if it had offered itself to my
choice unattended by shame.

“The time of the assizes soon came, and I was removed by habeas
corpus to Oxford, where I expected certain conviction and condemnation;
but, to my great surprize, none appeared against me, and I was, at the end
of the sessions, discharged for want of prosecution. In short, my chum had
left Oxford, and whether from indolence, or from what other motive I am
ignorant, had declined concerning himself any farther in the affair.”

“Perhaps,” cries Partridge, “he did not care to have
your blood upon his hands; and he was in the right on’t. If any person was
to be hanged upon my evidence, I should never be able to lie alone
afterwards, for fear of seeing his ghost.”

“I shall shortly doubt, Partridge,” says Jones, “whether
thou art more brave or wise.”—“You may laugh at me, sir,
if you please,” answered Partridge; “but if you will hear a
very short story which I can tell, and which is most certainly true,
perhaps you may change your opinion. In the parish where I was born—”
Here Jones would have silenced him; but the stranger interceded that he
might be permitted to tell his story, and in the meantime promised to
recollect the remainder of his own.

Partridge then proceeded thus: “In the parish where I was born,
there lived a farmer whose name was Bridle, and he had a son named
Francis, a good hopeful young fellow: I was at the grammar-school with
him, where I remember he was got into Ovid’s Epistles, and he could
construe you three lines together sometimes without looking into a
dictionary. Besides all this, he was a very good lad, never missed church
o’ Sundays, and was reckoned one of the best psalm-singers in the whole
parish. He would indeed now and then take a cup too much, and that was the
only fault he had.”—“Well, but come to the ghost,”
cries Jones. “Never fear, sir; I shall come to him soon enough,”
answered Partridge. “You must know, then, that farmer Bridle lost a
mare, a sorrel one, to the best of my remembrance; and so it fell out that
this young Francis shortly afterward being at a fair at Hindon, and as I
think it was on—, I can’t remember the day; and being as he was,
what should he happen to meet but a man upon his father’s mare. Frank
called out presently, Stop thief; and it being in the middle of the fair,
it was impossible, you know, for the man to make his escape. So they
apprehended him and carried him before the justice: I remember it was
Justice Willoughby, of Noyle, a very worthy good gentleman; and he
committed him to prison, and bound Frank in a recognisance, I think they
call it—a hard word compounded of re and cognosco; but
it differs in its meaning from the use of the simple, as many other
compounds do. Well, at last down came my Lord Justice Page to hold the
assizes; and so the fellow was had up, and Frank was had up for a witness.
To be sure, I shall never forget the face of the judge, when he began to
ask him what he had to say against the prisoner. He made poor Frank
tremble and shake in his shoes. `Well you, fellow,’ says my lord, `what
have you to say? Don’t stand humming and hawing, but speak out.’ But,
however, he soon turned altogether as civil to Frank, and began to thunder
at the fellow; and when he asked him if he had anything to say for
himself, the fellow said, he had found the horse. `Ay!’ answered the
judge, `thou art a lucky fellow: I have travelled the circuit these forty
years, and never found a horse in my life: but I’ll tell thee what,
friend, thou wast more lucky than thou didst know of; for thou didst not
only find a horse, but a halter too, I promise thee.’ To be sure, I shall
never forget the word. Upon which everybody fell a laughing, as how could
they help it? Nay, and twenty other jests he made, which I can’t remember
now. There was something about his skill in horse-flesh which made all the
folks laugh. To be certain, the judge must have been a very brave man, as
well as a man of much learning. It is indeed charming sport to hear trials
upon life and death. One thing I own I thought a little hard, that the
prisoner’s counsel was not suffered to speak for him, though he desired
only to be heard one very short word, but my lord would not hearken to
him, though he suffered a counsellor to talk against him for above
half-an-hour. I thought it hard, I own, that there should be so many of
them; my lord, and the court, and the jury, and the counsellors, and the
witnesses, all upon one poor man, and he too in chains. Well, the fellow
was hanged, as to be sure it could be no otherwise, and poor Frank could
never be easy about it. He never was in the dark alone, but he fancied he
saw the fellow’s spirit.”—“Well, and is this thy story?”
cries Jones. “No, no,” answered Partridge. “O Lord have
mercy upon me! I am just now coming to the matter; for one night, coming
from the alehouse, in a long, narrow, dark lane, there he ran directly up
against him; and the spirit was all in white, and fell upon Frank; and
Frank, who was a sturdy lad, fell upon the spirit again, and there they
had a tussel together, and poor Frank was dreadfully beat: indeed he made
a shift at last to crawl home; but what with the beating, and what with
the fright, he lay ill above a fortnight; and all this is most certainly
true, and the whole parish will bear witness to it.”

The stranger smiled at this story, and Jones burst into a loud fit of
laughter; upon which Partridge cried, “Ay, you may laugh, sir; and
so did some others, particularly a squire, who is thought to be no better
than an atheist; who, forsooth, because there was a calf with a white face
found dead in the same lane the next morning, would fain have it that the
battle was between Frank and that, as if a calf would set upon a man.
Besides, Frank told me he knew it to be a spirit, and could swear to him
in any court in Christendom; and he had not drank above a quart or two or
such a matter of liquor, at the time. Lud have mercy upon us, and keep us
all from dipping our hands in blood, I say!”

“Well, sir,” said Jones to the stranger, “Mr Partridge
hath finished his story, and I hope will give you no future interruption,
if you will be so kind to proceed.” He then resumed his narration;
but as he hath taken breath for a while, we think proper to give it to our
reader, and shall therefore put an end to this chapter.

Chapter xii. — In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.

“I had now regained my liberty,” said the stranger; “but
I had lost my reputation; for there is a wide difference between the case
of a man who is barely acquitted of a crime in a court of justice, and of
him who is acquitted in his own heart, and in the opinion of the people. I
was conscious of my guilt, and ashamed to look any one in the face; so
resolved to leave Oxford the next morning, before the daylight discovered
me to the eyes of any beholders.

“When I had got clear of the city, it first entered into my head to
return home to my father, and endeavour to obtain his forgiveness; but as
I had no reason to doubt his knowledge of all which had past, and as I was
well assured of his great aversion to all acts of dishonesty, I could
entertain no hopes of being received by him, especially since I was too
certain of all the good offices in the power of my mother; nay, had my
father’s pardon been as sure, as I conceived his resentment to be, I yet
question whether I could have had the assurance to behold him, or whether
I could, upon any terms, have submitted to live and converse with those
who, I was convinced, knew me to have been guilty of so base an action.

“I hastened therefore back to London, the best retirement of either
grief or shame, unless for persons of a very public character; for here
you have the advantage of solitude without its disadvantage, since you may
be alone and in company at the same time; and while you walk or sit
unobserved, noise, hurry, and a constant succession of objects, entertain
the mind, and prevent the spirits from preying on themselves, or rather on
grief or shame, which are the most unwholesome diet in the world; and on
which (though there are many who never taste either but in public) there
are some who can feed very plentifully and very fatally when alone.

“But as there is scarce any human good without its concomitant evil,
so there are people who find an inconvenience in this unobserving temper
of mankind; I mean persons who have no money; for as you are not put out
of countenance, so neither are you cloathed or fed by those who do not
know you. And a man may be as easily starved in Leadenhall-market as in
the deserts of Arabia.

“It was at present my fortune to be destitute of that great evil, as
it is apprehended to be by several writers, who I suppose were
overburthened with it, namely, money.”—“With submission,
sir,” said Partridge, “I do not remember any writers who have
called it malorum; but irritamenta malorum. Effodiuntur
opes, irritamenta malorum”—“Well, sir,”
continued the stranger, “whether it be an evil, or only the cause of
evil, I was entirely void of it, and at the same time of friends, and, as
I thought, of acquaintance; when one evening, as I was passing through the
Inner Temple, very hungry, and very miserable, I heard a voice on a sudden
hailing me with great familiarity by my Christian name; and upon turning
about, I presently recollected the person who so saluted me to have been
my fellow-collegiate; one who had left the university above a year, and
long before any of my misfortunes had befallen me. This gentleman, whose
name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand; and expressing great joy
at meeting me, proposed our immediately drinking a bottle together. I
first declined the proposal, and pretended business, but as he was very
earnest and pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride, and I fairly
confessed to him I had no money in my pocket; yet not without framing a
lie for an excuse, and imputing it to my having changed my breeches that
morning. Mr Watson answered, `I thought, Jack, you and I had been too old
acquaintance for you to mention such a matter.’ He then took me by the
arm, and was pulling me along; but I gave him very little trouble, for my
own inclinations pulled me much stronger than he could do.

“We then went into the Friars, which you know is the scene of all
mirth and jollity. Here, when we arrived at the tavern, Mr Watson applied
himself to the drawer only, without taking the least notice of the cook;
for he had no suspicion but that I had dined long since. However, as the
case was really otherwise, I forged another falsehood, and told my
companion I had been at the further end of the city on business of
consequence, and had snapt up a mutton-chop in haste; so that I was again
hungry, and wished he would add a beef-steak to his bottle.”—“Some
people,” cries Partridge, “ought to have good memories; or did
you find just money enough in your breeches to pay for the mutton-chop?”—“Your
observation is right,” answered the stranger, “and I believe
such blunders are inseparable from all dealing in untruth.—But to
proceed—I began now to feel myself extremely happy. The meat and
wine soon revived my spirits to a high pitch, and I enjoyed much pleasure
in the conversation of my old acquaintance, the rather as I thought him
entirely ignorant of what had happened at the university since his leaving
it.

“But he did not suffer me to remain long in this agreeable delusion;
for taking a bumper in one hand, and holding me by the other, `Here, my
boy,’ cries he, `here’s wishing you joy of your being so honourably
acquitted of that affair laid to your charge.’ I was thunderstruck with
confusion at those words, which Watson observing, proceeded thus: `Nay,
never be ashamed, man; thou hast been acquitted, and no one now dares call
thee guilty; but, prithee, do tell me, who am thy friend—I hope thou
didst really rob him? for rat me if it was not a meritorious action to
strip such a sneaking, pitiful rascal; and instead of the two hundred
guineas, I wish you had taken as many thousand. Come, come, my boy, don’t
be shy of confessing to me: you are not now brought before one of the
pimps. D—n me if I don’t honour you for it; for, as I hope for
salvation, I would have made no manner of scruple of doing the same
thing.’

“This declaration a little relieved my abashment; and as wine had
now somewhat opened my heart, I very freely acknowledged the robbery, but
acquainted him that he had been misinformed as to the sum taken, which was
little more than a fifth part of what he had mentioned.

“`I am sorry for it with all my heart,’ quoth he, `and I wish thee
better success another time. Though, if you will take my advice, you shall
have no occasion to run any such risque. Here,’ said he, taking some dice
out of his pocket, `here’s the stuff. Here are the implements; here are
the little doctors which cure the distempers of the purse. Follow but my
counsel, and I will show you a way to empty the pocket of a queer cull
without any danger of the nubbing cheat.’”

“Nubbing cheat!” cries Partridge: “pray, sir, what is
that?”

“Why that, sir,” says the stranger, “is a cant phrase
for the gallows; for as gamesters differ little from highwaymen in their
morals, so do they very much resemble them in their language.

“We had now each drank our bottle, when Mr Watson said, the board
was sitting, and that he must attend, earnestly pressing me at the same
time to go with him and try my fortune. I answered he knew that was at
present out of my power, as I had informed him of the emptiness of my
pocket. To say the truth, I doubted not from his many strong expressions
of friendship, but that he would offer to lend me a small sum for that
purpose, but he answered, `Never mind that, man; e’en boldly run a levant’
[Partridge was going to inquire the meaning of that word, but Jones
stopped his mouth]: `but be circumspect as to the man. I will tip you the
proper person, which may be necessary, as you do not know the town, nor
can distinguish a rum cull from a queer one.”

“The bill was now brought, when Watson paid his share, and was
departing. I reminded him, not without blushing, of my having no money. He
answered, `That signifies nothing; score it behind the door, or make a
bold brush and take no notice.—Or—stay,’ says he; `I will go
down-stairs first, and then do you take up my money, and score the whole
reckoning at the bar, and I will wait for you at the corner.’ I expressed
some dislike at this, and hinted my expectations that he would have
deposited the whole; but he swore he had not another sixpence in his
pocket.

“He then went down, and I was prevailed on to take up the money and
follow him, which I did close enough to hear him tell the drawer the
reckoning was upon the table. The drawer past by me up-stairs; but I made
such haste into the street, that I heard nothing of his disappointment,
nor did I mention a syllable at the bar, according to my instructions.

“We now went directly to the gaming-table, where Mr Watson, to my
surprize, pulled out a large sum of money and placed it before him, as did
many others; all of them, no doubt, considering their own heaps as so many
decoy birds, which were to intice and draw over the heaps of their
neighbours.

“Here it would be tedious to relate all the freaks which Fortune, or
rather the dice, played in this her temple. Mountains of gold were in a
few moments reduced to nothing at one part of the table, and rose as
suddenly in another. The rich grew in a moment poor, and the poor as
suddenly became rich; so that it seemed a philosopher could nowhere have
so well instructed his pupils in the contempt of riches, at least he could
nowhere have better inculcated the incertainty of their duration.

“For my own part, after having considerably improved my small
estate, I at last entirely demolished it. Mr Watson too, after much
variety of luck, rose from the table in some heat, and declared he had
lost a cool hundred, and would play no longer. Then coming up to me, he
asked me to return with him to the tavern; but I positively refused,
saying, I would not bring myself a second time into such a dilemma, and
especially as he had lost all his money and was now in my own condition.
`Pooh!’ says he, `I have just borrowed a couple of guineas of a friend,
and one of them is at your service.’ He immediately put one of them into
my hand, and I no longer resisted his inclination.

“I was at first a little shocked at returning to the same house
whence we had departed in so unhandsome a manner; but when the drawer,
with very civil address, told us, `he believed we had forgot to pay our
reckoning,’ I became perfectly easy, and very readily gave him a guinea,
bid him pay himself, and acquiesced in the unjust charge which had been
laid on my memory.

“Mr Watson now bespoke the most extravagant supper he could well
think of; and though he had contented himself with simple claret before,
nothing now but the most precious Burgundy would serve his purpose.

“Our company was soon encreased by the addition of several gentlemen
from the gaming-table; most of whom, as I afterwards found, came not to
the tavern to drink, but in the way of business; for the true gamesters
pretended to be ill, and refused their glass, while they plied heartily
two young fellows, who were to be afterwards pillaged, as indeed they were
without mercy. Of this plunder I had the good fortune to be a sharer,
though I was not yet let into the secret.

“There was one remarkable accident attended this tavern play; for
the money by degrees totally disappeared; so that though at the beginning
the table was half covered with gold, yet before the play ended, which it
did not till the next day, being Sunday, at noon, there was scarce a
single guinea to be seen on the table; and this was the stranger as every
person present, except myself, declared he had lost; and what was become
of the money, unless the devil himself carried it away, is difficult to
determine.”

“Most certainly he did,” says Partridge, “for evil
spirits can carry away anything without being seen, though there were
never so many folk in the room; and I should not have been surprized if he
had carried away all the company of a set of wicked wretches, who were at
play in sermon time. And I could tell you a true story, if I would, where
the devil took a man out of bed from another man’s wife, and carried him
away through the keyhole of the door. I’ve seen the very house where it
was done, and nobody hath lived in it these thirty years.”

Though Jones was a little offended by the impertinence of Partridge, he
could not however avoid smiling at his simplicity. The stranger did the
same, and then proceeded with his story, as will be seen in the next
chapter.

Chapter xiii. — In which the foregoing story is farther continued.

“My fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a new scene of life. I
soon became acquainted with the whole fraternity of sharpers, and was let
into their secrets; I mean, into the knowledge of those gross cheats which
are proper to impose upon the raw and unexperienced; for there are some
tricks of a finer kind, which are known only to a few of the gang, who are
at the head of their profession; a degree of honour beyond my expectation;
for drink, to which I was immoderately addicted, and the natural warmth of
my passions, prevented me from arriving at any great success in an art
which requires as much coolness as the most austere school of philosophy.

“Mr Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest amity, had
unluckily the former failing to a very great excess; so that instead of
making a fortune by his profession, as some others did, he was alternately
rich and poor, and was often obliged to surrender to his cooler friends,
over a bottle which they never tasted, that plunder that he had taken from
culls at the public table.

“However, we both made a shift to pick up an uncomfortable
livelihood; and for two years I continued of the calling; during which
time I tasted all the varieties of fortune, sometimes flourishing in
affluence, and at others being obliged to struggle with almost incredible
difficulties. To-day wallowing in luxury, and to-morrow reduced to the
coarsest and most homely fare. My fine clothes being often on my back in
the evening, and at the pawn-shop the next morning.

“One night, as I was returning pennyless from the gaming-table, I
observed a very great disturbance, and a large mob gathered together in
the street. As I was in no danger from pickpockets, I ventured into the
croud, where upon enquiry I found that a man had been robbed and very ill
used by some ruffians. The wounded man appeared very bloody, and seemed
scarce able to support himself on his legs. As I had not therefore been
deprived of my humanity by my present life and conversation, though they
had left me very little of either honesty or shame, I immediately offered
my assistance to the unhappy person, who thankfully accepted it, and,
putting himself under my conduct, begged me to convey him to some tavern,
where he might send for a surgeon, being, as he said, faint with loss of
blood. He seemed indeed highly pleased at finding one who appeared in the
dress of a gentleman; for as to all the rest of the company present, their
outside was such that he could not wisely place any confidence in them.

“I took the poor man by the arm, and led him to the tavern where we
kept our rendezvous, as it happened to be the nearest at hand. A surgeon
happening luckily to be in the house, immediately attended, and applied
himself to dressing his wounds, which I had the pleasure to hear were not
likely to be mortal.

“The surgeon having very expeditiously and dextrously finished his
business, began to enquire in what part of the town the wounded man
lodged; who answered, `That he was come to town that very morning; that
his horse was at an inn in Piccadilly, and that he had no other lodging,
and very little or no acquaintance in town.’

“This surgeon, whose name I have forgot, though I remember it began
with an R, had the first character in his profession, and was
serjeant-surgeon to the king. He had moreover many good qualities, and was
a very generous good-natured man, and ready to do any service to his
fellow-creatures. He offered his patient the use of his chariot to carry
him to his inn, and at the same time whispered in his ear, `That if he
wanted any money, he would furnish him.’

“The poor man was not now capable of returning thanks for this
generous offer; for having had his eyes for some time stedfastly on me, he
threw himself back in his chair, crying, `Oh, my son! my son!’ and then
fainted away.

“Many of the people present imagined this accident had happened
through his loss of blood; but I, who at the same time began to recollect
the features of my father, was now confirmed in my suspicion, and
satisfied that it was he himself who appeared before me. I presently ran
to him, raised him in my arms, and kissed his cold lips with the utmost
eagerness. Here I must draw a curtain over a scene which I cannot
describe; for though I did not lose my being, as my father for a while
did, my senses were however so overpowered with affright and surprize,
that I am a stranger to what passed during some minutes, and indeed till
my father had again recovered from his swoon, and I found myself in his
arms, both tenderly embracing each other, while the tears trickled a-pace
down the cheeks of each of us.

“Most of those present seemed affected by this scene, which we, who
might be considered as the actors in it, were desirous of removing from
the eyes of all spectators as fast as we could; my father therefore
accepted the kind offer of the surgeon’s chariot, and I attended him in it
to his inn.

“When we were alone together, he gently upbraided me with having
neglected to write to him during so long a time, but entirely omitted the
mention of that crime which had occasioned it. He then informed me of my
mother’s death, and insisted on my returning home with him, saying, `That
he had long suffered the greatest anxiety on my account; that he knew not
whether he had most feared my death or wished it, since he had so many
more dreadful apprehensions for me. At last, he said, a neighbouring
gentleman, who had just recovered a son from the same place, informed him
where I was; and that to reclaim me from this course of life was the sole
cause of his journey to London.’ He thanked Heaven he had succeeded so far
as to find me out by means of an accident which had like to have proved
fatal to him; and had the pleasure to think he partly owed his
preservation to my humanity, with which he profest himself to be more
delighted than he should have been with my filial piety, if I had known
that the object of all my care was my own father.

“Vice had not so depraved my heart as to excite in it an
insensibility of so much paternal affection, though so unworthily
bestowed. I presently promised to obey his commands in my return home with
him, as soon as he was able to travel, which indeed he was in a very few
days, by the assistance of that excellent surgeon who had undertaken his
cure.

“The day preceding my father’s journey (before which time I scarce
ever left him), I went to take my leave of some of my most intimate
acquaintance, particularly of Mr Watson, who dissuaded me from burying
myself, as he called it, out of a simple compliance with the fond desires
of a foolish old fellow. Such sollicitations, however, had no effect, and
I once more saw my own home. My father now greatly sollicited me to think
of marriage; but my inclinations were utterly averse to any such thoughts.
I had tasted of love already, and perhaps you know the extravagant
excesses of that most tender and most violent passion.”—Here
the old gentleman paused, and looked earnestly at Jones; whose
countenance, within a minute’s space, displayed the extremities of both
red and white. Upon which the old man, without making any observations,
renewed his narrative.

“Being now provided with all the necessaries of life, I betook
myself once again to study, and that with a more inordinate application
than I had ever done formerly. The books which now employed my time solely
were those, as well antient as modern, which treat of true philosophy, a
word which is by many thought to be the subject only of farce and
ridicule. I now read over the works of Aristotle and Plato, with the rest
of those inestimable treasures which antient Greece had bequeathed to the
world.

“These authors, though they instructed me in no science by which men
may promise to themselves to acquire the least riches or worldly power,
taught me, however, the art of despising the highest acquisitions of both.
They elevate the mind, and steel and harden it against the capricious
invasions of fortune. They not only instruct in the knowledge of Wisdom,
but confirm men in her habits, and demonstrate plainly, that this must be
our guide, if we propose ever to arrive at the greatest worldly happiness,
or to defend ourselves, with any tolerable security, against the misery
which everywhere surrounds and invests us.

“To this I added another study, compared to which, all the
philosophy taught by the wisest heathens is little better than a dream,
and is indeed as full of vanity as the silliest jester ever pleased to
represent it. This is that Divine wisdom which is alone to be found in the
Holy Scriptures; for they impart to us the knowledge and assurance of
things much more worthy our attention than all which this world can offer
to our acceptance; of things which Heaven itself hath condescended to
reveal to us, and to the smallest knowledge of which the highest human wit
unassisted could never ascend. I began now to think all the time I had
spent with the best heathen writers was little more than labour lost: for,
however pleasant and delightful their lessons may be, or however adequate
to the right regulation of our conduct with respect to this world only;
yet, when compared with the glory revealed in Scripture, their highest
documents will appear as trifling, and of as little consequence, as the
rules by which children regulate their childish little games and pastime.
True it is, that philosophy makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us
better men. Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens
and sweetens it. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, the
latter of Divine love. That insures us a temporal, but this an eternal
happiness.—But I am afraid I tire you with my rhapsody.”

“Not at all,” cries Partridge; “Lud forbid we should be
tired with good things!”

“I had spent,” continued the stranger, “about four years
in the most delightful manner to myself, totally given up to
contemplation, and entirely unembarrassed with the affairs of the world,
when I lost the best of fathers, and one whom I so entirely loved, that my
grief at his loss exceeds all description. I now abandoned my books, and
gave myself up for a whole month to the effects of melancholy and despair.
Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought me
relief.”—“Ay, ay; Tempus edax rerum” said
Partridge.—“I then,” continued the stranger, “betook
myself again to my former studies, which I may say perfected my cure; for
philosophy and religion may be called the exercises of the mind, and when
this is disordered, they are as wholesome as exercise can be to a
distempered body. They do indeed produce similar effects with exercise;
for they strengthen and confirm the mind, till man becomes, in the noble
strain of Horace—

Here Jones smiled at some conceit which intruded itself into his
imagination; but the stranger, I believe, perceived it not, and proceeded
thus:—

“My circumstances were now greatly altered by the death of that best
of men; for my brother, who was now become master of the house, differed
so widely from me in his inclinations, and our pursuits in life had been
so very various, that we were the worst of company to each other: but what
made our living together still more disagreeable, was the little harmony
which could subsist between the few who resorted to me, and the numerous
train of sportsmen who often attended my brother from the field to the
table; for such fellows, besides the noise and nonsense with which they
persecute the ears of sober men, endeavour always to attack them with
affront and contempt. This was so much the case, that neither I myself,
nor my friends, could ever sit down to a meal with them without being
treated with derision, because we were unacquainted with the phrases of
sportsmen. For men of true learning, and almost universal knowledge,
always compassionate the ignorance of others; but fellows who excel in
some little, low, contemptible art, are always certain to despise those
who are unacquainted with that art.

“In short, we soon separated, and I went, by the advice of a
physician, to drink the Bath waters; for my violent affliction, added to a
sedentary life, had thrown me into a kind of paralytic disorder, for which
those waters are accounted an almost certain cure. The second day
after my arrival, as I was walking by the river, the sun shone so
intensely hot (though it was early in the year), that I retired to the
shelter of some willows, and sat down by the river side. Here I had not
been seated long before I heard a person on the other side of the willows
sighing and bemoaning himself bitterly. On a sudden, having uttered a most
impious oath, he cried, `I am resolved to bear it no longer,’ and directly
threw himself into the water. I immediately started, and ran towards the
place, calling at the same time as loudly as I could for assistance. An
angler happened luckily to be a-fishing a little below me, though some
very high sedge had hid him from my sight. He immediately came up, and
both of us together, not without some hazard of our lives, drew the body
to the shore. At first we perceived no sign of life remaining; but having
held the body up by the heels (for we soon had assistance enough), it
discharged a vast quantity of water at the mouth, and at length began to
discover some symptoms of breathing, and a little afterwards to move both
its hands and its legs.

“An apothecary, who happened to be present among others, advised
that the body, which seemed now to have pretty well emptied itself of
water, and which began to have many convulsive motions, should be directly
taken up, and carried into a warm bed. This was accordingly performed, the
apothecary and myself attending.

“As we were going towards an inn, for we knew not the man’s
lodgings, luckily a woman met us, who, after some violent screaming, told
us that the gentleman lodged at her house.

“When I had seen the man safely deposited there, I left him to the
care of the apothecary; who, I suppose, used all the right methods with
him, for the next morning I heard he had perfectly recovered his senses.

“I then went to visit him, intending to search out, as well as I
could, the cause of his having attempted so desperate an act, and to
prevent, as far as I was able, his pursuing such wicked intentions for the
future. I was no sooner admitted into his chamber, than we both instantly
knew each other; for who should this person be but my good friend Mr
Watson! Here I will not trouble you with what past at our first interview;
for I would avoid prolixity as much as possible.”—“Pray
let us hear all,” cries Partridge; “I want mightily to know
what brought him to Bath.”

“You shall hear everything material,” answered the stranger;
and then proceeded to relate what we shall proceed to write, after we have
given a short breathing time to both ourselves and the reader.

Chapter xiv. — In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.

“Mr Watson,” continued the stranger, “very freely
acquainted me, that the unhappy situation of his circumstances, occasioned
by a tide of ill luck, had in a manner forced him to a resolution of
destroying himself.

“I now began to argue very seriously with him, in opposition to this
heathenish, or indeed diabolical, principle of the lawfulness of
self-murder; and said everything which occurred to me on the subject; but,
to my great concern, it seemed to have very little effect on him. He
seemed not at all to repent of what he had done, and gave me reason to
fear he would soon make a second attempt of the like horrible kind.

“When I had finished my discourse, instead of endeavouring to answer
my arguments, he looked me stedfastly in the face, and with a smile said,
`You are strangely altered, my good friend, since I remember you. I
question whether any of our bishops could make a better argument against
suicide than you have entertained me with; but unless you can find
somebody who will lend me a cool hundred, I must either hang, or drown, or
starve; and, in my opinion, the last death is the most terrible of the
three.’

“I answered him very gravely that I was indeed altered since I had
seen him last. That I had found leisure to look into my follies and to
repent of them. I then advised him to pursue the same steps; and at last
concluded with an assurance that I myself would lend him a hundred pound,
if it would be of any service to his affairs, and he would not put it into
the power of a die to deprive him of it.

“Mr Watson, who seemed almost composed in slumber by the former part
of my discourse, was roused by the latter. He seized my hand eagerly, gave
me a thousand thanks, and declared I was a friend indeed; adding that he
hoped I had a better opinion of him than to imagine he had profited so
little by experience, as to put any confidence in those damned dice which
had so often deceived him. `No, no,’ cries he; `let me but once handsomely
be set up again, and if ever Fortune makes a broken merchant of me
afterwards, I will forgive her.’

“I very well understood the language of setting up, and broken
merchant. I therefore said to him, with a very grave face, Mr Watson, you
must endeavour to find out some business or employment, by which you may
procure yourself a livelihood; and I promise you, could I see any
probability of being repaid hereafter, I would advance a much larger sum
than what you have mentioned, to equip you in any fair and honourable
calling; but as to gaming, besides the baseness and wickedness of making
it a profession, you are really, to my own knowledge, unfit for it, and it
will end in your certain ruin.

“`Why now, that’s strange,’ answered he; `neither you, nor any of my
friends, would ever allow me to know anything of the matter, and yet I
believe I am as good a hand at every game as any of you all; and I
heartily wish I was to play with you only for your whole fortune: I should
desire no better sport, and I would let you name your game into the
bargain: but come, my dear boy, have you the hundred in your pocket?”

“I answered I had only a bill for £50, which I delivered him, and
promised to bring him the rest next morning; and after giving him a little
more advice, took my leave.

“I was indeed better than my word; for I returned to him that very
afternoon. When I entered the room, I found him sitting up in his bed at
cards with a notorious gamester. This sight, you will imagine, shocked me
not a little; to which I may add the mortification of seeing my bill
delivered by him to his antagonist, and thirty guineas only given in
exchange for it.

“The other gamester presently quitted the room, and then Watson
declared he was ashamed to see me; `but,’ says he, `I find luck runs so
damnably against me, that I will resolve to leave off play for ever. I
have thought of the kind proposal you made me ever since, and I promise
you there shall be no fault in me, if I do not put it in execution.’

“Though I had no great faith in his promises, I produced him the
remainder of the hundred in consequence of my own; for which he gave me a
note, which was all I ever expected to see in return for my money.

“We were prevented from any further discourse at present by the
arrival of the apothecary; who, with much joy in his countenance, and
without even asking his patient how he did, proclaimed there was great
news arrived in a letter to himself, which he said would shortly be
public, `That the Duke of Monmouth was landed in the west with a vast army
of Dutch; and that another vast fleet hovered over the coast of Norfolk,
and was to make a descent there, in order to favour the duke’s enterprize
with a diversion on that side.’

“This apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of his time. He
was more delighted with the most paultry packet, than with the best
patient, and the highest joy he was capable of, he received from having a
piece of news in his possession an hour or two sooner than any other
person in the town. His advices, however, were seldom authentic; for he
would swallow almost anything as a truth—a humour which many made
use of to impose upon him.

“Thus it happened with what he at present communicated; for it was
known within a short time afterwards that the duke was really landed, but
that his army consisted only of a few attendants; and as to the diversion
in Norfolk, it was entirely false.

“The apothecary staid no longer in the room than while he acquainted
us with his news; and then, without saying a syllable to his patient on
any other subject, departed to spread his advices all over the town.

“Events of this nature in the public are generally apt to eclipse
all private concerns. Our discourse therefore now became entirely
political.[*] For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously
affected with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so visibly
exposed under a Popish prince, and thought the apprehension of it alone
sufficient to justify that insurrection; for no real security can ever be
found against the persecuting spirit of Popery, when armed with power,
except the depriving it of that power, as woeful experience presently
showed. You know how King James behaved after getting the better of this
attempt; how little he valued either his royal word, or coronation oath,
or the liberties and rights of his people. But all had not the sense to
foresee this at first; and therefore the Duke of Monmouth was weakly
supported; yet all could feel when the evil came upon them; and therefore
all united, at last, to drive out that king, against whose exclusion a
great party among us had so warmly contended during the reign of his
brother, and for whom they now fought with such zeal and affection.”

“What you say,” interrupted Jones, “is very true; and it
has often struck me, as the most wonderful thing I ever read of in
history, that so soon after this convincing experience which brought our
whole nation to join so unanimously in expelling King James, for the
preservation of our religion and liberties, there should be a party among
us mad enough to desire the placing his family again on the throne.”
“You are not in earnest!” answered the old man; “there
can be no such party. As bad an opinion as I have of mankind, I cannot
believe them infatuated to such a degree. There may be some hot-headed
Papists led by their priests to engage in this desperate cause, and think
it a holy war; but that Protestants, that are members of the Church of
England, should be such apostates, such felos de se, I cannot
believe it; no, no, young man, unacquainted as I am with what has past in
the world for these last thirty years, I cannot be so imposed upon as to
credit so foolish a tale; but I see you have a mind to sport with my
ignorance.”—“Can it be possible,” replied Jones,
“that you have lived so much out of the world as not to know that
during that time there have been two rebellions in favour of the son of
King James, one of which is now actually raging in the very heart of the
kingdom.” At these words the old gentleman started up, and in a most
solemn tone of voice, conjured Jones by his Maker to tell him if what he
said was really true; which the other as solemnly affirming, he walked
several turns about the room in a profound silence, then cried, then
laughed, and at last fell down on his knees, and blessed God, in a loud
thanksgiving prayer, for having delivered him from all society with human
nature, which could be capable of such monstrous extravagances. After
which, being reminded by Jones that he had broke off his story, he resumed
it again in this manner:—

“As mankind, in the days I was speaking of, was not yet arrived at
that pitch of madness which I find they are capable of now, and which, to
be sure, I have only escaped by living alone, and at a distance from the
contagion, there was a considerable rising in favour of Monmouth; and my
principles strongly inclining me to take the same part, I determined to
join him; and Mr Watson, from different motives concurring in the same
resolution (for the spirit of a gamester will carry a man as far upon such
an occasion as the spirit of patriotism), we soon provided ourselves with
all necessaries, and went to the duke at Bridgewater.

“The unfortunate event of this enterprize, you are, I conclude, as
well acquainted with as myself. I escaped, together with Mr Watson, from
the battle at Sedgemore, in which action I received a slight wound. We
rode near forty miles together on the Exeter road, and then abandoning our
horses, scrambled as well as we could through the fields and bye-roads,
till we arrived at a little wild hut on a common, where a poor old woman
took all the care of us she could, and dressed my wound with salve, which
quickly healed it.”

“Pray, sir, where was the wound?” says Partridge. The stranger
satisfied him it was in his arm, and then continued his narrative. “Here,
sir,” said he, “Mr Watson left me the next morning, in order,
as he pretended, to get us some provision from the town of Collumpton; but—can
I relate it, or can you believe it?—this Mr Watson, this friend,
this base, barbarous, treacherous villain, betrayed me to a party of horse
belonging to King James, and at his return delivered me into their hands.

“The soldiers, being six in number, had now seized me, and were
conducting me to Taunton gaol; but neither my present situation, nor the
apprehensions of what might happen to me, were half so irksome to my mind
as the company of my false friend, who, having surrendered himself, was
likewise considered as a prisoner, though he was better treated, as being
to make his peace at my expense. He at first endeavoured to excuse his
treachery; but when he received nothing but scorn and upbraiding from me,
he soon changed his note, abused me as the most atrocious and malicious
rebel, and laid all his own guilt to my charge, who, as he declared, had
solicited, and even threatened him, to make him take up arms against his
gracious as well as lawful sovereign.

“This false evidence (for in reality he had been much the forwarder
of the two) stung me to the quick, and raised an indignation scarce
conceivable by those who have not felt it. However, fortune at length took
pity on me; for as we were got a little beyond Wellington, in a narrow
lane, my guards received a false alarm, that near fifty of the enemy were
at hand; upon which they shifted for themselves, and left me and my
betrayer to do the same. That villain immediately ran from me, and I am
glad he did, or I should have certainly endeavoured, though I had no arms,
to have executed vengeance on his baseness.

“I was now once more at liberty; and immediately withdrawing from
the highway into the fields, I travelled on, scarce knowing which way I
went, and making it my chief care to avoid all public roads and all towns—nay,
even the most homely houses; for I imagined every human creature whom I
saw desirous of betraying me.

“At last, after rambling several days about the country, during
which the fields afforded me the same bed and the same food which nature
bestows on our savage brothers of the creation, I at length arrived at
this place, where the solitude and wildness of the country invited me to
fix my abode. The first person with whom I took up my habitation was the
mother of this old woman, with whom I remained concealed till the news of
the glorious revolution put an end to all my apprehensions of danger, and
gave me an opportunity of once more visiting my own home, and of enquiring
a little into my affairs, which I soon settled as agreeably to my brother
as to myself; having resigned everything to him, for which he paid me the
sum of a thousand pounds, and settled on me an annuity for life.

“His behaviour in this last instance, as in all others, was selfish
and ungenerous. I could not look on him as my friend, nor indeed did he
desire that I should; so I presently took my leave of him, as well as of
my other acquaintance; and from that day to this, my history is little
better than a blank.”

“And is it possible, sir,” said Jones, “that you can
have resided here from that day to this?”—“O no, sir,”
answered the gentleman; “I have been a great traveller, and there
are few parts of Europe with which I am not acquainted.” “I
have not, sir,” cried Jones, “the assurance to ask it of you
now; indeed it would be cruel, after so much breath as you have already
spent: but you will give me leave to wish for some further opportunity of
hearing the excellent observations which a man of your sense and knowledge
of the world must have made in so long a course of travels.”—“Indeed,
young gentleman,” answered the stranger, “I will endeavour to
satisfy your curiosity on this head likewise, as far as I am able.”
Jones attempted fresh apologies, but was prevented; and while he and
Partridge sat with greedy and impatient ears, the stranger proceeded as in
the next chapter.

Chapter xv. — A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse
between Mr Jones and the Man of the Hill.

“In Italy the landlords are very silent. In France they are more
talkative, but yet civil. In Germany and Holland they are generally very
impertinent. And as for their honesty, I believe it is pretty equal in all
those countries. The laquais à louange are sure to lose no
opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think they are
pretty much alike all the world over. These, sir, are the observations on
men which I made in my travels; for these were the only men I ever
conversed with. My design, when I went abroad, was to divert myself by
seeing the wondrous variety of prospects, beasts, birds, fishes, insects,
and vegetables, with which God has been pleased to enrich the several
parts of this globe; a variety which, as it must give great pleasure to a
contemplative beholder, so doth it admirably display the power, and
wisdom, and goodness of the Creator. Indeed, to say the truth, there is
but one work in his whole creation that doth him any dishonour, and with
that I have long since avoided holding any conversation.”

“You will pardon me,” cries Jones; “but I have always
imagined that there is in this very work you mention as great variety as
in all the rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and
climates have, I am told, introduced the utmost diversity into human
nature.”

“Very little indeed,” answered the other: “those who
travel in order to acquaint themselves with the different manners of men
might spare themselves much pains by going to a carnival at Venice; for
there they will see at once all which they can discover in the several
courts of Europe. The same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same
follies and vices dressed in different habits. In Spain, these are
equipped with much gravity; and in Italy, with vast splendor. In France, a
knave is dressed like a fop; and in the northern countries, like a sloven.
But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object of
detestation and scorn.

“As for my own part, I past through all these nations as you perhaps
may have done through a croud at a shew-jostling to get by them, holding
my nose with one hand, and defending my pockets with the other, without
speaking a word to any of them, while I was pressing on to see what I
wanted to see; which, however entertaining it might be in itself, scarce
made me amends for the trouble the company gave me.”

“Did not you find some of the nations among which you travelled less
troublesome to you than others?” said Jones. “O yes,”
replied the old man: “the Turks were much more tolerable to me than
the Christians; for they are men of profound taciturnity, and never
disturb a stranger with questions. Now and then indeed they bestow a short
curse upon him, or spit in his face as he walks the streets, but then they
have done with him; and a man may live an age in their country without
hearing a dozen words from them. But of all the people I ever saw, heaven
defend me from the French! With their damned prate and civilities, and
doing the honour of their nation to strangers (as they are pleased to call
it), but indeed setting forth their own vanity; they are so troublesome,
that I had infinitely rather pass my life with the Hottentots than set my
foot in Paris again. They are a nasty people, but their nastiness is
mostly without; whereas, in France, and some other nations that I won’t
name, it is all within, and makes them stink much more to my reason than
that of Hottentots does to my nose.

“Thus, sir, I have ended the history of my life; for as to all that
series of years during which I have lived retired here, it affords no
variety to entertain you, and may be almost considered as one day.[*] The
retirement has been so compleat, that I could hardly have enjoyed a more
absolute solitude in the deserts of the Thebais than here in the midst of
this populous kingdom. As I have no estate, I am plagued with no tenants
or stewards: my annuity is paid me pretty regularly, as indeed it ought to
be; for it is much less than what I might have expected in return for what
I gave up. Visits I admit none; and the old woman who keeps my house knows
that her place entirely depends upon her saving me all the trouble of
buying the things that I want, keeping off all sollicitation or business
from me, and holding her tongue whenever I am within hearing. As my walks
are all by night, I am pretty secure in this wild unfrequented place from
meeting any company. Some few persons I have met by chance, and sent them
home heartily frighted, as from the oddness of my dress and figure they
took me for a ghost or a hobgoblin. But what has happened to-night shows
that even here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for without your
assistance I had not only been robbed, but very probably murdered.”

Jones thanked the stranger for the trouble he had taken in relating his
story, and then expressed some wonder how he could possibly endure a life
of such solitude; “in which,” says he, “you may well
complain of the want of variety. Indeed I am astonished how you have
filled up, or rather killed, so much of your time.”

“I am not at all surprized,” answered the other, “that
to one whose affections and thoughts are fixed on the world my hours
should appear to have wanted employment in this place: but there is one
single act, for which the whole life of man is infinitely too short: what
time can suffice for the contemplation and worship of that glorious,
immortal, and eternal Being, among the works of whose stupendous creation
not only this globe, but even those numberless luminaries which we may
here behold spangling all the sky, though they should many of them be suns
lighting different systems of worlds, may possibly appear but as a few
atoms opposed to the whole earth which we inhabit? Can a man who by divine
meditations is admitted as it were into the conversation of this
ineffable, incomprehensible Majesty, think days, or years, or ages, too
long for the continuance of so ravishing an honour? Shall the trifling
amusements, the palling pleasures, the silly business of the world, roll
away our hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace of time seem
sluggish to a mind exercised in studies so high, so important, and so
glorious? As no time is sufficient, so no place is improper, for this
great concern. On what object can we cast our eyes which may not inspire
us with ideas of his power, of his wisdom, and of his goodness? It is not
necessary that the rising sun should dart his fiery glories over the
eastern horizon; nor that the boisterous winds should rush from their
caverns, and shake the lofty forest; nor that the opening clouds should
pour their deluges on the plains: it is not necessary, I say, that any of
these should proclaim his majesty: there is not an insect, not a
vegetable, of so low an order in the creation as not to be honoured with
bearing marks of the attributes of its great Creator; marks not only of
his power, but of his wisdom and goodness. Man alone, the king of this
globe, the last and greatest work of the Supreme Being, below the sun; man
alone hath basely dishonoured his own nature; and by dishonesty, cruelty,
ingratitude, and treachery, hath called his Maker’s goodness in question,
by puzzling us to account how a benevolent being should form so foolish
and so vile an animal. Yet this is the being from whose conversation you
think, I suppose, that I have been unfortunately restrained, and without
whose blessed society, life, in your opinion, must be tedious and insipid.”

“In the former part of what you said,” replied Jones, “I
most heartily and readily concur; but I believe, as well as hope, that the
abhorrence which you express for mankind in the conclusion, is much too
general. Indeed, you here fall into an error, which in my little
experience I have observed to be a very common one, by taking the
character of mankind from the worst and basest among them; whereas,
indeed, as an excellent writer observes, nothing should be esteemed as
characteristical of a species, but what is to be found among the best and
most perfect individuals of that species. This error, I believe, is
generally committed by those who from want of proper caution in the choice
of their friends and acquaintance, have suffered injuries from bad and
worthless men; two or three instances of which are very unjustly charged
on all human nature.”

“I think I had experience enough of it,” answered the other:
“my first mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the basest
manner, and in matters which threatened to be of the worst of consequences—even
to bring me to a shameful death.”

“But you will pardon me,” cries Jones, “if I desire you
to reflect who that mistress and who that friend were. What better, my
good sir, could be expected in love derived from the stews, or in
friendship first produced and nourished at the gaming-table? To take the
characters of women from the former instance, or of men from the latter,
would be as unjust as to assert that air is a nauseous and unwholesome
element, because we find it so in a jakes. I have lived but a short time
in the world, and yet have known men worthy of the highest friendship, and
women of the highest love.”

“Alas! young man,” answered the stranger, “you have
lived, you confess, but a very short time in the world: I was somewhat
older than you when I was of the same opinion.”

“You might have remained so still,” replies Jones, “if
you had not been unfortunate, I will venture to say incautious, in the
placing your affections. If there was, indeed, much more wickedness in the
world than there is, it would not prove such general assertions against
human nature, since much of this arrives by mere accident, and many a man
who commits evil is not totally bad and corrupt in his heart. In truth,
none seem to have any title to assert human nature to be necessarily and
universally evil, but those whose own minds afford them one instance of
this natural depravity; which is not, I am convinced, your case.”

“And such,” said the stranger, “will be always the most
backward to assert any such thing. Knaves will no more endeavour to
persuade us of the baseness of mankind, than a highwayman will inform you
that there are thieves on the road. This would, indeed, be a method to put
you on your guard, and to defeat their own purposes. For which reason,
though knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse particular persons,
yet they never cast any reflection on human nature in general.” The
old gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones despaired of making a
convert, and was unwilling to offend, he returned no answer.

The day now began to send forth its first streams of light, when Jones
made an apology to the stranger for having staid so long, and perhaps
detained him from his rest. The stranger answered, “He never wanted
rest less than at present; for that day and night were indifferent seasons
to him; and that he commonly made use of the former for the time of his
repose and of the latter for his walks and lucubrations. However,”
said he, “it is now a most lovely morning, and if you can bear any
longer to be without your own rest or food, I will gladly entertain you
with the sight of some very fine prospects which I believe you have not
yet seen.”

Jones very readily embraced this offer, and they immediately set forward
together from the cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen into a profound
repose just as the stranger had finished his story; for his curiosity was
satisfied, and the subsequent discourse was not forcible enough in its
operation to conjure down the charms of sleep. Jones therefore left him to
enjoy his nap; and as the reader may perhaps be at this season glad of the
same favour, we will here put an end to the eighth book of our history.

BOOK IX. — CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.

Chapter i. — Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not,
write such histories as this.

Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute these
several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind of mark or
stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader to distinguish
what is true and genuine in this historic kind of writing, from what is
false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely that some such mark may
shortly become necessary, since the favourable reception which two or
three authors have lately procured for their works of this nature from the
public, will probably serve as an encouragement to many others to
undertake the like. Thus a swarm of foolish novels and monstrous romances
will be produced, either to the great impoverishing of booksellers, or to
the great loss of time and depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often
to the spreading of scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the
characters of many worthy and honest people.

I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was principally
induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper, from the same
consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those scribblers, who
having no talents of a writer but what is taught by the writing-master,
are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the same titles with the
greatest genius, than their good brother in the fable was of braying in
the lion’s skin.

By the device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for any man
to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at least one
sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have now secured
myself from the imitation of those who are utterly incapable of any degree
of reflection, and whose learning is not equal to an essay.

I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit of
such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory chapters;
but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only, afford much
more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those which are
composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such imitators as Rowe
was of Shakespear, or as Horace hints some of the Romans were of Cato, by
bare feet and sour faces.

To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare
talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim at
both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which the world
abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the authors would
not have attempted to show their teeth (if the expression may be allowed
me) in any other way of writing; nor could indeed have strung together a
dozen sentences on any other subject whatever.

may be more truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any other
species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even criticism itself)
require some little degree of learning and knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may
perhaps be thought an exception; but then it demands numbers, or something
like numbers: whereas, to the composition of novels and romances, nothing
is necessary but paper, pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using
them. This, I conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the
authors themselves: and this must be the opinion of their readers, if
indeed there be any such.

Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who always
denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all historical
writers who do not draw their materials from records. And it is the
apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so cautiously avoid the
term romance, a name with which we might otherwise have been well enough
contented. Though, as we have good authority for all our characters, no
less indeed than the vast authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is
elsewhere hinted, our labours have sufficient title to the name of
history. Certainly they deserve some distinction from those works, which
one of the wittiest of men regarded only as proceeding from a pruritus,
or indeed rather from a looseness of the brain.

But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful as
well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason to
apprehend, that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much
dishonour of another kind; I mean to the characters of many good and
valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the
dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of
language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the opinion just above
cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived should be
nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so.

To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of leisure,
of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as the world seems
at present to be more than usually threatened with them, I shall here
venture to mention some qualifications, every one of which are in a pretty
high degree necessary to this order of historians.

The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says Horace,
can avail us. By genius I would understand that power or rather those
powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into all things
within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their essential
differences. These are no other than invention and judgment; and they are
both called by the collective name of genius, as they are of those gifts
of nature which we bring with us into the world. Concerning each of which
many seem to have fallen into very great errors; for by invention, I
believe, is generally understood a creative faculty, which would indeed
prove most romance writers to have the highest pretensions to it; whereas
by invention is really meant no more (and so the word signifies) than
discovery, or finding out; or to explain it at large, a quick and
sagacious penetration into the true essence of all the objects of our
contemplation. This, I think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of
judgment; for how we can be said to have discovered the true essence of
two things, without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to
conceive. Now this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and yet
some few men of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in
representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of one
and the same person.

But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose,
without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the
authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove
that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened by
art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no matter
to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning; for nature can only
furnish us with capacity; or, as I have chose to illustrate it, with the
tools of our profession; learning must fit them for use, must direct them
in it, and, lastly, must contribute part at least of the materials. A
competent knowledge of history and of the belles-lettres is here
absolutely necessary; and without this share of knowledge at least, to
affect the character of an historian, is as vain as to endeavour at
building a house without timber or mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and
Milton, who, though they added the ornament of numbers to their works,
were both historians of our order, were masters of all the learning of
their times.

Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of learning to
bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So necessary is this to the
understanding the characters of men, that none are more ignorant of them
than those learned pedants whose lives have been entirely consumed in
colleges, and among books; for however exquisitely human nature may have
been described by writers, the true practical system can be learnt only in
the world. Indeed the like happens in every other kind of knowledge.
Neither physic nor law are to be practically known from books. Nay, the
farmer, the planter, the gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath
acquired the rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious
Mr Miller may have described the plant, he himself would advise his
disciple to see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the
nicest strokes of a Shakespear or a Jonson, of a Wycherly or an Otway,
some touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action
of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,[*] can convey to him; so, on the
real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light
than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and
nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from life,
how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself takes his
lines not from nature, but from books? Such characters are only the faint
copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor spirit of an
original.

Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is, with
all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called high
life will not instruct him in low; nor, e converso, will his being
acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the manners of the
superior. And though it may be thought that the knowledge of either may
sufficiently enable him to describe at least that in which he hath been
conversant, yet he will even here fall greatly short of perfection; for
the follies of either rank do in reality illustrate each other. For
instance, the affectation of high life appears more glaring and ridiculous
from the simplicity of the low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of
this latter, strikes with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when
contrasted with, and opposed to, the politeness which controuls the
former. Besides, to say the truth, the manners of our historian will be
improved by both these conversations; for in the one he will easily find
examples of plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refinement,
elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have
scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education.

Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian avail him,
unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be capable of
feeling. The author who will make me weep, says Horace, must first weep
himself. In reality, no man can paint a distress well which he doth not
feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but that the most pathetic
and affecting scenes have been writ with tears. In the same manner it is
with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never make my reader laugh heartily
but where I have laughed before him; unless it should happen at any time,
that instead of laughing with me he should be inclined to laugh at me.
Perhaps this may have been the case at some passages in this chapter, from
which apprehension I will here put an end to it.

Chapter ii. — Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which
Mr Jones met with in his walk with the Man of the Hill.

Aurora now first opened her casement, Anglice the day began to
break, when Jones walked forth in company with the stranger, and mounted
Mazard Hill; of which they had no sooner gained the summit than one of the
most noble prospects in the world presented itself to their view, and
which we would likewise present to the reader, but for two reasons: first,
we despair of making those who have seen this prospect admire our
description; secondly, we very much doubt whether those who have not seen
it would understand it.

Jones stood for some minutes fixed in one posture, and directing his eyes
towards the south; upon which the old gentleman asked, What he was looking
at with so much attention? “Alas! sir,” answered he with a
sigh, “I was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good
heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of land
must be between me and my own home!”—“Ay, ay, young
gentleman,” cries the other, “and by your sighing, from what
you love better than your own home, or I am mistaken. I perceive now the
object of your contemplation is not within your sight, and yet I fancy you
have a pleasure in looking that way.” Jones answered with a smile,
“I find, old friend, you have not yet forgot the sensations of your
youth. I own my thoughts were employed as you have guessed.”

They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the north-west,
and which hangs over a vast and extensive wood. Here they were no sooner
arrived than they heard at a distance the most violent screams of a woman,
proceeding from the wood below them. Jones listened a moment, and then,
without saying a word to his companion (for indeed the occasion seemed
sufficiently pressing), ran, or rather slid, down the hill, and, without
the least apprehension or concern for his own safety, made directly to the
thicket, whence the sound had issued.

He had not entered far into the wood before he beheld a most shocking
sight indeed, a woman stript half naked, under the hands of a ruffian, who
had put his garter round her neck, and was endeavouring to draw her up to
a tree. Jones asked no questions at this interval, but fell instantly upon
the villain, and made such good use of his trusty oaken stick that he laid
him sprawling on the ground before he could defend himself, indeed almost
before he knew he was attacked; nor did he cease the prosecution of his
blows till the woman herself begged him to forbear, saying, she believed
he had sufficiently done his business.

The poor wretch then fell upon her knees to Jones, and gave him a thousand
thanks for her deliverance. He presently lifted her up, and told her he
was highly pleased with the extraordinary accident which had sent him
thither for her relief, where it was so improbable she should find any;
adding, that Heaven seemed to have designed him as the happy instrument of
her protection. “Nay,” answered she, “I could almost
conceive you to be some good angel; and, to say the truth, you look more
like an angel than a man in my eye.” Indeed he was a charming
figure; and if a very fine person, and a most comely set of features,
adorned with youth, health, strength, freshness, spirit, and good-nature,
can make a man resemble an angel, he certainly had that resemblance.

The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the human-angelic
species: she seemed to be at least of the middle age, nor had her face
much appearance of beauty; but her cloaths being torn from all the upper
part of her body, her breasts, which were well formed and extremely white,
attracted the eyes of her deliverer, and for a few moments they stood
silent, and gazing at each other; till the ruffian on the ground beginning
to move, Jones took the garter which had been intended for another
purpose, and bound both his hands behind him. And now, on contemplating
his face, he discovered, greatly to his surprize, and perhaps not a little
to his satisfaction, this very person to be no other than ensign
Northerton. Nor had the ensign forgotten his former antagonist, whom he
knew the moment he came to himself. His surprize was equal to that of
Jones; but I conceive his pleasure was rather less on this occasion.

Jones helped Northerton upon his legs, and then looking him stedfastly in
the face, “I fancy, sir,” said he, “you did not expect
to meet me any more in this world, and I confess I had as little
expectation to find you here. However, fortune, I see, hath brought us
once more together, and hath given me satisfaction for the injury I have
received, even without my own knowledge.”

“It is very much like a man of honour, indeed,” answered
Northerton, “to take satisfaction by knocking a man down behind his
back. Neither am I capable of giving you satisfaction here, as I have no
sword; but if you dare behave like a gentleman, let us go where I can
furnish myself with one, and I will do by you as a man of honour ought.”

“Doth it become such a villain as you are,” cries Jones,
“to contaminate the name of honour by assuming it? But I shall waste
no time in discourse with you. Justice requires satisfaction of you now,
and shall have it.” Then turning to the woman, he asked her, if she
was near her home; or if not, whether she was acquainted with any house in
the neighbourhood, where she might procure herself some decent cloaths, in
order to proceed to a justice of the peace.

She answered she was an entire stranger in that part of the world. Jones
then recollecting himself, said, he had a friend near who would direct
them; indeed, he wondered at his not following; but, in fact, the good Man
of the Hill, when our heroe departed, sat himself down on the brow, where,
though he had a gun in his hand, he with great patience and unconcern had
attended the issue.

Jones then stepping without the wood, perceived the old man sitting as we
have just described him; he presently exerted his utmost agility, and with
surprizing expedition ascended the hill.

The old man advised him to carry the woman to Upton, which, he said, was
the nearest town, and there he would be sure of furnishing her with all
manner of conveniencies. Jones having received his direction to the place,
took his leave of the Man of the Hill, and, desiring him to direct
Partridge the same way, returned hastily to the wood.

Our heroe, at his departure to make this enquiry of his friend, had
considered, that as the ruffian’s hands were tied behind him, he was
incapable of executing any wicked purposes on the poor woman. Besides, he
knew he should not be beyond the reach of her voice, and could return soon
enough to prevent any mischief. He had moreover declared to the villain,
that if he attempted the least insult, he would be himself immediately the
executioner of vengeance on him. But Jones unluckily forgot, that though
the hands of Northerton were tied, his legs were at liberty; nor did he
lay the least injunction on the prisoner that he should not make what use
of these he pleased. Northerton therefore having given no parole of that
kind, thought he might without any breach of honour depart; not being
obliged, as he imagined, by any rules, to wait for a formal discharge. He
therefore took up his legs, which were at liberty, and walked off through
the wood, which favoured his retreat; nor did the woman, whose eyes were
perhaps rather turned toward her deliverer, once think of his escape, or
give herself any concern or trouble to prevent it.

Jones therefore, at his return, found the woman alone. He would have spent
some time in searching for Northerton, but she would not permit him;
earnestly entreating that he would accompany her to the town whither they
had been directed. “As to the fellow’s escape,” said she,
“it gives me no uneasiness; for philosophy and Christianity both
preach up forgiveness of injuries. But for you, sir, I am concerned at the
trouble I give you; nay, indeed, my nakedness may well make me ashamed to
look you in the face; and if it was not for the sake of your protection, I
should wish to go alone.”

Jones offered her his coat; but, I know not for what reason, she
absolutely refused the most earnest solicitations to accept it. He then
begged her to forget both the causes of her confusion. “With regard
to the former,” says he, “I have done no more than my duty in
protecting you; and as for the latter, I will entirely remove it, by
walking before you all the way; for I would not have my eyes offend you,
and I could not answer for my power of resisting the attractive charms of
so much beauty.”

Thus our heroe and the redeemed lady walked in the same manner as Orpheus
and Eurydice marched heretofore; but though I cannot believe that Jones
was designedly tempted by his fair one to look behind him, yet as she
frequently wanted his assistance to help her over stiles, and had besides
many trips and other accidents, he was often obliged to turn about.
However, he had better fortune than what attended poor Orpheus, for he
brought his companion, or rather follower, safe into the famous town of
Upton.

Chapter iii. — The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn;
with a very full description of the battle of Upton.

Though the reader, we doubt not, is very eager to know who this lady was,
and how she fell into the hands of Mr Northerton, we must beg him to
suspend his curiosity for a short time, as we are obliged, for some very
good reasons which hereafter perhaps he may guess, to delay his
satisfaction a little longer.

Mr Jones and his fair companion no sooner entered the town, than they went
directly to that inn which in their eyes presented the fairest appearance
to the street. Here Jones, having ordered a servant to show a room above
stairs, was ascending, when the dishevelled fair, hastily following, was
laid hold on by the master of the house, who cried, “Heyday, where
is that beggar wench going? Stay below stairs, I desire you.” But
Jones at that instant thundered from above, “Let the lady come up,”
in so authoritative a voice, that the good man instantly withdrew his
hands, and the lady made the best of her way to the chamber.

Here Jones wished her joy of her safe arrival, and then departed, in
order, as he promised, to send the landlady up with some cloaths. The poor
woman thanked him heartily for all his kindness, and said, she hoped she
should see him again soon, to thank him a thousand times more. During this
short conversation, she covered her white bosom as well as she could
possibly with her arms; for Jones could not avoid stealing a sly peep or
two, though he took all imaginable care to avoid giving any offence.

Our travellers had happened to take up their residence at a house of
exceeding good repute, whither Irish ladies of strict virtue, and many
northern lasses of the same predicament, were accustomed to resort in
their way to Bath. The landlady therefore would by no means have admitted
any conversation of a disreputable kind to pass under her roof. Indeed, so
foul and contagious are all such proceedings, that they contaminate the
very innocent scenes where they are committed, and give the name of a bad
house, or of a house of ill repute, to all those where they are suffered
to be carried on.

Not that I would intimate that such strict chastity as was preserved in
the temple of Vesta can possibly be maintained at a public inn. My good
landlady did not hope for such a blessing, nor would any of the ladies I
have spoken of, or indeed any others of the most rigid note, have expected
or insisted on any such thing. But to exclude all vulgar concubinage, and
to drive all whores in rags from within the walls, is within the power of
every one. This my landlady very strictly adhered to, and this her
virtuous guests, who did not travel in rags, would very reasonably have
expected of her.

Now it required no very blameable degree of suspicion to imagine that Mr
Jones and his ragged companion had certain purposes in their intention,
which, though tolerated in some Christian countries, connived at in
others, and practised in all, are however as expressly forbidden as
murder, or any other horrid vice, by that religion which is universally
believed in those countries. The landlady, therefore, had no sooner
received an intimation of the entrance of the above-said persons than she
began to meditate the most expeditious means for their expulsion. In order
to this, she had provided herself with a long and deadly instrument, with
which, in times of peace, the chambermaid was wont to demolish the labours
of the industrious spider. In vulgar phrase, she had taken up the
broomstick, and was just about to sally from the kitchen, when Jones
accosted her with a demand of a gown and other vestments, to cover the
half-naked woman upstairs.

Nothing can be more provoking to the human temper, nor more dangerous to
that cardinal virtue, patience, than solicitations of extraordinary
offices of kindness on behalf of those very persons with whom we are
highly incensed. For this reason Shakespear hath artfully introduced his
Desdemona soliciting favours for Cassio of her husband, as the means of
inflaming, not only his jealousy, but his rage, to the highest pitch of
madness; and we find the unfortunate Moor less able to command his passion
on this occasion, than even when he beheld his valued present to his wife
in the hands of his supposed rival. In fact, we regard these efforts as
insults on our understanding, and to such the pride of man is very
difficultly brought to submit.

My landlady, though a very good-tempered woman, had, I suppose, some of
this pride in her composition, for Jones had scarce ended his request,
when she fell upon him with a certain weapon, which, though it be neither
long, nor sharp, nor hard, nor indeed threatens from its appearance with
either death or wound, hath been however held in great dread and
abhorrence by many wise men—nay, by many brave ones; insomuch, that
some who have dared to look into the mouth of a loaded cannon, have not
dared to look into a mouth where this weapon was brandished; and rather
than run the hazard of its execution, have contented themselves with
making a most pitiful and sneaking figure in the eyes of all their
acquaintance.

To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones was one of these; for though he
was attacked and violently belaboured with the aforesaid weapon, he could
not be provoked to make any resistance; but in a most cowardly manner
applied, with many entreaties, to his antagonist to desist from pursuing
her blows; in plain English, he only begged her with the utmost
earnestness to hear him; but before he could obtain his request, my
landlord himself entered into the fray, and embraced that side of the
cause which seemed to stand very little in need of assistance.

There are a sort of heroes who are supposed to be determined in their
chusing or avoiding a conflict by the character and behaviour of the
person whom they are to engage. These are said to know their men, and
Jones, I believe, knew his woman; for though he had been so submissive to
her, he was no sooner attacked by her husband, than he demonstrated an
immediate spirit of resentment, and enjoined him silence under a very
severe penalty; no less than that, I think, of being converted into fuel
for his own fire.

The husband, with great indignation, but with a mixture of pity, answered,
“You must pray first to be made able. I believe I am a better man
than yourself; ay, every way, that I am;” and presently proceeded to
discharge half-a-dozen whores at the lady above stairs, the last of which
had scarce issued from his lips, when a swinging blow from the cudgel that
Jones carried in his hand assaulted him over the shoulders.

It is a question whether the landlord or the landlady was the most
expeditious in returning this blow. My landlord, whose hands were empty,
fell to with his fist, and the good wife, uplifting her broom and aiming
at the head of Jones, had probably put an immediate end to the fray, and
to Jones likewise, had not the descent of this broom been prevented—not
by the miraculous intervention of any heathen deity, but by a very natural
though fortunate accident, viz., by the arrival of Partridge; who entered
the house at that instant (for fear had caused him to run every step from
the hill), and who, seeing the danger which threatened his master or
companion (which you chuse to call him), prevented so sad a catastrophe,
by catching hold of the landlady’s arm, as it was brandished aloft in the
air.

The landlady soon perceived the impediment which prevented her blow; and
being unable to rescue her arm from the hands of Partridge, she let fall
the broom; and then leaving Jones to the discipline of her husband, she
fell with the utmost fury on that poor fellow, who had already given some
intimation of himself, by crying, “Zounds! do you intend to kill my
friend?”

Partridge, though not much addicted to battle, would not however stand
still when his friend was attacked; nor was he much displeased with that
part of the combat which fell to his share; he therefore returned my
landlady’s blows as soon as he received them: and now the fight was
obstinately maintained on all parts, and it seemed doubtful to which side
Fortune would incline, when the naked lady, who had listened at the top of
the stairs to the dialogue which preceded the engagement, descended
suddenly from above, and without weighing the unfair inequality of two to
one, fell upon the poor woman who was boxing with Partridge; nor did that
great champion desist, but rather redoubled his fury, when he found fresh
succours were arrived to his assistance.

Victory must now have fallen to the side of the travellers (for the
bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan the chambermaid come
luckily to support her mistress. This Susan was as two-handed a wench
(according to the phrase) as any in the country, and would, I believe,
have beat the famed Thalestris herself, or any of her subject Amazons; for
her form was robust and man-like, and every way made for such encounters.
As her hands and arms were formed to give blows with great mischief to an
enemy, so was her face as well contrived to receive blows without any
great injury to herself, her nose being already flat to her face; her lips
were so large, that no swelling could be perceived in them, and moreover
they were so hard, that a fist could hardly make any impression on them.
Lastly, her cheek-bones stood out, as if nature had intended them for two
bastions to defend her eyes in those encounters for which she seemed so
well calculated, and to which she was most wonderfully well inclined.

This fair creature entering the field of battle, immediately filed to that
wing where her mistress maintained so unequal a fight with one of either
sex. Here she presently challenged Partridge to single combat. He accepted
the challenge, and a most desperate fight began between them.

Now the dogs of war being let loose, began to lick their bloody lips; now
Victory, with golden wings, hung hovering in the air; now Fortune, taking
her scales from her shelf, began to weigh the fates of Tom Jones, his
female companion, and Partridge, against the landlord, his wife, and maid;
all which hung in exact balance before her; when a good-natured accident
put suddenly an end to the bloody fray, with which half of the combatants
had already sufficiently feasted. This accident was the arrival of a coach
and four; upon which my landlord and landlady immediately desisted from
fighting, and at their entreaty obtained the same favour of their
antagonists: but Susan was not so kind to Partridge; for that Amazonian
fair having overthrown and bestrid her enemy, was now cuffing him lustily
with both her hands, without any regard to his request of a cessation of
arms, or to those loud exclamations of murder which he roared forth.

No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the landlord, than he flew to the
rescue of his defeated companion, from whom he with much difficulty drew
off the enraged chambermaid: but Partridge was not immediately sensible of
his deliverance, for he still lay flat on the floor, guarding his face
with his hands; nor did he cease roaring till Jones had forced him to look
up, and to perceive that the battle was at an end.

The landlord, who had no visible hurt, and the landlady, hiding her
well-scratched face with her handkerchief, ran both hastily to the door to
attend the coach, from which a young lady and her maid now alighted. These
the landlady presently ushered into that room where Mr Jones had at first
deposited his fair prize, as it was the best apartment in the house.
Hither they were obliged to pass through the field of battle, which they
did with the utmost haste, covering their faces with their handkerchiefs,
as desirous to avoid the notice of any one. Indeed their caution was quite
unnecessary; for the poor unfortunate Helen, the fatal cause of all the
bloodshed, was entirely taken up in endeavouring to conceal her own face,
and Jones was no less occupied in rescuing Partridge from the fury of
Susan; which being happily effected, the poor fellow immediately departed
to the pump to wash his face, and to stop that bloody torrent which Susan
had plentifully set a-flowing from his nostrils.

Chapter iv. — In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end
to hostilities, and causes the conclusion of a firm and lasting peace
between all parties.

A serjeant and a file of musqueteers, with a deserter in their custody,
arrived about this time. The serjeant presently enquired for the principal
magistrate of the town, and was informed by my landlord, that he himself
was vested in that office. He then demanded his billets, together with a
mug of beer, and complaining it was cold, spread himself before the
kitchen fire.

Mr Jones was at this time comforting the poor distressed lady, who sat
down at a table in the kitchen, and leaning her head upon her arm, was
bemoaning her misfortunes; but lest my fair readers should be in pain
concerning a particular circumstance, I think proper here to acquaint
them, that before she had quitted the room above stairs, she had so well
covered herself with a pillowbeer which she there found, that her regard
to decency was not in the least violated by the presence of so many men as
were now in the room.

One of the soldiers now went up to the serjeant, and whispered something
in his ear; upon which he stedfastly fixed his eyes on the lady, and
having looked at her for near a minute, he came up to her, saying, “I
ask pardon, madam; but I am certain I am not deceived; you can be no other
person than Captain Waters’s lady?”

The poor woman, who in her present distress had very little regarded the
face of any person present, no sooner looked at the serjeant than she
presently recollected him, and calling him by his name, answered, “That
she was indeed the unhappy person he imagined her to be;” but added,
“I wonder any one should know me in this disguise.” To which
the serjeant replied, “He was very much surprized to see her
ladyship in such a dress, and was afraid some accident had happened to
her.”—“An accident hath happened to me, indeed,”
says she, “and I am highly obliged to this gentleman”
(pointing to Jones) “that it was not a fatal one, or that I am now
living to mention it.”—“Whatever the gentleman hath
done,” cries the serjeant, “I am sure the captain will make
him amends for it; and if I can be of any service, your ladyship may
command me, and I shall think myself very happy to have it in my power to
serve your ladyship; and so indeed may any one, for I know the captain
will well reward them for it.”

The landlady, who heard from the stairs all that past between the serjeant
and Mrs Waters, came hastily down, and running directly up to her, began
to ask pardon for the offences she had committed, begging that all might
be imputed to ignorance of her quality: for, “Lud! madam,”
says she, “how should I have imagined that a lady of your fashion
would appear in such a dress? I am sure, madam, if I had once suspected
that your ladyship was your ladyship, I would sooner have burnt my tongue
out, than have said what I have said; and I hope your ladyship will accept
of a gown, till you can get your own cloaths.”

“Prithee, woman,” says Mrs Waters, “cease your
impertinence: how can you imagine I should concern myself about anything
which comes from the lips of such low creatures as yourself? But I am
surprized at your assurance in thinking, after what is past, that I will
condescend to put on any of your dirty things. I would have you know,
creature, I have a spirit above that.”

Here Jones interfered, and begged Mrs Waters to forgive the landlady, and
to accept her gown: “for I must confess,” cries he, “our
appearance was a little suspicious when first we came in; and I am well
assured all this good woman did was, as she professed, out of regard to
the reputation of her house.”

“Yes, upon my truly was it,” says she: “the gentleman
speaks very much like a gentleman, and I see very plainly is so; and to be
certain the house is well known to be a house of as good reputation as any
on the road, and though I say it, is frequented by gentry of the best
quality, both Irish and English. I defy anybody to say black is my eye,
for that matter. And, as I was saying, if I had known your ladyship to be
your ladyship, I would as soon have burnt my fingers as have affronted
your ladyship; but truly where gentry come and spend their money, I am not
willing that they should be scandalized by a set of poor shabby vermin,
that, wherever they go, leave more lice than money behind them; such folks
never raise my compassion, for to be certain it is foolish to have any for
them; and if our justices did as they ought, they would be all whipt out
of the kingdom, for to be certain it is what is most fitting for them. But
as for your ladyship, I am heartily sorry your ladyship hath had a
misfortune, and if your ladyship will do me the honour to wear my cloaths
till you can get some of your ladyship’s own, to be certain the best I
have is at your ladyship’s service.”

Whether cold, shame, or the persuasions of Mr Jones prevailed most on Mrs
Waters, I will not determine, but she suffered herself to be pacified by
this speech of my landlady, and retired with that good woman, in order to
apparel herself in a decent manner.

My landlord was likewise beginning his oration to Jones, but was presently
interrupted by that generous youth, who shook him heartily by the hand,
and assured him of entire forgiveness, saying, “If you are
satisfied, my worthy friend, I promise you I am;” and indeed, in one
sense, the landlord had the better reason to be satisfied; for he had
received a bellyfull of drubbing, whereas Jones had scarce felt a single
blow.

Partridge, who had been all this time washing his bloody nose at the pump,
returned into the kitchen at the instant when his master and the landlord
were shaking hands with each other. As he was of a peaceable disposition,
he was pleased with those symptoms of reconciliation; and though his face
bore some marks of Susan’s fist, and many more of her nails, he rather
chose to be contented with his fortune in the last battle than to
endeavour at bettering it in another.

The heroic Susan was likewise well contented with her victory, though it
had cost her a black eye, which Partridge had given her at the first
onset. Between these two, therefore, a league was struck, and those hands
which had been the instruments of war became now the mediators of peace.

Matters were thus restored to a perfect calm; at which the serjeant,
though it may seem so contrary to the principles of his profession,
testified his approbation. “Why now, that’s friendly,” said
he; “d—n me, I hate to see two people bear ill-will to one
another after they have had a tussel. The only way when friends quarrel is
to see it out fairly in a friendly manner, as a man may call it, either
with a fist, or sword, or pistol, according as they like, and then let it
be all over; for my own part, d—n me if ever I love my friend better
than when I am fighting with him! To bear malice is more like a Frenchman
than an Englishman.”

He then proposed a libation as a necessary part of the ceremony at all
treaties of this kind. Perhaps the reader may here conclude that he was
well versed in antient history; but this, though highly probable, as he
cited no authority to support the custom, I will not affirm with any
confidence. Most likely indeed it is, that he founded his opinion on very
good authority, since he confirmed it with many violent oaths.

Jones no sooner heard the proposal than, immediately agreeing with the
learned serjeant, he ordered a bowl, or rather a large mug, filled with
the liquor used on these occasions, to be brought in, and then began the
ceremony himself. He placed his right hand in that of the landlord, and,
seizing the bowl with his left, uttered the usual words, and then made his
libation. After which, the same was observed by all present. Indeed, there
is very little need of being particular in describing the whole form, as
it differed so little from those libations of which so much is recorded in
antient authors and their modern transcribers. The principal difference
lay in two instances; for, first, the present company poured the liquor
only down their throats; and, secondly, the serjeant, who officiated as
priest, drank the last; but he preserved, I believe, the antient form, in
swallowing much the largest draught of the whole company, and in being the
only person present who contributed nothing towards the libation besides
his good offices in assisting at the performance.

The good people now ranged themselves round the kitchen fire, where good
humour seemed to maintain an absolute dominion; and Partridge not only
forgot his shameful defeat, but converted hunger into thirst, and soon
became extremely facetious. We must however quit this agreeable assembly
for a while, and attend Mr Jones to Mrs Waters’s apartment, where the
dinner which he had bespoke was now on the table. Indeed, it took no long
time in preparing, having been all drest three days before, and required
nothing more from the cook than to warm it over again.

Chapter v. — An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with
a description of a battle of the amorous kind.

Heroes, notwithstanding the high ideas which, by the means of flatterers,
they may entertain of themselves, or the world may conceive of them, have
certainly more of mortal than divine about them. However elevated their
minds may be, their bodies at least (which is much the major part of most)
are liable to the worst infirmities, and subject to the vilest offices of
human nature. Among these latter, the act of eating, which hath by several
wise men been considered as extremely mean and derogatory from the
philosophic dignity, must be in some measure performed by the greatest
prince, heroe, or philosopher upon earth; nay, sometimes Nature hath been
so frolicsome as to exact of these dignified characters a much more
exorbitant share of this office than she hath obliged those of the lowest
order to perform.

To say the truth, as no known inhabitant of this globe is really more than
man, so none need be ashamed of submitting to what the necessities of man
demand; but when those great personages I have just mentioned condescend
to aim at confining such low offices to themselves—as when, by
hoarding or destroying, they seem desirous to prevent any others from
eating—then they surely become very low and despicable.

Now, after this short preface, we think it no disparagement to our heroe
to mention the immoderate ardour with which he laid about him at this
season. Indeed, it may be doubted whether Ulysses, who by the way seems to
have had the best stomach of all the heroes in that eating poem of the
Odyssey, ever made a better meal. Three pounds at least of that flesh
which formerly had contributed to the composition of an ox was now
honoured with becoming part of the individual Mr Jones.

This particular we thought ourselves obliged to mention, as it may account
for our heroe’s temporary neglect of his fair companion, who eat but very
little, and was indeed employed in considerations of a very different
nature, which passed unobserved by Jones, till he had entirely satisfied
that appetite which a fast of twenty-four hours had procured him; but his
dinner was no sooner ended than his attention to other matters revived;
with these matters therefore we shall now proceed to acquaint the reader.

Mr Jones, of whose personal accomplishments we have hitherto said very
little, was, in reality, one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.
His face, besides being the picture of health, had in it the most apparent
marks of sweetness and good-nature. These qualities were indeed so
characteristical in his countenance, that, while the spirit and
sensibility in his eyes, though they must have been perceived by an
accurate observer, might have escaped the notice of the less discerning,
so strongly was this good-nature painted in his look, that it was remarked
by almost every one who saw him.

It was, perhaps, as much owing to this as to a very fine complexion that
his face had a delicacy in it almost inexpressible, and which might have
given him an air rather too effeminate, had it not been joined to a most
masculine person and mien: which latter had as much in them of the
Hercules as the former had of the Adonis. He was besides active, genteel,
gay, and good-humoured; and had a flow of animal spirits which enlivened
every conversation where he was present.

When the reader hath duly reflected on these many charms which all
centered in our heroe, and considers at the same time the fresh
obligations which Mrs Waters had to him, it will be a mark more of prudery
than candour to entertain a bad opinion of her because she conceived a
very good opinion of him.

But, whatever censures may be passed upon her, it is my business to relate
matters of fact with veracity. Mrs Waters had, in truth, not only a good
opinion of our heroe, but a very great affection for him. To speak out
boldly at once, she was in love, according to the present
universally-received sense of that phrase, by which love is applied
indiscriminately to the desirable objects of all our passions, appetites,
and senses, and is understood to be that preference which we give to one
kind of food rather than to another.

But though the love to these several objects may possibly be one and the
same in all cases, its operations however must be allowed to be different;
for, how much soever we may be in love with an excellent surloin of beef,
or bottle of Burgundy; with a damask rose, or Cremona fiddle; yet do we
never smile, nor ogle, nor dress, nor flatter, nor endeavour by any other
arts or tricks to gain the affection of the said beef, &c. Sigh indeed
we sometimes may; but it is generally in the absence, not in the presence,
of the beloved object. For otherwise we might possibly complain of their
ingratitude and deafness, with the same reason as Pasiphae doth of her
bull, whom she endeavoured to engage by all the coquetry practised with
good success in the drawing-room on the much more sensible as well as
tender hearts of the fine gentlemen there.

The contrary happens in that love which operates between persons of the
same species, but of different sexes. Here we are no sooner in love than
it becomes our principal care to engage the affection of the object
beloved. For what other purpose indeed are our youth instructed in all the
arts of rendering themselves agreeable? If it was not with a view to this
love, I question whether any of those trades which deal in setting off and
adorning the human person would procure a livelihood. Nay, those great
polishers of our manners, who are by some thought to teach what
principally distinguishes us from the brute creation, even dancing-masters
themselves, might possibly find no place in society. In short, all the
graces which young ladies and young gentlemen too learn from others, and
the many improvements which, by the help of a looking-glass, they add of
their own, are in reality those very spicula et faces amoris so
often mentioned by Ovid; or, as they are sometimes called in our own
language, the whole artillery of love.

Now Mrs Waters and our heroe had no sooner sat down together than the
former began to play this artillery upon the latter. But here, as we are
about to attempt a description hitherto unassayed either in prose or
verse, we think proper to invoke the assistance of certain aërial beings,
who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on this occasion.

“Say then, ye Graces! you that inhabit the heavenly mansions of
Seraphina’s countenance; for you are truly divine, are always in her
presence, and well know all the arts of charming; say, what were the
weapons now used to captivate the heart of Mr Jones.”

“First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed
lightning at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles; but, happily
for our heroe, hit only a vast piece of beef which he was then conveying
into his plate, and harmless spent their force. The fair warrior perceived
their miscarriage, and immediately from her fair bosom drew forth a deadly
sigh. A sigh which none could have heard unmoved, and which was sufficient
at once to have swept off a dozen beaus; so soft, so sweet, so tender,
that the insinuating air must have found its subtle way to the heart of
our heroe, had it not luckily been driven from his ears by the coarse
bubbling of some bottled ale, which at that time he was pouring forth.
Many other weapons did she assay; but the god of eating (if there be any
such deity, for I do not confidently assert it) preserved his votary; or
perhaps it may not be dignus vindice nodus, and the present
security of Jones may be accounted for by natural means; for as love
frequently preserves from the attacks of hunger, so may hunger possibly,
in some cases, defend us against love.

“The fair one, enraged at her frequent disappointments, determined
on a short cessation of arms. Which interval she employed in making ready
every engine of amorous warfare for the renewing of the attack when dinner
should be over.

“No sooner then was the cloth removed than she again began her
operations. First, having planted her right eye sidewise against Mr Jones,
she shot from its corner a most penetrating glance; which, though great
part of its force was spent before it reached our heroe, did not vent
itself absolutely without effect. This the fair one perceiving, hastily
withdrew her eyes, and levelled them downwards, as if she was concerned
for what she had done; though by this means she designed only to draw him
from his guard, and indeed to open his eyes, through which she intended to
surprize his heart. And now, gently lifting up those two bright orbs which
had already begun to make an impression on poor Jones, she discharged a
volley of small charms at once from her whole countenance in a smile. Not
a smile of mirth, nor of joy; but a smile of affection, which most ladies
have always ready at their command, and which serves them to show at once
their good-humour, their pretty dimples, and their white teeth.

“This smile our heroe received full in his eyes, and was immediately
staggered with its force. He then began to see the designs of the enemy,
and indeed to feel their success. A parley now was set on foot between the
parties; during which the artful fair so slily and imperceptibly carried
on her attack, that she had almost subdued the heart of our heroe before
she again repaired to acts of hostility. To confess the truth, I am afraid
Mr Jones maintained a kind of Dutch defence, and treacherously delivered
up the garrison, without duly weighing his allegiance to the fair Sophia.
In short, no sooner had the amorous parley ended and the lady had unmasked
the royal battery, by carelessly letting her handkerchief drop from her
neck, than the heart of Mr Jones was entirely taken, and the fair
conqueror enjoyed the usual fruits of her victory.”

Here the Graces think proper to end their description, and here we think
proper to end the chapter.

Chapter vi. — A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a
very common, though not very friendly, conclusion.

While our lovers were entertaining themselves in the manner which is
partly described in the foregoing chapter, they were likewise furnishing
out an entertainment for their good friends in the kitchen. And this in a
double sense, by affording them matter for their conversation, and, at the
same time, drink to enliven their spirits.

There were now assembled round the kitchen fire, besides my landlord and
landlady, who occasionally went backward and forward, Mr Partridge, the
serjeant, and the coachman who drove the young lady and her maid.

Partridge having acquainted the company with what he had learnt from the
Man of the Hill concerning the situation in which Mrs Waters had been
found by Jones, the serjeant proceeded to that part of her history which
was known to him. He said she was the wife of Mr Waters, who was a captain
in their regiment, and had often been with him at quarters. “Some
folks,” says he, “used indeed to doubt whether they were
lawfully married in a church or no. But, for my part, that’s no business
of mine: I must own, if I was put to my corporal oath, I believe she is
little better than one of us; and I fancy the captain may go to heaven
when the sun shines upon a rainy day. But if he does, that is neither here
nor there; for he won’t want company. And the lady, to give the devil his
due, is a very good sort of lady, and loves the cloth, and is always
desirous to do strict justice to it; for she hath begged off many a poor
soldier, and, by her good-will, would never have any of them punished. But
yet, to be sure, Ensign Northerton and she were very well acquainted
together at our last quarters; that is the very right and truth of the
matter. But the captain he knows nothing about it; and as long as there is
enough for him too, what does it signify? He loves her not a bit the
worse, and I am certain would run any man through the body that was to
abuse her; therefore I won’t abuse her, for my part. I only repeat what
other folks say; and, to be certain, what everybody says, there must be
some truth in.”—“Ay, ay, a great deal of truth, I
warrant you,” cries Partridge; “Veritas odium parit”—“All
a parcel of scandalous stuff,” answered the mistress of the house.
“I am sure, now she is drest, she looks like a very good sort of
lady, and she behaves herself like one; for she gave me a guinea for the
use of my cloaths.”—“A very good lady indeed!”
cries the landlord; “and if you had not been a little too hasty, you
would not have quarrelled with her as you did at first.”—“You
need mention that with my truly!” answered she: “if it had not
been for your nonsense, nothing had happened. You must be meddling with
what did not belong to you, and throw in your fool’s discourse.”—“Well,
well,” answered he; “what’s past cannot be mended, so there’s
an end of the matter.”—“Yes,” cries she, “for
this once; but will it be mended ever the more hereafter? This is not the
first time I have suffered for your numscull’s pate. I wish you would
always hold your tongue in the house, and meddle only in matters without
doors, which concern you. Don’t you remember what happened about seven
years ago?”—“Nay, my dear,” returned he, “don’t
rip up old stories. Come, come, all’s well, and I am sorry for what I have
done.” The landlady was going to reply, but was prevented by the
peace-making serjeant, sorely to the displeasure of Partridge, who was a
great lover of what is called fun, and a great promoter of those harmless
quarrels which tend rather to the production of comical than tragical
incidents.

The serjeant asked Partridge whither he and his master were travelling?
“None of your magisters,” answered Partridge; “I am no
man’s servant, I assure you; for, though I have had misfortunes in the
world, I write gentleman after my name; and, as poor and simple as I may
appear now, I have taught grammar-school in my time; sed hei mihi! non
sum quod fui.”—“No offence, I hope, sir,” said
the serjeant; “where, then, if I may venture to be so bold, may you
and your friend be travelling?”—“You have now
denominated us right,” says Partridge. “Amici sumus.
And I promise you my friend is one of the greatest gentlemen in the
kingdom” (at which words both landlord and landlady pricked up their
ears). “He is the heir of Squire Allworthy.”—“What,
the squire who doth so much good all over the country?” cries my
landlady. “Even he,” answered Partridge.—“Then I
warrant,” says she, “he’ll have a swinging great estate
hereafter.”—“Most certainly,” answered Partridge.—“Well,”
replied the landlady, “I thought the first moment I saw him he
looked like a good sort of gentleman; but my husband here, to be sure, is
wiser than anybody.”—“I own, my dear,” cries he,
“it was a mistake.”—“A mistake, indeed!”
answered she; “but when did you ever know me to make such mistakes?”—“But
how comes it, sir,” cries the landlord, “that such a great
gentleman walks about the country afoot?”—“I don’t know,”
returned Partridge; “great gentlemen have humours sometimes. He hath
now a dozen horses and servants at Gloucester; and nothing would serve
him, but last night, it being very hot weather, he must cool himself with
a walk to yon high hill, whither I likewise walked with him to bear him
company; but if ever you catch me there again: for I was never so
frightened in all my life. We met with the strangest man there.”—“I’ll
be hanged,” cries the landlord, “if it was not the Man of the
Hill, as they call him; if indeed he be a man; but I know several people
who believe it is the devil that lives there.”—“Nay,
nay, like enough,” says Partridge; “and now you put me in the
head of it, I verily and sincerely believe it was the devil, though I
could not perceive his cloven foot: but perhaps he might have the power
given him to hide that, since evil spirits can appear in what shapes they
please.”—“And pray, sir,” says the serjeant,
“no offence, I hope; but pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil?
For I have heard some of our officers say there is no such person; and
that it is only a trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke; for,
if it was publickly known that there was no devil, the parsons would be of
no more use than we are in time of peace.”—“Those
officers,” says Partridge, “are very great scholars, I
suppose.”—“Not much of schollards neither,”
answered the serjeant; “they have not half your learning, sir, I
believe; and, to be sure, I thought there must be a devil, notwithstanding
what they said, though one of them was a captain; for methought, thinks I
to myself, if there be no devil, how can wicked people be sent to him? and
I have read all that upon a book.”—“Some of your
officers,” quoth the landlord, “will find there is a devil, to
their shame, I believe. I don’t question but he’ll pay off some old scores
upon my account. Here was one quartered upon me half a year, who had the
conscience to take up one of my best beds, though he hardly spent a
shilling a day in the house, and suffered his men to roast cabbages at the
kitchen fire, because I would not give them a dinner on a Sunday. Every
good Christian must desire there should be a devil for the punishment of
such wretches.”—“Harkee, landlord,” said the
serjeant, “don’t abuse the cloth, for I won’t take it.”—“D—n
the cloth!” answered the landlord, “I have suffered enough by
them.”—“Bear witness, gentlemen,” says the
serjeant, “he curses the king, and that’s high treason.”—“I
curse the king! you villain,” said the landlord. “Yes, you
did,” cries the serjeant; “you cursed the cloth, and that’s
cursing the king. It’s all one and the same; for every man who curses the
cloth would curse the king if he durst; so for matter o’ that, it’s all
one and the same thing.”—“Excuse me there, Mr Serjeant,”
quoth Partridge, “that’s a non sequitur.”—“None
of your outlandish linguo,” answered the serjeant, leaping from his
seat; “I will not sit still and hear the cloth abused.”—“You
mistake me, friend,” cries Partridge. “I did not mean to abuse
the cloth; I only said your conclusion was a non sequitur.[*]”—“You
are another,” cries the serjeant,” an you come to that. No
more a sequitur than yourself. You are a pack of rascals, and I’ll
prove it; for I will fight the best man of you all for twenty pound.”
This challenge effectually silenced Partridge, whose stomach for drubbing
did not so soon return after the hearty meal which he had lately been
treated with; but the coachman, whose bones were less sore, and whose
appetite for fighting was somewhat sharper, did not so easily brook the
affront, of which he conceived some part at least fell to his share. He
started therefore from his seat, and, advancing to the serjeant, swore he
looked on himself to be as good a man as any in the army, and offered to
box for a guinea. The military man accepted the combat, but refused the
wager; upon which both immediately stript and engaged, till the driver of
horses was so well mauled by the leader of men, that he was obliged to
exhaust his small remainder of breath in begging for quarter.

The young lady was now desirous to depart, and had given orders for her
coach to be prepared; but all in vain, for the coachman was disabled from
performing his office for that evening. An antient heathen would perhaps
have imputed this disability to the god of drink, no less than to the god
of war; for, in reality, both the combatants had sacrificed as well to the
former deity as to the latter. To speak plainly, they were both dead
drunk, nor was Partridge in a much better situation. As for my landlord,
drinking was his trade; and the liquor had no more effect on him than it
had on any other vessel in his house.

The mistress of the inn, being summoned to attend Mr Jones and his
companion at their tea, gave a full relation of the latter part of the
foregoing scene; and at the same time expressed great concern for the
young lady, “who,” she said, “was under the utmost
uneasiness at being prevented from pursuing her journey. She is a sweet
pretty creature,” added she, “and I am certain I have seen her
face before. I fancy she is in love, and running away from her friends.
Who knows but some young gentleman or other may be expecting her, with a
heart as heavy as her own?”

Jones fetched a heavy sigh at those words; of which, though Mrs Waters
observed it, she took no notice while the landlady continued in the room;
but, after the departure of that good woman, she could not forbear giving
our heroe certain hints on her suspecting some very dangerous rival in his
affections. The aukward behaviour of Mr Jones on this occasion convinced
her of the truth, without his giving her a direct answer to any of her
questions; but she was not nice enough in her amours to be greatly
concerned at the discovery. The beauty of Jones highly charmed her eye;
but as she could not see his heart, she gave herself no concern about it.
She could feast heartily at the table of love, without reflecting that
some other already had been, or hereafter might be, feasted with the same
repast. A sentiment which, if it deals but little in refinement, deals,
however, much in substance; and is less capricious, and perhaps less
ill-natured and selfish, than the desires of those females who can be
contented enough to abstain from the possession of their lovers, provided
they are sufficiently satisfied that no one else possesses them.

Chapter vii. — Containing a fuller account of Mrs Waters, and by
what means she came into that distressful situation from which she was
rescued by Jones.

Though Nature hath by no means mixed up an equal share either of curiosity
or vanity in every human composition, there is perhaps no individual to
whom she hath not allotted such a proportion of both as requires much
arts, and pains too, to subdue and keep under;—a conquest, however,
absolutely necessary to every one who would in any degree deserve the
characters of wisdom or good breeding.

As Jones, therefore, might very justly be called a well-bred man, he had
stifled all that curiosity which the extraordinary manner in which he had
found Mrs Waters must be supposed to have occasioned. He had, indeed, at
first thrown out some few hints to the lady; but, when he perceived her
industriously avoiding any explanation, he was contented to remain in
ignorance, the rather as he was not without suspicion that there were some
circumstances which must have raised her blushes, had she related the
whole truth.

Now since it is possible that some of our readers may not so easily
acquiesce under the same ignorance, and as we are very desirous to satisfy
them all, we have taken uncommon pains to inform ourselves of the real
fact, with the relation of which we shall conclude this book.

This lady, then, had lived some years with one Captain Waters, who was a
captain in the same regiment to which Mr Northerton belonged. She past for
that gentleman’s wife, and went by his name; and yet, as the serjeant
said, there were some doubts concerning the reality of their marriage,
which we shall not at present take upon us to resolve.

Mrs Waters, I am sorry to say it, had for some time contracted an intimacy
with the above-mentioned ensign, which did no great credit to her
reputation. That she had a remarkable fondness for that young fellow is
most certain; but whether she indulged this to any very criminal lengths
is not so extremely clear, unless we will suppose that women never grant
every favour to a man but one, without granting him that one also.

The division of the regiment to which Captain Waters belonged had two days
preceded the march of that company to which Mr Northerton was the ensign;
so that the former had reached Worcester the very day after the
unfortunate re-encounter between Jones and Northerton which we have before
recorded.

Now, it had been agreed between Mrs Waters and the captain that she would
accompany him in his march as far as Worcester, where they were to take
their leave of each other, and she was thence to return to Bath, where she
was to stay till the end of the winter’s campaign against the rebels.

With this agreement Mr Northerton was made acquainted. To say the truth,
the lady had made him an assignation at this very place, and promised to
stay at Worcester till his division came thither; with what view, and for
what purpose, must be left to the reader’s divination; for, though we are
obliged to relate facts, we are not obliged to do a violence to our nature
by any comments to the disadvantage of the loveliest part of the creation.

Northerton no sooner obtained a release from his captivity, as we have
seen, than he hasted away to overtake Mrs Waters; which, as he was a very
active nimble fellow, he did at the last-mentioned city, some few hours
after Captain Waters had left her. At his first arrival he made no scruple
of acquainting her with the unfortunate accident; which he made appear
very unfortunate indeed, for he totally extracted every particle of what
could be called fault, at least in a court of honour, though he left some
circumstances which might be questionable in a court of law.

Women, to their glory be it spoken, are more generally capable of that
violent and apparently disinterested passion of love, which seeks only the
good of its object, than men. Mrs Waters, therefore, was no sooner
apprized of the danger to which her lover was exposed, than she lost every
consideration besides that of his safety; and this being a matter equally
agreeable to the gentleman, it became the immediate subject of debate
between them.

After much consultation on this matter, it was at length agreed that the
ensign should go across the country to Hereford, whence he might find some
conveyance to one of the sea-ports in Wales, and thence might make his
escape abroad. In all which expedition Mrs Waters declared she would bear
him company; and for which she was able to furnish him with money, a very
material article to Mr Northerton, she having then in her pocket three
bank-notes to the amount of £90, besides some cash, and a diamond ring of
pretty considerable value on her finger. All which she, with the utmost
confidence, revealed to this wicked man, little suspecting she should by
these means inspire him with a design of robbing her. Now, as they must,
by taking horses from Worcester, have furnished any pursuers with the
means of hereafter discovering their route, the ensign proposed, and the
lady presently agreed, to make their first stage on foot; for which
purpose the hardness of the frost was very seasonable.

The main part of the lady’s baggage was already at Bath, and she had
nothing with her at present besides a very small quantity of linen, which
the gallant undertook to carry in his own pockets. All things, therefore,
being settled in the evening, they arose early the next morning, and at
five o’clock departed from Worcester, it being then above two hours before
day, but the moon, which was then at the full, gave them all the light she
was capable of affording.

Mrs Waters was not of that delicate race of women who are obliged to the
invention of vehicles for the capacity of removing themselves from one
place to another, and with whom consequently a coach is reckoned among the
necessaries of life. Her limbs were indeed full of strength and agility,
and, as her mind was no less animated with spirit, she was perfectly able
to keep pace with her nimble lover.

Having travelled on for some miles in a high road, which Northerton said
he was informed led to Hereford, they came at the break of day to the side
of a large wood, where he suddenly stopped, and, affecting to meditate a
moment with himself, expressed some apprehensions from travelling any
longer in so public a way. Upon which he easily persuaded his fair
companion to strike with him into a path which seemed to lead directly
through the wood, and which at length brought them both to the bottom of
Mazard Hill.

Whether the execrable scheme which he now attempted to execute was the
effect of previous deliberation, or whether it now first came into his
head, I cannot determine. But being arrived in this lonely place, where it
was very improbable he should meet with any interruption, he suddenly
slipped his garter from his leg, and, laying violent hands on the poor
woman, endeavoured to perpetrate that dreadful and detestable fact which
we have before commemorated, and which the providential appearance of
Jones did so fortunately prevent.

Happy was it for Mrs Waters that she was not of the weakest order of
females; for no sooner did she perceive, by his tying a knot in his
garter, and by his declarations, what his hellish intentions were, than
she stood stoutly to her defence, and so strongly struggled with her
enemy, screaming all the while for assistance, that she delayed the
execution of the villain’s purpose several minutes, by which means Mr
Jones came to her relief at that very instant when her strength failed and
she was totally overpowered, and delivered her from the ruffian’s hands,
with no other loss than that of her cloaths, which were torn from her
back, and of the diamond ring, which during the contention either dropped
from her finger, or was wrenched from it by Northerton.

Thus, reader, we have given thee the fruits of a very painful enquiry
which for thy satisfaction we have made into this matter. And here we have
opened to thee a scene of folly as well as villany, which we could scarce
have believed a human creature capable of being guilty of, had we not
remembered that this fellow was at that time firmly persuaded that he had
already committed a murder, and had forfeited his life to the law. As he
concluded therefore that his only safety lay in flight, he thought the
possessing himself of this poor woman’s money and ring would make him
amends for the additional burthen he was to lay on his conscience.

And here, reader, we must strictly caution thee that thou dost not take
any occasion, from the misbehaviour of such a wretch as this, to reflect
on so worthy and honourable a body of men as are the officers of our army
in general. Thou wilt be pleased to consider that this fellow, as we have
already informed thee, had neither the birth nor education of a gentleman,
nor was a proper person to be enrolled among the number of such. If,
therefore, his baseness can justly reflect on any besides himself, it must
be only on those who gave him his commission.

BOOK X. — IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS.

Chapter i. — Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by
modern critics.

Reader, it is impossible we should know what sort of person thou wilt be;
for, perhaps, thou may’st be as learned in human nature as Shakespear
himself was, and, perhaps, thou may’st be no wiser than some of his
editors. Now, lest this latter should be the case, we think proper, before
we go any farther together, to give thee a few wholesome admonitions; that
thou may’st not as grossly misunderstand and misrepresent us, as some of
the said editors have misunderstood and misrepresented their author.

First, then, we warn thee not too hastily to condemn any of the incidents
in this our history as impertinent and foreign to our main design, because
thou dost not immediately conceive in what manner such incident may
conduce to that design. This work may, indeed, be considered as a great
creation of our own; and for a little reptile of a critic to presume to
find fault with any of its parts, without knowing the manner in which the
whole is connected, and before he comes to the final catastrophe, is a
most presumptuous absurdity. The allusion and metaphor we have here made
use of, we must acknowledge to be infinitely too great for our occasion;
but there is, indeed, no other, which is at all adequate to express the
difference between an author of the first rate and a critic of the lowest.

Another caution we would give thee, my good reptile, is, that thou dost
not find out too near a resemblance between certain characters here
introduced; as, for instance, between the landlady who appears in the
seventh book and her in the ninth. Thou art to know, friend, that there
are certain characteristics in which most individuals of every profession
and occupation agree. To be able to preserve these characteristics, and at
the same time to diversify their operations, is one talent of a good
writer. Again, to mark the nice distinction between two persons actuated
by the same vice or folly is another; and, as this last talent is found in
very few writers, so is the true discernment of it found in as few
readers; though, I believe, the observation of this forms a very principal
pleasure in those who are capable of the discovery; every person, for
instance, can distinguish between Sir Epicure Mammon and Sir Fopling
Flutter; but to note the difference between Sir Fopling Flutter and Sir
Courtly Nice requires a more exquisite judgment: for want of which, vulgar
spectators of plays very often do great injustice in the theatre; where I
have sometimes known a poet in danger of being convicted as a thief, upon
much worse evidence than the resemblance of hands hath been held to be in
the law. In reality, I apprehend every amorous widow on the stage would
run the hazard of being condemned as a servile imitation of Dido, but that
happily very few of our play-house critics understand enough of Latin to
read Virgil.

In the next place, we must admonish thee, my worthy friend (for, perhaps,
thy heart may be better than thy head), not to condemn a character as a
bad one, because it is not perfectly a good one. If thou dost delight in
these models of perfection, there are books enow written to gratify thy
taste; but, as we have not, in the course of our conversation, ever
happened to meet with any such person, we have not chosen to introduce any
such here. To say the truth, I a little question whether mere man ever
arrived at this consummate degree of excellence, as well as whether there
hath ever existed a monster bad enough to verify that

in Juvenal; nor do I, indeed, conceive the good purposes served by
inserting characters of such angelic perfection, or such diabolical
depravity, in any work of invention; since, from contemplating either, the
mind of man is more likely to be overwhelmed with sorrow and shame than to
draw any good uses from such patterns; for in the former instance he may
be both concerned and ashamed to see a pattern of excellence in his
nature, which he may reasonably despair of ever arriving at; and in
contemplating the latter he may be no less affected with those uneasy
sensations, at seeing the nature of which he is a partaker degraded into
so odious and detestable a creature.

In fact, if there be enough of goodness in a character to engage the
admiration and affection of a well-disposed mind, though there should
appear some of those little blemishes quas humana parum cavit natura,
they will raise our compassion rather than our abhorrence. Indeed, nothing
can be of more moral use than the imperfections which are seen in examples
of this kind; since such form a kind of surprize, more apt to affect and
dwell upon our minds than the faults of very vicious and wicked persons.
The foibles and vices of men, in whom there is great mixture of good,
become more glaring objects from the virtues which contrast them and shew
their deformity; and when we find such vices attended with their evil
consequence to our favourite characters, we are not only taught to shun
them for our own sake, but to hate them for the mischiefs they have
already brought on those we love.

And now, my friend, having given you these few admonitions, we will, if
you please, once more set forward with our history.

Chapter ii. — Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with
very extraordinary adventures which ensued at the inn.

Now the little trembling hare, which the dread of all her numerous
enemies, and chiefly of that cunning, cruel, carnivorous animal, man, had
confined all the day to her lurking-place, sports wantonly o’er the lawns;
now on some hollow tree the owl, shrill chorister of the night, hoots
forth notes which might charm the ears of some modern connoisseurs in
music; now, in the imagination of the half-drunk clown, as he staggers
through the churchyard, or rather charnelyard, to his home, fear paints
the bloody hobgoblin; now thieves and ruffians are awake, and honest
watchmen fast asleep; in plain English, it was now midnight; and the
company at the inn, as well those who have been already mentioned in this
history, as some others who arrived in the evening, were all in bed. Only
Susan Chambermaid was now stirring, she being obliged to wash the kitchen
before she retired to the arms of the fond expecting hostler.

In this posture were affairs at the inn when a gentleman arrived there
post. He immediately alighted from his horse, and, coming up to Susan,
enquired of her, in a very abrupt and confused manner, being almost out of
breath with eagerness, Whether there was any lady in the house? The hour
of night, and the behaviour of the man, who stared very wildly all the
time, a little surprized Susan, so that she hesitated before she made any
answer; upon which the gentleman, with redoubled eagerness, begged her to
give him a true information, saying, He had lost his wife, and was come in
pursuit of her. “Upon my shoul,” cries he, “I have been
near catching her already in two or three places, if I had not found her
gone just as I came up with her. If she be in the house, do carry me up in
the dark and show her to me; and if she be gone away before me, do tell me
which way I shall go after her to meet her, and, upon my shoul, I will
make you the richest poor woman in the nation.” He then pulled out a
handful of guineas, a sight which would have bribed persons of much
greater consequence than this poor wench to much worse purposes.

Susan, from the account she had received of Mrs Waters, made not the least
doubt but that she was the very identical stray whom the right owner
pursued. As she concluded, therefore, with great appearance of reason,
that she never could get money in an honester way than by restoring a wife
to her husband, she made no scruple of assuring the gentleman that the
lady he wanted was then in the house; and was presently afterwards
prevailed upon (by very liberal promises, and some earnest paid into her
hands) to conduct him to the bedchamber of Mrs Waters.

It hath been a custom long established in the polite world, and that upon
very solid and substantial reasons, that a husband shall never enter his
wife’s apartment without first knocking at the door. The many excellent
uses of this custom need scarce be hinted to a reader who hath any
knowledge of the world; for by this means the lady hath time to adjust
herself, or to remove any disagreeable object out of the way; for there
are some situations in which nice and delicate women would not be
discovered by their husbands.

To say the truth, there are several ceremonies instituted among the
polished part of mankind, which, though they may, to coarser judgments,
appear as matters of mere form, are found to have much of substance in
them, by the more discerning; and lucky would it have been had the custom
above mentioned been observed by our gentleman in the present instance.
Knock, indeed, he did at the door, but not with one of those gentle raps
which is usual on such occasions. On the contrary, when he found the door
locked, he flew at it with such violence, that the lock immediately gave
way, the door burst open, and he fell headlong into the room.

He had no sooner recovered his legs than forth from the bed, upon his legs
likewise, appeared—with shame and sorrow are we obliged to proceed—our
heroe himself, who, with a menacing voice, demanded of the gentleman who
he was, and what he meant by daring to burst open his chamber in that
outrageous manner.

The gentleman at first thought he had committed a mistake, and was going
to ask pardon and retreat, when, on a sudden, as the moon shone very
bright, he cast his eyes on stays, gowns, petticoats, caps, ribbons,
stockings, garters, shoes, clogs, &c., all which lay in a disordered
manner on the floor. All these, operating on the natural jealousy of his
temper, so enraged him, that he lost all power of speech; and, without
returning any answer to Jones, he endeavoured to approach the bed.

Jones immediately interposing, a fierce contention arose, which soon
proceeded to blows on both sides. And now Mrs Waters (for we must confess
she was in the same bed), being, I suppose, awakened from her sleep, and
seeing two men fighting in her bedchamber, began to scream in the most
violent manner, crying out murder! robbery! and more frequently rape!
which last, some, perhaps, may wonder she should mention, who do not
consider that these words of exclamation are used by ladies in a fright,
as fa, la, la, ra, da, &c., are in music, only as the vehicles of
sound, and without any fixed ideas.

Next to the lady’s chamber was deposited the body of an Irish gentleman
who arrived too late at the inn to have been mentioned before. This
gentleman was one of those whom the Irish call a calabalaro, or cavalier.
He was a younger brother of a good family, and, having no fortune at home,
was obliged to look abroad in order to get one; for which purpose he was
proceeding to the Bath, to try his luck with cards and the women.

This young fellow lay in bed reading one of Mrs Behn’s novels; for he had
been instructed by a friend that he would find no more effectual method of
recommending himself to the ladies than the improving his understanding,
and filling his mind with good literature. He no sooner, therefore, heard
the violent uproar in the next room, than he leapt from his bolster, and,
taking his sword in one hand, and the candle which burnt by him in the
other, he went directly to Mrs Waters’s chamber.

If the sight of another man in his shirt at first added some shock to the
decency of the lady, it made her presently amends by considerably abating
her fears; for no sooner had the calabalaro entered the room than he cried
out, “Mr Fitzpatrick, what the devil is the maning of this?”
Upon which the other immediately answered, “O, Mr Maclachlan! I am
rejoiced you are here.—This villain hath debauched my wife, and is
got into bed with her.”—“What wife?” cries
Maclachlan; “do not I know Mrs Fitzpatrick very well, and don’t I
see that the lady, whom the gentleman who stands here in his shirt is
lying in bed with, is none of her?”

Fitzpatrick, now perceiving, as well by the glimpse he had of the lady, as
by her voice, which might have been distinguished at a greater distance
than he now stood from her, that he had made a very unfortunate mistake,
began to ask many pardons of the lady; and then, turning to Jones, he
said, “I would have you take notice I do not ask your pardon, for
you have bate me; for which I am resolved to have your blood in the
morning.”

Jones treated this menace with much contempt; and Mr Maclachlan answered,
“Indeed, Mr Fitzpatrick, you may be ashamed of your own self, to
disturb people at this time of night; if all the people in the inn were
not asleep, you would have awakened them as you have me. The gentleman has
served you very rightly. Upon my conscience, though I have no wife, if you
had treated her so, I would have cut your throat.”

Jones was so confounded with his fears for his lady’s reputation, that he
knew neither what to say or do; but the invention of women is, as hath
been observed, much readier than that of men. She recollected that there
was a communication between her chamber and that of Mr Jones; relying,
therefore, on his honour and her own assurance, she answered, “I
know not what you mean, villains! I am wife to none of you. Help! Rape!
Murder! Rape!”—And now, the landlady coming into the room, Mrs
Waters fell upon her with the utmost virulence, saying, “She thought
herself in a sober inn, and not in a bawdy-house; but that a set of
villains had broke into her room, with an intent upon her honour, if not
upon her life; and both, she said, were equally dear to her.”

The landlady now began to roar as loudly as the poor woman in bed had done
before. She cried, “She was undone, and that the reputation of her
house, which was never blown upon before, was utterly destroyed.”
Then, turning to the men, she cried, “What, in the devil’s name, is
the reason of all this disturbance in the lady’s room?” Fitzpatrick,
hanging down his head, repeated, “That he had committed a mistake,
for which he heartily asked pardon,” and then retired with his
countryman. Jones, who was too ingenious to have missed the hint given him
by his fair one, boldly asserted, “That he had run to her assistance
upon hearing the door broke open, with what design he could not conceive,
unless of robbing the lady; which, if they intended, he said, he had the
good fortune to prevent.” “I never had a robbery committed in
my house since I have kept it,” cries the landlady; “I would
have you to know, sir, I harbour no highwaymen here; I scorn the word,
thof I say it. None but honest, good gentlefolks, are welcome to my house;
and, I thank good luck, I have always had enow of such customers; indeed
as many as I could entertain. Here hath been my lord—,” and
then she repeated over a catalogue of names and titles, many of which we
might, perhaps, be guilty of a breach of privilege by inserting.

Jones, after much patience, at length interrupted her, by making an
apology to Mrs Waters, for having appeared before her in his shirt,
assuring her “That nothing but a concern for her safety could have
prevailed on him to do it.” The reader may inform himself of her
answer, and, indeed, of her whole behaviour to the end of the scene, by
considering the situation which she affected, it being that of a modest
lady, who was awakened out of her sleep by three strange men in her
chamber. This was the part which she undertook to perform; and, indeed,
she executed it so well, that none of our theatrical actresses could
exceed her, in any of their performances, either on or off the stage.

And hence, I think, we may very fairly draw an argument, to prove how
extremely natural virtue is to the fair sex; for, though there is not,
perhaps, one in ten thousand who is capable of making a good actress, and
even among these we rarely see two who are equally able to personate the
same character, yet this of virtue they can all admirably well put on; and
as well those individuals who have it not, as those who possess it, can
all act it to the utmost degree of perfection.

When the men were all departed, Mrs Waters, recovering from her fear,
recovered likewise from her anger, and spoke in much gentler accents to
the landlady, who did not so readily quit her concern for the reputation
of the house, in favour of which she began again to number the many great
persons who had slept under her roof; but the lady stopt her short, and
having absolutely acquitted her of having had any share in the past
disturbance, begged to be left to her repose, which, she said, she hoped
to enjoy unmolested during the remainder of the night. Upon which the
landlady, after much civility and many courtsies, took her leave.

Chapter iii. — A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the
chamber-maid, proper to be read by all inn-keepers and their servants;
with the arrival, and affable behaviour of a beautiful young lady; which
may teach

persons of condition how they may acquire the love of the whole world.

The landlady, remembering that Susan had been the only person out of bed
when the door was burst open, resorted presently to her, to enquire into
the first occasion of the disturbance, as well as who the strange
gentleman was, and when and how he arrived.

Susan related the whole story which the reader knows already, varying the
truth only in some circumstances, as she saw convenient, and totally
concealing the money which she had received. But whereas her mistress had,
in the preface to her enquiry, spoken much in compassion for the fright
which the lady had been in concerning any intended depredations on her
virtue, Susan could not help endeavouring to quiet the concern which her
mistress seemed to be under on that account, by swearing heartily she saw
Jones leap out from her bed.

The landlady fell into a violent rage at these words. “A likely
story, truly,” cried she, “that a woman should cry out, and
endeavour to expose herself, if that was the case! I desire to know what
better proof any lady can give of her virtue than her crying out, which, I
believe, twenty people can witness for her she did? I beg, madam, you
would spread no such scandal of any of my guests; for it will not only
reflect on them, but upon the house; and I am sure no vagabonds, nor
wicked beggarly people, come here.”

“Well,” says Susan, “then I must not believe my own
eyes.” “No, indeed, must you not always,” answered her
mistress; “I would not have believed my own eyes against such good
gentlefolks. I have not had a better supper ordered this half-year than
they ordered last night; and so easy and good-humoured were they, that
they found no fault with my Worcestershire perry, which I sold them for
champagne; and to be sure it is as well tasted and as wholesome as the
best champagne in the kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it ’em; and
they drank me two bottles. No, no, I will never believe any harm of such
sober good sort of people.”

Susan being thus silenced, her mistress proceeded to other matters.
“And so you tell me,” continued she, “that the strange
gentleman came post, and there is a footman without with the horses; why,
then, he is certainly some of your great gentlefolks too. Why did not you
ask him whether he’d have any supper? I think he is in the other
gentleman’s room; go up and ask whether he called. Perhaps he’ll order
something when he finds anybody stirring in the house to dress it. Now
don’t commit any of your usual blunders, by telling him the fire’s out,
and the fowls alive. And if he should order mutton, don’t blab out that we
have none. The butcher, I know, killed a sheep just before I went to bed,
and he never refuses to cut it up warm when I desire it. Go, remember
there’s all sorts of mutton and fowls; go, open the door with, Gentlemen,
d’ye call? and if they say nothing, ask what his honour will be pleased to
have for supper? Don’t forget his honour. Go; if you don’t mind all these
matters better, you’ll never come to anything.”

Susan departed, and soon returned with an account that the two gentlemen
were got both into the same bed. “Two gentlemen,” says the
landlady, “in the same bed! that’s impossible; they are two arrant
scrubs, I warrant them; and I believe young Squire Allworthy guessed
right, that the fellow intended to rob her ladyship; for, if he had broke
open the lady’s door with any of the wicked designs of a gentleman, he
would never have sneaked away to another room to save the expense of a
supper and a bed to himself. They are certainly thieves, and their
searching after a wife is nothing but a pretence.”

In these censures my landlady did Mr Fitzpatrick great injustice; for he
was really born a gentleman, though not worth a groat; and though,
perhaps, he had some few blemishes in his heart as well as in his head,
yet being a sneaking or a niggardly fellow was not one of them. In
reality, he was so generous a man, that, whereas he had received a very
handsome fortune with his wife, he had now spent every penny of it, except
some little pittance which was settled upon her; and, in order to possess
himself of this, he had used her with such cruelty, that, together with
his jealousy, which was of the bitterest kind, it had forced the poor
woman to run away from him.

This gentleman then being well tired with his long journey from Chester in
one day, with which, and some good dry blows he had received in the
scuffle, his bones were so sore, that, added to the soreness of his mind,
it had quite deprived him of any appetite for eating. And being now so
violently disappointed in the woman whom, at the maid’s instance, he had
mistaken for his wife, it never once entered into his head that she might
nevertheless be in the house, though he had erred in the first person he
had attacked. He therefore yielded to the dissuasions of his friend from
searching any farther after her that night, and accepted the kind offer of
part of his bed.

The footman and post-boy were in a different disposition. They were more
ready to order than the landlady was to provide; however, after being
pretty well satisfied by them of the real truth of the case, and that Mr
Fitzpatrick was no thief, she was at length prevailed on to set some cold
meat before them, which they were devouring with great greediness, when
Partridge came into the kitchen. He had been first awaked by the hurry
which we have before seen; and while he was endeavouring to compose
himself again on his pillow, a screech-owl had given him such a serenade
at his window, that he leapt in a most horrible affright from his bed,
and, huddling on his cloaths with great expedition, ran down to the
protection of the company, whom he heard talking below in the kitchen.

His arrival detained my landlady from returning to her rest; for she was
just about to leave the other two guests to the care of Susan; but the
friend of young Squire Allworthy was not to be so neglected, especially as
he called for a pint of wine to be mulled. She immediately obeyed, by
putting the same quantity of perry to the fire; for this readily answered
to the name of every kind of wine.

The Irish footman was retired to bed, and the post-boy was going to
follow; but Partridge invited him to stay and partake of his wine, which
the lad very thankfully accepted. The schoolmaster was indeed afraid to
return to bed by himself; and as he did not know how soon he might lose
the company of my landlady, he was resolved to secure that of the boy, in
whose presence he apprehended no danger from the devil or any of his
adherents.

And now arrived another post-boy at the gate; upon which Susan, being
ordered out, returned, introducing two young women in riding habits, one
of which was so very richly laced, that Partridge and the post-boy
instantly started from their chairs, and my landlady fell to her
courtsies, and her ladyships, with great eagerness.

The lady in the rich habit said, with a smile of great condescension,
“If you will give me leave, madam, I will warm myself a few minutes
at your kitchen fire, for it is really very cold; but I must insist on
disturbing no one from his seat.” This was spoken on account of
Partridge, who had retreated to the other end of the room, struck with the
utmost awe and astonishment at the splendor of the lady’s dress. Indeed,
she had a much better title to respect than this; for she was one of the
most beautiful creatures in the world.

The lady earnestly desired Partridge to return to his seat; but could not
prevail. She then pulled off her gloves, and displayed to the fire two
hands, which had every property of snow in them, except that of melting.
Her companion, who was indeed her maid, likewise pulled off her gloves,
and discovered what bore an exact resemblance, in cold and colour, to a
piece of frozen beef.

“I wish, madam,” quoth the latter, “your ladyship would
not think of going any farther to-night. I am terribly afraid your
ladyship will not be able to bear the fatigue.”

“Why sure,” cries the landlady, “her ladyship’s honour
can never intend it. O, bless me! farther to-night, indeed! let me beseech
your ladyship not to think on’t——But, to be sure, your
ladyship can’t. What will your honour be pleased to have for supper? I
have mutton of all kinds, and some nice chicken.”

“I think, madam,” said the lady, “it would be rather
breakfast than supper; but I can’t eat anything; and, if I stay, shall
only lie down for an hour or two. However, if you please, madam, you may
get me a little sack whey, made very small and thin.”

“Yes, madam,” cries the mistress of the house, “I have
some excellent white wine.”—“You have no sack, then?”
says the lady. “Yes, an’t please your honour, I have; I may
challenge the country for that—but let me beg your ladyship to eat
something.”

“Upon my word, I can’t eat a morsel,” answered the lady;
“and I shall be much obliged to you if you will please to get my
apartment ready as soon as possible; for I am resolved to be on horseback
again in three hours.”

“Why, Susan,” cries the landlady, “is there a fire lit
yet in the Wild-goose? I am sorry, madam, all my best rooms are full.
Several people of the first quality are now in bed. Here’s a great young
squire, and many other great gentlefolks of quality.” Susan
answered, “That the Irish gentlemen were got into the Wild-goose.”

“Was ever anything like it?” says the mistress; “why the
devil would you not keep some of the best rooms for the quality, when you
know scarce a day passes without some calling here?——If they
be gentlemen, I am certain, when they know it is for her ladyship, they
will get up again.”

“Not upon my account,” says the lady; “I will have no
person disturbed for me. If you have a room that is commonly decent, it
will serve me very well, though it be never so plain. I beg, madam, you
will not give yourself so much trouble on my account.” “O,
madam!” cries the other, “I have several very good rooms for
that matter, but none good enough for your honour’s ladyship. However, as
you are so condescending to take up with the best I have, do, Susan, get a
fire in the Rose this minute. Will your ladyship be pleased to go up now,
or stay till the fire is lighted?” “I think I have
sufficiently warmed myself,” answered the lady; “so, if you
please, I will go now; I am afraid I have kept people, and particularly
that gentleman (meaning Partridge), too long in the cold already. Indeed,
I cannot bear to think of keeping any person from the fire this dreadful
weather.”—She then departed with her maid, the landlady
marching with two lighted candles before her.

When that good woman returned, the conversation in the kitchen was all
upon the charms of the young lady. There is indeed in perfect beauty a
power which none almost can withstand; for my landlady, though she was not
pleased at the negative given to the supper, declared she had never seen
so lovely a creature. Partridge ran out into the most extravagant
encomiums on her face, though he could not refrain from paying some
compliments to the gold lace on her habit; the post-boy sung forth the
praises of her goodness, which were likewise echoed by the other post-boy,
who was now come in. “She’s a true good lady, I warrant her,”
says he; “for she hath mercy upon dumb creatures; for she asked me
every now and tan upon the journey, if I did not think she should hurt the
horses by riding too fast? and when she came in she charged me to give
them as much corn as ever they would eat.”

Such charms are there in affability, and so sure is it to attract the
praises of all kinds of people. It may indeed be compared to the
celebrated Mrs Hussey.[*] It is equally sure to set off every female
perfection to the highest advantage, and to palliate and conceal every
defect. A short reflection, which we could not forbear making in this
place, where my reader hath seen the loveliness of an affable deportment;
and truth will now oblige us to contrast it, by showing the reverse.

Chapter iv. — Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal
disesteem and hatred.

The lady had no sooner laid herself on her pillow than the waiting-woman
returned to the kitchen to regale with some of those dainties which her
mistress had refused.

The company, at her entrance, shewed her the same respect which they had
before paid to her mistress, by rising; but she forgot to imitate her, by
desiring them to sit down again. Indeed, it was scarce possible they
should have done so, for she placed her chair in such a posture as to
occupy almost the whole fire. She then ordered a chicken to be broiled
that instant, declaring, if it was not ready in a quarter of an hour, she
would not stay for it. Now, though the said chicken was then at roost in
the stable, and required the several ceremonies of catching, killing, and
picking, before it was brought to the gridiron, my landlady would
nevertheless have undertaken to do all within the time; but the guest,
being unfortunately admitted behind the scenes, must have been witness to
the fourberie; the poor woman was therefore obliged to confess that
she had none in the house; “but, madam,” said she, “I
can get any kind of mutton in an instant from the butcher’s.”

“Do you think, then,” answered the waiting-gentlewoman,
“that I have the stomach of a horse, to eat mutton at this time of
night? Sure you people that keep inns imagine your betters are like
yourselves. Indeed, I expected to get nothing at this wretched place. I
wonder my lady would stop at it. I suppose none but tradesmen and grasiers
ever call here.” The landlady fired at this indignity offered to her
house; however, she suppressed her temper, and contented herself with
saying, “Very good quality frequented it, she thanked heaven!”
“Don’t tell me,” cries the other, “of quality! I believe
I know more of people of quality than such as you.—But, prithee,
without troubling me with any of your impertinence, do tell me what I can
have for supper; for, though I cannot eat horse-flesh, I am really hungry.”
“Why, truly, madam,” answered the landlady, “you could
not take me again at such a disadvantage; for I must confess I have
nothing in the house, unless a cold piece of beef, which indeed a
gentleman’s footman and the post-boy have almost cleared to the bone.”
“Woman,” said Mrs Abigail (so for shortness we will call her),
“I entreat you not to make me sick. If I had fasted a month, I could
not eat what had been touched by the fingers of such fellows. Is there
nothing neat or decent to be had in this horrid place?” “What
think you of some eggs and bacon, madam?” said the landlady. “Are
your eggs new laid? are you certain they were laid to-day? and let me have
the bacon cut very nice and thin; for I can’t endure anything that’s
gross.—Prithee try if you can do a little tolerably for once, and
don’t think you have a farmer’s wife, or some of those creatures, in the
house.”—The landlady began then to handle her knife; but the
other stopt her, saying, “Good woman, I must insist upon your first
washing your hands; for I am extremely nice, and have been always used
from my cradle to have everything in the most elegant manner.”

The landlady, who governed herself with much difficulty, began now the
necessary preparations; for as to Susan, she was utterly rejected, and
with such disdain, that the poor wench was as hard put to it to restrain
her hands from violence as her mistress had been to hold her tongue. This
indeed Susan did not entirely; for, though she literally kept it within
her teeth, yet there it muttered many “marry-come-ups, as good flesh
and blood as yourself;” with other such indignant phrases.

While the supper was preparing, Mrs Abigail began to lament she had not
ordered a fire in the parlour; but, she said, that was now too late.
“However,” said she, “I have novelty to recommend a
kitchen; for I do not believe I ever eat in one before.” Then,
turning to the post-boys, she asked them, “Why they were not in the
stable with their horses? If I must eat my hard fare here, madam,”
cries she to the landlady, “I beg the kitchen may be kept clear,
that I may not be surrounded with all the blackguards in town: as for you,
sir,” says she to Partridge, “you look somewhat like a
gentleman, and may sit still if you please; I don’t desire to disturb
anybody but mob.”

“Yes, yes, madam,” cries Partridge, “I am a gentleman, I
do assure you, and I am not so easily to be disturbed. Non semper vox
casualis est verbo nominativus.” This Latin she took to be some
affront, and answered, “You may be a gentleman, sir; but you don’t
show yourself as one to talk Latin to a woman.” Partridge made a
gentle reply, and concluded with more Latin; upon which she tossed up her
nose, and contented herself by abusing him with the name of a great
scholar.

The supper being now on the table, Mrs Abigail eat very heartily for so
delicate a person; and, while a second course of the same was by her order
preparing, she said, “And so, madam, you tell me your house is
frequented by people of great quality?”

The landlady answered in the affirmative, saying, “There were a
great many very good quality and gentlefolks in it now. There’s young
Squire Allworthy, as that gentleman there knows.”

“And pray who is this young gentleman of quality, this young Squire
Allworthy?” said Abigail.

“Who should he be,” answered Partridge, “but the son and
heir of the great Squire Allworthy, of Somersetshire!”

“Upon my word,” said she, “you tell me strange news; for
I know Mr Allworthy of Somersetshire very well, and I know he hath no son
alive.”

The landlady pricked up her ears at this, and Partridge looked a little
confounded. However, after a short hesitation, he answered, “Indeed,
madam, it is true, everybody doth not know him to be Squire Allworthy’s
son; for he was never married to his mother; but his son he certainly is,
and will be his heir too, as certainly as his name is Jones.” At
that word, Abigail let drop the bacon which she was conveying to her
mouth, and cried out, “You surprize me, sir! Is it possible Mr Jones
should be now in the house?” “Quare non?”
answered Partridge, “it is possible, and it is certain.”

Abigail now made haste to finish the remainder of her meal, and then
repaired back to her mistress, when the conversation passed which may be
read in the next chapter.

Chapter v. — Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid,
were.

As in the month of June, the damask rose, which chance hath planted among
the lilies, with their candid hue mixes his vermilion; or as some playsome
heifer in the pleasant month of May diffuses her odoriferous breath over
the flowery meadows; or as, in the blooming month of April, the gentle,
constant dove, perched on some fair bough, sits meditating on her mate;
so, looking a hundred charms and breathing as many sweets, her thoughts
being fixed on her Tommy, with a heart as good and innocent as her face
was beautiful, Sophia (for it was she herself) lay reclining her lovely
head on her hand, when her maid entered the room, and, running directly to
the bed, cried, “Madam—madam—who doth your ladyship
think is in the house?” Sophia, starting up, cried, “I hope my
father hath not overtaken us.” “No, madam, it is one worth a
hundred fathers; Mr Jones himself is here at this very instant.”
“Mr Jones!” says Sophia, “it is impossible! I cannot be
so fortunate.” Her maid averred the fact, and was presently detached
by her mistress to order him to be called; for she said she was resolved
to see him immediately.

Mrs Honour had no sooner left the kitchen in the manner we have before
seen than the landlady fell severely upon her. The poor woman had indeed
been loading her heart with foul language for some time, and now it
scoured out of her mouth, as filth doth from a mud-cart, when the board
which confines it is removed. Partridge likewise shovelled in his share of
calumny, and (what may surprize the reader) not only bespattered the maid,
but attempted to sully the lily-white character of Sophia herself. “Never
a barrel the better herring,” cries he, “Noscitur a socio,
is a true saying. It must be confessed, indeed, that the lady in the fine
garments is the civiller of the two; but I warrant neither of them are a
bit better than they should be. A couple of Bath trulls, I’ll answer for
them; your quality don’t ride about at this time o’ night without
servants.” “Sbodlikins, and that’s true,” cries the
landlady, “you have certainly hit upon the very matter; for quality
don’t come into a house without bespeaking a supper, whether they eat or
no.”

While they were thus discoursing, Mrs Honour returned and discharged her
commission, by bidding the landlady immediately wake Mr Jones, and tell
him a lady wanted to speak with him. The landlady referred her to
Partridge, saying, “he was the squire’s friend: but, for her part,
she never called men-folks, especially gentlemen,” and then walked
sullenly out of the kitchen. Honour applied herself to Partridge; but he
refused, “for my friend,” cries he, “went to bed very
late, and he would be very angry to be disturbed so soon.” Mrs
Honour insisted still to have him called, saying, “she was sure,
instead of being angry, that he would be to the highest degree delighted
when he knew the occasion.” “Another time, perhaps, he might,”
cries Partridge; “but non omnia possumus omnes. One woman is
enough at once for a reasonable man.” “What do you mean by one
woman, fellow?” cries Honour. “None of your fellow,”
answered Partridge. He then proceeded to inform her plainly that Jones was
in bed with a wench, and made use of an expression too indelicate to be
here inserted; which so enraged Mrs Honour, that she called him
jackanapes, and returned in a violent hurry to her mistress, whom she
acquainted with the success of her errand, and with the account she had
received; which, if possible, she exaggerated, being as angry with Jones
as if he had pronounced all the words that came from the mouth of
Partridge. She discharged a torrent of abuse on the master, and advised
her mistress to quit all thoughts of a man who had never shown himself
deserving of her. She then ripped up the story of Molly Seagrim, and gave
the most malicious turn to his formerly quitting Sophia herself; which, I
must confess, the present incident not a little countenanced.

The spirits of Sophia were too much dissipated by concern to enable her to
stop the torrent of her maid. At last, however, she interrupted her,
saying, “I never can believe this; some villain hath belied him. You
say you had it from his friend; but surely it is not the office of a
friend to betray such secrets.” “I suppose,” cries
Honour, “the fellow is his pimp; for I never saw so ill-looked a
villain. Besides, such profligate rakes as Mr Jones are never ashamed of
these matters.”

To say the truth, this behaviour of Partridge was a little inexcusable;
but he had not slept off the effect of the dose which he swallowed the
evening before; which had, in the morning, received the addition of above
a pint of wine, or indeed rather of malt spirits; for the perry was by no
means pure. Now, that part of his head which Nature designed for the
reservoir of drink being very shallow, a small quantity of liquor
overflowed it, and opened the sluices of his heart; so that all the
secrets there deposited run out. These sluices were indeed, naturally,
very ill-secured. To give the best-natured turn we can to his disposition,
he was a very honest man; for, as he was the most inquisitive of mortals,
and eternally prying into the secrets of others, so he very faithfully
paid them by communicating, in return, everything within his knowledge.

While Sophia, tormented with anxiety, knew not what to believe, nor what
resolution to take, Susan arrived with the sack-whey. Mrs Honour
immediately advised her mistress, in a whisper, to pump this wench, who
probably could inform her of the truth. Sophia approved it, and began as
follows: “Come hither, child; now answer me truly what I am going to
ask you, and I promise you I will very well reward you. Is there a young
gentleman in this house, a handsome young gentleman, that——.”
Here Sophia blushed and was confounded. “A young gentleman,”
cries Honour, “that came hither in company with that saucy rascal
who is now in the kitchen?” Susan answered, “There was.”—“Do
you know anything of any lady?” continues Sophia, “any lady? I
don’t ask you whether she is handsome or no; perhaps she is not; that’s
nothing to the purpose; but do you know of any lady?” “La,
madam,” cries Honour, “you will make a very bad examiner.
Hark’ee, child,” says she, “is not that very young gentleman
now in bed with some nasty trull or other?” Here Susan smiled, and
was silent. “Answer the question, child,” says Sophia, “and
here’s a guinea for you.”—“A guinea! madam,” cries
Susan; “la, what’s a guinea? If my mistress should know it I shall
certainly lose my place that very instant.” “Here’s another
for you,” says Sophia, “and I promise you faithfully your
mistress shall never know it.” Susan, after a very short hesitation,
took the money, and told the whole story, concluding with saying, “If
you have any great curiosity, madam, I can steal softly into his room, and
see whether he be in his own bed or no.” She accordingly did this by
Sophia’s desire, and returned with an answer in the negative.

Sophia now trembled and turned pale. Mrs Honour begged her to be
comforted, and not to think any more of so worthless a fellow. “Why
there,” says Susan, “I hope, madam, your ladyship won’t be
offended; but pray, madam, is not your ladyship’s name Madam Sophia
Western?” “How is it possible you should know me?”
answered Sophia. “Why that man, that the gentlewoman spoke of, who
is in the kitchen, told about you last night. But I hope your ladyship is
not angry with me.” “Indeed, child,” said she, “I
am not; pray tell me all, and I promise you I’ll reward you.”
“Why, madam,” continued Susan, “that man told us all in
the kitchen that Madam Sophia Western—indeed I don’t know how to
bring it out.”—Here she stopt, till, having received
encouragement from Sophia, and being vehemently pressed by Mrs Honour, she
proceeded thus:—“He told us, madam, though to be sure it is
all a lie, that your ladyship was dying for love of the young squire, and
that he was going to the wars to get rid of you. I thought to myself then
he was a false-hearted wretch; but, now, to see such a fine, rich,
beautiful lady as you be, forsaken for such an ordinary woman; for to be
sure so she is, and another man’s wife into the bargain. It is such a
strange unnatural thing, in a manner.”

Sophia gave her a third guinea, and, telling her she would certainly be
her friend if she mentioned nothing of what had passed, nor informed any
one who she was, dismissed the girl, with orders to the post-boy to get
the horses ready immediately.

Being now left alone with her maid, she told her trusty waiting-woman,
“That she never was more easy than at present. I am now convinced,”
said she, “he is not only a villain, but a low despicable wretch. I
can forgive all rather than his exposing my name in so barbarous a manner.
That renders him the object of my contempt. Yes, Honour, I am now easy; I
am indeed; I am very easy;” and then she burst into a violent flood
of tears.

After a short interval spent by Sophia, chiefly in crying, and assuring
her maid that she was perfectly easy, Susan arrived with an account that
the horses were ready, when a very extraordinary thought suggested itself
to our young heroine, by which Mr Jones would be acquainted with her
having been at the inn, in a way which, if any sparks of affection for her
remained in him, would be at least some punishment for his faults.

The reader will be pleased to remember a little muff, which hath had the
honour of being more than once remembered already in this history. This
muff, ever since the departure of Mr Jones, had been the constant
companion of Sophia by day, and her bedfellow by night; and this muff she
had at this very instant upon her arm; whence she took it off with great
indignation, and, having writ her name with her pencil upon a piece of
paper which she pinned to it, she bribed the maid to convey it into the
empty bed of Mr Jones, in which, if he did not find it, she charged her to
take some method of conveying it before his eyes in the morning.

Then, having paid for what Mrs Honour had eaten, in which bill was
included an account for what she herself might have eaten, she mounted her
horse, and, once more assuring her companion that she was perfectly easy,
continued her journey.

Chapter vi. — Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of
Partridge, the madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick.

It was now past five in the morning, and other company began to rise and
come to the kitchen, among whom were the serjeant and the coachman, who,
being thoroughly reconciled, made a libation, or, in the English phrase,
drank a hearty cup together.

In this drinking nothing more remarkable happened than the behaviour of
Partridge, who, when the serjeant drank a health to King George, repeated
only the word King; nor could he be brought to utter more; for though he
was going to fight against his own cause, yet he could not be prevailed
upon to drink against it.

Mr Jones, being now returned to his own bed (but from whence he returned
we must beg to be excused from relating), summoned Partridge from this
agreeable company, who, after a ceremonious preface, having obtained leave
to offer his advice, delivered himself as follows:—

“It is, sir, an old saying, and a true one, that a wise man may
sometimes learn counsel from a fool; I wish, therefore, I might be so bold
as to offer you my advice, which is to return home again, and leave these
horrida bella, these bloody wars, to fellows who are contented to
swallow gunpowder, because they have nothing else to eat. Now, everybody
knows your honour wants for nothing at home; when that’s the case, why
should any man travel abroad?”

“Partridge,” cries Jones, “thou art certainly a coward;
I wish, therefore, thou wouldst return home thyself, and trouble me no
more.”

“I ask your honour’s pardon,” cries Partridge; “I spoke
on your account more than my own; for as to me, Heaven knows my
circumstances are bad enough, and I am so far from being afraid, that I
value a pistol, or a blunderbuss, or any such thing, no more than a
pop-gun. Every man must die once, and what signifies the manner how?
besides, perhaps I may come off with the loss only of an arm or a leg. I
assure you, sir, I was never less afraid in my life; and so, if your
honour is resolved to go on, I am resolved to follow you. But, in that
case, I wish I might give my opinion. To be sure, it is a scandalous way
of travelling, for a great gentleman like you to walk afoot. Now here are
two or three good horses in the stable, which the landlord will certainly
make no scruple of trusting you with; but, if he should, I can easily
contrive to take them; and, let the worst come to the worst, the king
would certainly pardon you, as you are going to fight in his cause.”

Now, as the honesty of Partridge was equal to his understanding, and both
dealt only in small matters, he would never have attempted a roguery of
this kind, had he not imagined it altogether safe; for he was one of those
who have more consideration of the gallows than of the fitness of things;
but, in reality, he thought he might have committed this felony without
any danger; for, besides that he doubted not but the name of Mr Allworthy
would sufficiently quiet the landlord, he conceived they should be
altogether safe, whatever turn affairs might take; as Jones, he imagined,
would have friends enough on one side, and as his friends would as well
secure him on the other.

When Mr Jones found that Partridge was in earnest in this proposal, he
very severely rebuked him, and that in such bitter terms, that the other
attempted to laugh it off, and presently turned the discourse to other
matters; saying, he believed they were then in a bawdy house, and that he
had with much ado prevented two wenches from disturbing his honour in the
middle of the night. “Heyday!” says he, “I believe they
got into your chamber whether I would or no; for here lies the muff of one
of them on the ground.” Indeed, as Jones returned to his bed in the
dark, he had never perceived the muff on the quilt, and, in leaping into
his bed, he had tumbled it on the floor. This Partridge now took up, and
was going to put into his pocket, when Jones desired to see it. The muff
was so very remarkable, that our heroe might possibly have recollected it
without the information annexed. But his memory was not put to that hard
office; for at the same instant he saw and read the words Sophia Western
upon the paper which was pinned to it. His looks now grew frantic in a
moment, and he eagerly cried out, “Oh Heavens! how came this muff
here?” “I know no more than your honour,” cried
Partridge; “but I saw it upon the arm of one of the women who would
have disturbed you, if I would have suffered them.” “Where are
they?” cries Jones, jumping out of bed, and laying hold of his
cloaths. “Many miles off, I believe, by this time,” said
Partridge. And now Jones, upon further enquiry, was sufficiently assured
that the bearer of this muff was no other than the lovely Sophia herself.

The behaviour of Jones on this occasion, his thoughts, his looks, his
words, his actions, were such as beggar all description. After many bitter
execrations on Partridge, and not fewer on himself, he ordered the poor
fellow, who was frightened out of his wits, to run down and hire him
horses at any rate; and a very few minutes afterwards, having shuffled on
his clothes, he hastened down-stairs to execute the orders himself, which
he had just before given.

But before we proceed to what passed on his arrival in the kitchen, it
will be necessary to recur to what had there happened since Partridge had
first left it on his master’s summons.

The serjeant was just marched off with his party, when the two Irish
gentlemen arose, and came downstairs; both complaining that they had been
so often waked by the noises in the inn, that they had never once been
able to close their eyes all night.

The coach which had brought the young lady and her maid, and which,
perhaps, the reader may have hitherto concluded was her own, was, indeed,
a returned coach belonging to Mr King, of Bath, one of the worthiest and
honestest men that ever dealt in horse-flesh, and whose coaches we
heartily recommend to all our readers who travel that road. By which means
they may, perhaps, have the pleasure of riding in the very coach, and
being driven by the very coachman, that is recorded in this history.

The coachman, having but two passengers, and hearing Mr Maclachlan was
going to Bath, offered to carry him thither at a very moderate price. He
was induced to this by the report of the hostler, who said that the horse
which Mr Maclachlan had hired from Worcester would be much more pleased
with returning to his friends there than to prosecute a long journey; for
that the said horse was rather a two-legged than a four-legged animal.

Mr Maclachlan immediately closed with the proposal of the coachman, and,
at the same time, persuaded his friend Fitzpatrick to accept of the fourth
place in the coach. This conveyance the soreness of his bones made more
agreeable to him than a horse; and, being well assured of meeting with his
wife at Bath, he thought a little delay would be of no consequence.

Maclachlan, who was much the sharper man of the two, no sooner heard that
this lady came from Chester, with the other circumstances which he learned
from the hostler, than it came into his head that she might possibly be
his friend’s wife; and presently acquainted him with this suspicion, which
had never once occurred to Fitzpatrick himself. To say the truth, he was
one of those compositions which nature makes up in too great a hurry, and
forgets to put any brains into their head.

Now it happens to this sort of men, as to bad hounds, who never hit off a
fault themselves; but no sooner doth a dog of sagacity open his mouth than
they immediately do the same, and, without the guidance of any scent, run
directly forwards as fast as they are able. In the same manner, the very
moment Mr Maclachlan had mentioned his apprehension, Mr Fitzpatrick
instantly concurred, and flew directly up-stairs, to surprize his wife,
before he knew where she was; and unluckily (as Fortune loves to play
tricks with those gentlemen who put themselves entirely under her conduct)
ran his head against several doors and posts to no purpose. Much kinder
was she to me, when she suggested that simile of the hounds, just before
inserted; since the poor wife may, on these occasions, be so justly
compared to a hunted hare. Like that little wretched animal, she pricks up
her ears to listen after the voice of her pursuer; like her, flies away
trembling when she hears it; and, like her, is generally overtaken and
destroyed in the end.

This was not however the case at present; for after a long fruitless
search, Mr Fitzpatrick returned to the kitchen, where, as if this had been
a real chace, entered a gentleman hallowing as hunters do when the hounds
are at a fault. He was just alighted from his horse, and had many
attendants at his heels.

Here, reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some matters,
which, if thou dost know already, thou art wiser than I take thee to be.
And this information thou shalt receive in the next chapter.

Chapter vii. — In which are concluded the adventures that happened
at the inn at Upton.

In the first place, then, this gentleman just arrived was no other person
than Squire Western himself, who was come hither in pursuit of his
daughter; and, had he fortunately been two hours earlier, he had not only
found her, but his niece into the bargain; for such was the wife of Mr
Fitzpatrick, who had run away with her five years before, out of the
custody of that sage lady, Madam Western.

Now this lady had departed from the inn much about the same time with
Sophia; for, having been waked by the voice of her husband, she had sent
up for the landlady, and being by her apprized of the matter, had bribed
the good woman, at an extravagant price, to furnish her with horses for
her escape. Such prevalence had money in this family; and though the
mistress would have turned away her maid for a corrupt hussy, if she had
known as much as the reader, yet she was no more proof against corruption
herself than poor Susan had been.

Mr Western and his nephew were not known to one another; nor indeed would
the former have taken any notice of the latter if he had known him; for,
this being a stolen match, and consequently an unnatural one in the
opinion of the good squire, he had, from the time of her committing it,
abandoned the poor young creature, who was then no more than eighteen, as
a monster, and had never since suffered her to be named in his presence.

The kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion, Western enquiring
after his daughter, and Fitzpatrick as eagerly after his wife, when Jones
entered the room, unfortunately having Sophia’s muff in his hand.

As soon as Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is used by
sportsmen when their game is in view. He then immediately run up and laid
hold of Jones, crying, “We have got the dog fox, I warrant the bitch
is not far off.” The jargon which followed for some minutes, where
many spoke different things at the same time, as it would be very
difficult to describe, so would it be no less unpleasant to read.

Jones having, at length, shaken Mr Western off, and some of the company
having interfered between them, our heroe protested his innocence as to
knowing anything of the lady; when Parson Supple stepped up, and said,
“It is folly to deny it; for why, the marks of guilt are in thy
hands. I will myself asseverate and bind it by an oath, that the muff thou
bearest in thy hand belongeth unto Madam Sophia; for I have frequently
observed her, of later days, to bear it about her.” “My
daughter’s muff!” cries the squire in a rage. “Hath he got my
daughter’s muff? bear witness the goods are found upon him. I’ll have him
before a justice of peace this instant. Where is my daughter, villain?”
“Sir,” said Jones, “I beg you would be pacified. The
muff, I acknowledge, is the young lady’s; but, upon my honour, I have
never seen her.” At these words Western lost all patience, and grew
inarticulate with rage.

Some of the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr Western was. The
good Irishman, therefore, thinking he had now an opportunity to do an act
of service to his uncle, and by that means might possibly obtain his
favour, stept up to Jones, and cried out, “Upon my conscience, sir,
you may be ashamed of denying your having seen the gentleman’s daughter
before my face, when you know I found you there upon the bed together.”
Then, turning to Western, he offered to conduct him immediately to the
room where his daughter was; which offer being accepted, he, the squire,
the parson, and some others, ascended directly to Mrs Waters’s chamber,
which they entered with no less violence than Mr Fitzpatrick had done
before.

The poor lady started from her sleep with as much amazement as terror, and
beheld at her bedside a figure which might very well be supposed to have
escaped out of Bedlam. Such wildness and confusion were in the looks of Mr
Western; who no sooner saw the lady than he started back, shewing
sufficiently by his manner, before he spoke, that this was not the person
sought after.

So much more tenderly do women value their reputation than their persons,
that, though the latter seemed now in more danger than before, yet, as the
former was secure, the lady screamed not with such violence as she had
done on the other occasion. However, she no sooner found herself alone
than she abandoned all thoughts of further repose; and, as she had
sufficient reason to be dissatisfied with her present lodging, she dressed
herself with all possible expedition.

Mr Western now proceeded to search the whole house, but to as little
purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs Waters. He then returned disconsolate
into the kitchen, where he found Jones in the custody of his servants.

This violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, though it was
yet scarcely daylight. Among these was a grave gentleman, who had the
honour to be in the commission of the peace for the county of Worcester.
Of which Mr Western was no sooner informed than he offered to lay his
complaint before him. The justice declined executing his office, as he
said he had no clerk present, nor no book about justice business; and that
he could not carry all the law in his head about stealing away daughters,
and such sort of things.

Here Mr Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assistance, informing the
company that he had been himself bred to the law. (And indeed he had
served three years as clerk to an attorney in the north of Ireland, when,
chusing a genteeler walk in life, he quitted his master, came over to
England, and set up that business which requires no apprenticeship,
namely, that of a gentleman, in which he had succeeded, as hath been
already partly mentioned.)

Mr Fitzpatrick declared that the law concerning daughters was out of the
present case; that stealing a muff was undoubtedly felony, and the goods
being found upon the person, were sufficient evidence of the fact.

The magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a coadjutor, and upon
the violent intercession of the squire, was at length prevailed upon to
seat himself in the chair of justice, where being placed, upon viewing the
muff which Jones still held in his hand, and upon the parson’s swearing it
to be the property of Mr Western, he desired Mr Fitzpatrick to draw up a
commitment, which he said he would sign.

Jones now desired to be heard, which was at last, with difficulty, granted
him. He then produced the evidence of Mr Partridge, as to the finding it;
but, what was still more, Susan deposed that Sophia herself had delivered
the muff to her, and had ordered her to convey it into the chamber where
Mr Jones had found it.

Whether a natural love of justice, or the extraordinary comeliness of
Jones, had wrought on Susan to make the discovery, I will not determine;
but such were the effects of her evidence, that the magistrate, throwing
himself back in his chair, declared that the matter was now altogether as
clear on the side of the prisoner as it had before been against him: with
which the parson concurred, saying, the Lord forbid he should be
instrumental in committing an innocent person to durance. The justice then
arose, acquitted the prisoner, and broke up the court.

Mr Western now gave every one present a hearty curse, and, immediately
ordering his horses, departed in pursuit of his daughter, without taking
the least notice of his nephew Fitzpatrick, or returning any answer to his
claim of kindred, notwithstanding all the obligations he had just received
from that gentleman. In the violence, moreover, of his hurry, and of his
passion, he luckily forgot to demand the muff of Jones: I say luckily; for
he would have died on the spot rather than have parted with it.

Jones likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the moment he had
paid his reckoning, in quest of his lovely Sophia, whom he now resolved
never more to abandon the pursuit of. Nor could he bring himself even to
take leave of Mrs Waters; of whom he detested the very thoughts, as she
had been, though not designedly, the occasion of his missing the happiest
interview with Sophia, to whom he now vowed eternal constancy.

As for Mrs Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach which was going
to Bath; for which place she set out in company with the two Irish
gentlemen, the landlady kindly lending her her cloaths; in return for
which she was contented only to receive about double their value, as a
recompence for the loan. Upon the road she was perfectly reconciled to Mr
Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome fellow, and indeed did all she could
to console him in the absence of his wife.

Thus ended the many odd adventures which Mr Jones encountered at his inn
at Upton, where they talk, to this day, of the beauty and lovely behaviour
of the charming Sophia, by the name of the Somersetshire angel.

Chapter viii. — In which the history goes backward.

Before we proceed any farther in our history, it may be proper to look a
little back, in order to account for the extraordinary appearance of
Sophia and her father at the inn at Upton.

The reader may be pleased to remember that, in the ninth chapter of the
seventh book of our history, we left Sophia, after a long debate between
love and duty, deciding the cause, as it usually, I believe, happens, in
favour of the former.

This debate had arisen, as we have there shown, from a visit which her
father had just before made her, in order to force her consent to a
marriage with Blifil; and which he had understood to be fully implied in
her acknowledgment “that she neither must nor could refuse any
absolute command of his.”

Now from this visit the squire retired to his evening potation, overjoyed
at the success he had gained with his daughter; and, as he was of a social
disposition, and willing to have partakers in his happiness, the beer was
ordered to flow very liberally into the kitchen; so that before eleven in
the evening there was not a single person sober in the house except only
Mrs Western herself and the charming Sophia.

Early in the morning a messenger was despatched to summon Mr Blifil; for,
though the squire imagined that young gentleman had been much less
acquainted than he really was with the former aversion of his daughter, as
he had not, however, yet received her consent, he longed impatiently to
communicate it to him, not doubting but that the intended bride herself
would confirm it with her lips. As to the wedding, it had the evening
before been fixed, by the male parties, to be celebrated on the next
morning save one.

Breakfast was now set forth in the parlour, where Mr Blifil attended, and
where the squire and his sister likewise were assembled; and now Sophia
was ordered to be called.

O, Shakespear! had I thy pen! O, Hogarth! had I thy pencil! then would I
draw the picture of the poor serving-man, who, with pale countenance,
staring eyes, chattering teeth, faultering tongue, and trembling limbs,

entered the room, and declared—That Madam Sophia was not to be
found.

“Not to be found!” cries the squire, starting from his chair;
“Zounds and d—nation! Blood and fury! Where, when, how, what—Not
to be found! Where?”

“La! brother,” said Mrs Western, with true political coldness,
“you are always throwing yourself into such violent passions for
nothing. My niece, I suppose, is only walked out into the garden. I
protest you are grown so unreasonable, that it is impossible to live in
the house with you.”

“Nay, nay,” answered the squire, returning as suddenly to
himself, as he had gone from himself; “if that be all the matter, it
signifies not much; but, upon my soul, my mind misgave me when the fellow
said she was not to be found.” He then gave orders for the bell to
be rung in the garden, and sat himself contentedly down.

No two things could be more the reverse of each other than were the
brother and sister in most instances; particularly in this, That as the
brother never foresaw anything at a distance, but was most sagacious in
immediately seeing everything the moment it had happened; so the sister
eternally foresaw at a distance, but was not so quick-sighted to objects
before her eyes. Of both these the reader may have observed examples: and,
indeed, both their several talents were excessive; for, as the sister
often foresaw what never came to pass, so the brother often saw much more
than was actually the truth.

This was not however the case at present. The same report was brought from
the garden as before had been brought from the chamber, that Madam Sophia
was not to be found.

The squire himself now sallied forth, and began to roar forth the name of
Sophia as loudly, and in as hoarse a voice, as whilome did Hercules that
of Hylas; and, as the poet tells us that the whole shore echoed back the
name of that beautiful youth, so did the house, the garden, and all the
neighbouring fields resound nothing but the name of Sophia, in the hoarse
voices of the men, and in the shrill pipes of the women; while echo seemed
so pleased to repeat the beloved sound, that, if there is really such a
person, I believe Ovid hath belied her sex. — Nothing reigned for a long
time but confusion; till at last the squire, having sufficiently spent his
breath, returned to the parlour, where he found Mrs Western and Mr Blifil,
and threw himself, with the utmost dejection in his countenance, into a
great chair.

Here Mrs Western began to apply the following consolation:

“Brother, I am sorry for what hath happened; and that my niece
should have behaved herself in a manner so unbecoming her family; but it
is all your own doings, and you have nobody to thank but yourself. You
know she hath been educated always in a manner directly contrary to my
advice, and now you see the consequence. Have I not a thousand times
argued with you about giving my niece her own will? But you know I never
could prevail upon you; and when I had taken so much pains to eradicate
her headstrong opinions, and to rectify your errors in policy, you know
she was taken out of my hands; so that I have nothing to answer for. Had I
been trusted entirely with the care of her education, no such accident as
this had ever befallen you; so that you must comfort yourself by thinking
it was all your own doing; and, indeed, what else could be expected from
such indulgence?”

“Zounds! sister,” answered he, “you are enough to make
one mad. Have I indulged her? Have I given her her will?——It
was no longer ago than last night that I threatened, if she disobeyed me,
to confine her to her chamber upon bread and water as long as she lived.——You
would provoke the patience of Job.”

“Did ever mortal hear the like?” replied she. “Brother,
if I had not the patience of fifty Jobs, you would make me forget all
decency and decorum. Why would you interfere? Did I not beg you, did I not
intreat you, to leave the whole conduct to me? You have defeated all the
operations of the campaign by one false step. Would any man in his senses
have provoked a daughter by such threats as these? How often have I told
you that English women are not to be treated like Ciracessian[*] slaves.
We have the protection of the world; we are to be won by gentle means
only, and not to be hectored, and bullied, and beat into compliance. I
thank Heaven no Salique law governs here. Brother, you have a roughness in
your manner which no woman but myself would bear. I do not wonder my niece
was frightened and terrified into taking this measure; and, to speak
honestly, I think my niece will be justified to the world for what she
hath done. I repeat it to you again, brother, you must comfort yourself by
rememb’ring that it is all your own fault. How often have I advised—”
Here Western rose hastily from his chair, and, venting two or three horrid
imprecations, ran out of the room.

When he was departed, his sister expressed more bitterness (if possible)
against him than she had done while he was present; for the truth of which
she appealed to Mr Blifil, who, with great complacence, acquiesced
entirely in all she said; but excused all the faults of Mr Western,
“as they must be considered,” he said, “to have
proceeded from the too inordinate fondness of a father, which must be
allowed the name of an amiable weakness.” “So much the more
inexcuseable,” answered the lady; “for whom doth he ruin by
his fondness but his own child?” To which Blifil immediately agreed.

Mrs Western then began to express great confusion on the account of Mr
Blifil, and of the usage which he had received from a family to which he
intended so much honour. On this subject she treated the folly of her
niece with great severity; but concluded with throwing the whole on her
brother, who, she said, was inexcuseable to have proceeded so far without
better assurances of his daughter’s consent: “But he was (says she)
always of a violent, headstrong temper; and I can scarce forgive myself
for all the advice I have thrown away upon him.”

After much of this kind of conversation, which, perhaps, would not greatly
entertain the reader, was it here particularly related, Mr Blifil took his
leave and returned home, not highly pleased with his disappointment:
which, however, the philosophy which he had acquired from Square, and the
religion infused into him by Thwackum, together with somewhat else, taught
him to bear rather better than more passionate lovers bear these kinds of
evils.

Chapter ix. — The escape of Sophia.

It is now time to look after Sophia; whom the reader, if he loves her half
so well as I do, will rejoice to find escaped from the clutches of her
passionate father, and from those of her dispassionate lover.

Twelve times did the iron register of time beat on the sonorous
bell-metal, summoning the ghosts to rise and walk their nightly round.——In
plainer language, it was twelve o’clock, and all the family, as we have
said, lay buried in drink and sleep, except only Mrs Western, who was
deeply engaged in reading a political pamphlet, and except our heroine,
who now softly stole down-stairs, and, having unbarred and unlocked one of
the house-doors, sallied forth, and hastened to the place of appointment.

Notwithstanding the many pretty arts which ladies sometimes practise, to
display their fears on every little occasion (almost as many as the other
sex uses to conceal theirs), certainly there is a degree of courage which
not only becomes a woman, but is often necessary to enable her to
discharge her duty. It is, indeed, the idea of fierceness, and not of
bravery, which destroys the female character; for who can read the story
of the justly celebrated Arria without conceiving as high an opinion of
her gentleness and tenderness as of her fortitude? At the same time,
perhaps, many a woman who shrieks at a mouse, or a rat, may be capable of
poisoning a husband; or, what is worse, of driving him to poison himself.

Sophia, with all the gentleness which a woman can have, had all the spirit
which she ought to have. When, therefore, she came to the place of
appointment, and, instead of meeting her maid, as was agreed, saw a man
ride directly up to her, she neither screamed out nor fainted away: not
that her pulse then beat with its usual regularity; for she was, at first,
under some surprize and apprehension: but these were relieved almost as
soon as raised, when the man, pulling off his hat, asked her, in a very
submissive manner, “If her ladyship did not expect to meet another
lady?” and then proceeded to inform her that he was sent to conduct
her to that lady.

Sophia could have no possible suspicion of any falsehood in this account:
she therefore mounted resolutely behind the fellow, who conveyed her safe
to a town about five miles distant, where she had the satisfaction of
finding the good Mrs Honour: for, as the soul of the waiting-woman was
wrapt up in those very habiliments which used to enwrap her body, she
could by no means bring herself to trust them out of her sight. Upon
these, therefore, she kept guard in person, while she detached the
aforesaid fellow after her mistress, having given him all proper
instructions.

They now debated what course to take, in order to avoid the pursuit of Mr
Western, who they knew would send after them in a few hours. The London
road had such charms for Honour, that she was desirous of going on
directly; alleging that, as Sophia could not be missed till eight or nine
the next morning, her pursuers would not be able to overtake her, even
though they knew which way she had gone. But Sophia had too much at stake
to venture anything to chance; nor did she dare trust too much to her
tender limbs, in a contest which was to be decided only by swiftness. She
resolved, therefore, to travel across the country, for at least twenty or
thirty miles, and then to take the direct road to London. So, having hired
horses to go twenty miles one way, when she intended to go twenty miles
the other, she set forward with the same guide behind whom she had ridden
from her father’s house; the guide having now taken up behind him, in the
room of Sophia, a much heavier, as well as much less lovely burden; being,
indeed, a huge portmanteau, well stuffed with those outside ornaments, by
means of which the fair Honour hoped to gain many conquests, and, finally,
to make her fortune in London city.

When they had gone about two hundred paces from the inn on the London
road, Sophia rode up to the guide, and, with a voice much fuller of honey
than was ever that of Plato, though his mouth is supposed to have been a
bee-hive, begged him to take the first turning which led towards Bristol.

Reader, I am not superstitious, nor any great believer of modern miracles.
I do not, therefore, deliver the following as a certain truth; for,
indeed, I can scarce credit it myself: but the fidelity of an historian
obliges me to relate what hath been confidently asserted. The horse, then,
on which the guide rode, is reported to have been so charmed by Sophia’s
voice, that he made a full stop, and expressed an unwillingness to proceed
any farther.

Perhaps, however, the fact may be true, and less miraculous than it hath
been represented; since the natural cause seems adequate to the effect:
for, as the guide at that moment desisted from a constant application of
his armed right heel (for, like Hudibras, he wore but one spur), it is
more than possible that this omission alone might occasion the beast to
stop, especially as this was very frequent with him at other times.

But if the voice of Sophia had really an effect on the horse, it had very
little on the rider. He answered somewhat surlily, “That measter had
ordered him to go a different way, and that he should lose his place if he
went any other than that he was ordered.”

Sophia, finding all her persuasions had no effect, began now to add
irresistible charms to her voice; charms which, according to the proverb,
makes the old mare trot, instead of standing still; charms! to which
modern ages have attributed all that irresistible force which the antients
imputed to perfect oratory. In a word, she promised she would reward him
to his utmost expectation.

The lad was not totally deaf to these promises; but he disliked their
being indefinite; for, though perhaps he had never heard that word, yet
that, in fact, was his objection. He said, “Gentlevolks did not
consider the case of poor volks; that he had like to have been turned away
the other day, for riding about the country with a gentleman from Squire
Allworthy’s, who did not reward him as he should have done.”

“With whom?” says Sophia eagerly. “With a gentleman from
Squire Allworthy’s,” repeated the lad; “the squire’s son, I
think they call ‘un.”—“Whither? which way did he go?”
says Sophia.—“Why, a little o’ one side o’ Bristol, about
twenty miles off,” answered the lad.—“Guide me,”
says Sophia, “to the same place, and I’ll give thee a guinea, or
two, if one is not sufficient.”—“To be certain,”
said the boy, “it is honestly worth two, when your ladyship
considers what a risk I run; but, however, if your ladyship will promise
me the two guineas, I’ll e’en venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing
to ride about my measter’s horses; but one comfort is, I can only be
turned away, and two guineas will partly make me amends.”

The bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the Bristol road,
and Sophia set forward in pursuit of Jones, highly contrary to the
remonstrances of Mrs Honour, who had much more desire to see London than
to see Mr Jones: for indeed she was not his friend with her mistress, as
he had been guilty of some neglect in certain pecuniary civilities, which
are by custom due to the waiting-gentlewoman in all love affairs, and more
especially in those of a clandestine kind. This we impute rather to the
carelessness of his temper than to any want of generosity; but perhaps she
derived it from the latter motive. Certain it is that she hated him very
bitterly on that account, and resolved to take every opportunity of
injuring him with her mistress. It was therefore highly unlucky for her,
that she had gone to the very same town and inn whence Jones had started,
and still more unlucky was she in having stumbled on the same guide, and
on this accidental discovery which Sophia had made.

Our travellers arrived at Hambrook[*] at the break of day, where Honour
was against her will charged to enquire the route which Mr Jones had
taken. Of this, indeed, the guide himself could have informed them; but
Sophia, I know not for what reason, never asked him the question.

When Mrs Honour had made her report from the landlord, Sophia, with much
difficulty, procured some indifferent horses, which brought her to the inn
where Jones had been confined rather by the misfortune of meeting with a
surgeon than by having met with a broken head.

Here Honour, being again charged with a commission of enquiry, had no
sooner applied herself to the landlady, and had described the person of Mr
Jones, than that sagacious woman began, in the vulgar phrase, to smell a
rat. When Sophia therefore entered the room, instead of answering the
maid, the landlady, addressing herself to the mistress, began the
following speech: “Good lack-a-day! why there now, who would have
thought it? I protest the loveliest couple that ever eye beheld.
I-fackins, madam, it is no wonder the squire run on so about your
ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in the world, and to
be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! I bepitied him, so I did,
when he used to hug his pillow, and call it his dear Madam Sophia. I did
all I could to dissuade him from going to the wars: I told him there were
men enow that were good for nothing else but to be killed, that had not
the love of such fine ladies.” “Sure,” says Sophia,
“the good woman is distracted.” “No, no,” cries
the landlady, “I am not distracted. What, doth your ladyship think I
don’t know then? I assure you he told me all.” “What saucy
fellow,” cries Honour, “told you anything of my lady?”
“No saucy fellow,” answered the landlady, “but the young
gentleman you enquired after, and a very pretty young gentleman he is, and
he loves Madam Sophia Western to the bottom of his soul.” “He
love my lady! I’d have you to know, woman, she is meat for his master.”—“Nay,
Honour,” said Sophia, interrupting her, “don’t be angry with
the good woman; she intends no harm.” “No, marry, don’t I,”
answered the landlady, emboldened by the soft accents of Sophia; and then
launched into a long narrative too tedious to be here set down, in which
some passages dropt that gave a little offence to Sophia, and much more to
her waiting-woman, who hence took occasion to abuse poor Jones to her
mistress the moment they were alone together, saying, “that he must
be a very pitiful fellow, and could have no love for a lady, whose name he
would thus prostitute in an ale-house.”

Sophia did not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a light, and
was perhaps more pleased with the violent raptures of his love (which the
landlady exaggerated as much as she had done every other circumstance)
than she was offended with the rest; and indeed she imputed the whole to
the extravagance, or rather ebullience, of his passion, and to the
openness of his heart.

This incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, and placed
in the most odious colours by Honour, served to heighten and give credit
to those unlucky occurrences at Upton, and assisted the waiting-woman in
her endeavours to make her mistress depart from that inn without seeing
Jones.

The landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than till her
horses were ready, and that without either eating or drinking, soon
withdrew; when Honour began to take her mistress to task (for indeed she
used great freedom), and after a long harangue, in which she reminded her
of her intention to go to London, and gave frequent hints of the
impropriety of pursuing a young fellow, she at last concluded with this
serious exhortation: “For heaven’s sake, madam, consider what you
are about, and whither you are going.”

This advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, and in no
very agreeable season, may seem foolish enough. It may be supposed she had
well considered and resolved this already; nay, Mrs Honour, by the hints
she threw out, seemed to think so; and this I doubt not is the opinion of
many readers, who have, I make no doubt, been long since well convinced of
the purpose of our heroine, and have heartily condemned her for it as a
wanton baggage.

But in reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately so distracted
between hope and fear, her duty and love to her father, her hatred to
Blifil, her compassion, and (why should we not confess the truth?) her
love for Jones; which last the behaviour of her father, of her aunt, of
every one else, and more particularly of Jones himself, had blown into a
flame, that her mind was in that confused state which may be truly said to
make us ignorant of what we do, or whither we go, or rather, indeed,
indifferent as to the consequence of either.

The prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, some cool
reflection; and she at length determined to go to Gloucester, and thence
to proceed directly to London.

But, unluckily, a few miles before she entered that town, she met the
hack-attorney, who, as is before mentioned, had dined there with Mr Jones.
This fellow, being well known to Mrs Honour, stopt and spoke to her; of
which Sophia at that time took little notice, more than to enquire who he
was.

But, having had a more particular account from Honour of this man
afterwards at Gloucester, and hearing of the great expedition he usually
made in travelling, for which (as hath been before observed) he was
particularly famous; recollecting, likewise, that she had overheard Mrs
Honour inform him that they were going to Gloucester, she began to fear
lest her father might, by this fellow’s means, be able to trace her to
that city; wherefore, if she should there strike into the London road, she
apprehended he would certainly be able to overtake her. She therefore
altered her resolution; and, having hired horses to go a week’s journey a
way which she did not intend to travel, she again set forward after a
light refreshment, contrary to the desire and earnest entreaties of her
maid, and to the no less vehement remonstrances of Mrs Whitefield, who,
from good breeding, or perhaps from good nature (for the poor young lady
appeared much fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that evening at
Gloucester.

Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying about two
hours on the bed, while her horses were getting ready, she resolutely left
Mrs Whitefield’s about eleven at night, and, striking directly into the
Worcester road, within less than four hours arrived at that very inn where
we last saw her.

Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from her departure,
till her arrival at Upton, we shall in a very few words bring her father
to the same place; who, having received the first scent from the post-boy,
who conducted his daughter to Hambrook, very easily traced her afterwards
to Gloucester; whence he pursued her to Upton, as he had learned Mr Jones
had taken that route (for Partridge, to use the squire’s expression, left
everywhere a strong scent behind him), and he doubted not in the least but
Sophia travelled, or, as he phrased it, ran, the same way. He used indeed
a very coarse expression, which need not be here inserted; as fox-hunters,
who alone will understand it, will easily suggest it to themselves.

BOOK XI. — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.

Chapter i. — A crust for the critics.

In our last initial chapter we may be supposed to have treated that
formidable set of men who are called critics with more freedom than
becomes us; since they exact, and indeed generally receive, great
condescension from authors. We shall in this, therefore, give the reasons
of our conduct to this august body; and here we shall, perhaps, place them
in a light in which they have not hitherto been seen.

This word critic is of Greek derivation, and signifies judgment. Hence I
presume some persons who have not understood the original, and have seen
the English translation of the primitive, have concluded that it meant
judgment in the legal sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent
to condemnation.

I am the rather inclined to be of that opinion, as the greatest number of
critics hath of late years been found amongst the lawyers. Many of these
gentlemen, from despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the bench in
Westminster-hall, have placed themselves on the benches at the playhouse,
where they have exerted their judicial capacity, and have given judgment,
i.e., condemned without mercy.

The gentlemen would, perhaps, be well enough pleased, if we were to leave
them thus compared to one of the most important and honourable offices in
the commonwealth, and, if we intended to apply to their favour, we would
do so; but, as we design to deal very sincerely and plainly too with them,
we must remind them of another officer of justice of a much lower rank; to
whom, as they not only pronounce, but execute, their own judgment, they
bear likewise some remote resemblance.

But in reality there is another light, in which these modern critics may,
with great justice and propriety, be seen; and this is that of a common
slanderer. If a person who prys into the characters of others, with no
other design but to discover their faults, and to publish them to the
world, deserves the title of a slanderer of the reputations of men, why
should not a critic, who reads with the same malevolent view, be as
properly stiled the slanderer of the reputation of books?

Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject slave; society produces not a more
odious vermin; nor can the devil receive a guest more worthy of him, nor
possibly more welcome to him, than a slanderer. The world, I am afraid,
regards not this monster with half the abhorrence which he deserves; and I
am more afraid to assign the reason of this criminal lenity shown towards
him; yet it is certain that the thief looks innocent in the comparison;
nay, the murderer himself can seldom stand in competition with his guilt:
for slander is a more cruel weapon than a sword, as the wounds which the
former gives are always incurable. One method, indeed, there is of
killing, and that the basest and most execrable of all, which bears an
exact analogy to the vice here disclaimed against, and that is poison: a
means of revenge so base, and yet so horrible, that it was once wisely
distinguished by our laws from all other murders, in the peculiar severity
of the punishment.

Besides the dreadful mischiefs done by slander, and the baseness of the
means by which they are effected, there are other circumstances that
highly aggravate its atrocious quality; for it often proceeds from no
provocation, and seldom promises itself any reward, unless some black and
infernal mind may propose a reward in the thoughts of having procured the
ruin and misery of another.

Shakespear hath nobly touched this vice, when he says—

With all this my good reader will doubtless agree; but much of it will
probably seem too severe, when applied to the slanderer of books. But let
it here be considered that both proceed from the same wicked disposition
of mind, and are alike void of the excuse of temptation. Nor shall we
conclude the injury done this way to be very slight, when we consider a
book as the author’s offspring, and indeed as the child of his brain.

The reader who hath suffered his muse to continue hitherto in a virgin
state can have but a very inadequate idea of this kind of paternal
fondness. To such we may parody the tender exclamation of Macduff, “Alas!
Thou hast written no book.” But the author whose muse hath brought
forth will feel the pathetic strain, perhaps will accompany me with tears
(especially if his darling be already no more), while I mention the
uneasiness with which the big muse bears about her burden, the painful
labour with which she produces it, and, lastly, the care, the fondness,
with which the tender father nourishes his favourite, till it be brought
to maturity, and produced into the world.

Nor is there any paternal fondness which seems less to savour of absolute
instinct, and which may so well be reconciled to worldly wisdom, as this.
These children may most truly be called the riches of their father; and
many of them have with true filial piety fed their parent in his old age:
so that not only the affection, but the interest, of the author may be
highly injured by these slanderers, whose poisonous breath brings his book
to an untimely end.

Lastly, the slander of a book is, in truth, the slander of the author:
for, as no one can call another bastard, without calling the mother a
whore, so neither can any one give the names of sad stuff, horrid
nonsense, &c., to a book, without calling the author a blockhead;
which, though in a moral sense it is a preferable appellation to that of
villain, is perhaps rather more injurious to his worldly interest.

Now, however ludicrous all this may appear to some, others, I doubt not,
will feel and acknowledge the truth of it; nay, may, perhaps, think I have
not treated the subject with decent solemnity; but surely a man may speak
truth with a smiling countenance. In reality, to depreciate a book
maliciously, or even wantonly, is at least a very ill-natured office; and
a morose snarling critic may, I believe, be suspected to be a bad man.

I will therefore endeavour, in the remaining part of this chapter, to
explain the marks of this character, and to show what criticism I here
intend to obviate: for I can never be understood, unless by the very
persons here meant, to insinuate that there are no proper judges of
writing, or to endeavour to exclude from the commonwealth of literature
any of those noble critics to whose labours the learned world are so
greatly indebted. Such were Aristotle, Horace, and Longinus, among the
antients, Dacier and Bossu among the French, and some perhaps among us;
who have certainly been duly authorised to execute at least a judicial
authority in foro literario.

But without ascertaining all the proper qualifications of a critic, which
I have touched on elsewhere, I think I may very boldly object to the
censures of any one past upon works which he hath not himself read. Such
censurers as these, whether they speak from their own guess or suspicion,
or from the report and opinion of others, may properly be said to slander
the reputation of the book they condemn.

Such may likewise be suspected of deserving this character, who, without
assigning any particular faults, condemn the whole in general defamatory
terms; such as vile, dull, d—d stuff, &c., and particularly by
the use of the monosyllable low; a word which becomes the mouth of no
critic who is not RIGHT HONOURABLE.

Again, though there may be some faults justly assigned in the work, yet,
if those are not in the most essential parts, or if they are compensated
by greater beauties, it will savour rather of the malice of a slanderer
than of the judgment of a true critic to pass a severe sentence upon the
whole, merely on account of some vicious part. This is directly contrary
to the sentiments of Horace:

For, as Martial says, Aliter non fit, Avite, liber. No book can be
otherwise composed. All beauty of character, as well as of countenance,
and indeed of everything human, is to be tried in this manner. Cruel
indeed would it be if such a work as this history, which hath employed
some thousands of hours in the composing, should be liable to be
condemned, because some particular chapter, or perhaps chapters, may be
obnoxious to very just and sensible objections. And yet nothing is more
common than the most rigorous sentence upon books supported by such
objections, which, if they were rightly taken (and that they are not
always), do by no means go to the merit of the whole. In the theatre
especially, a single expression which doth not coincide with the taste of
the audience, or with any individual critic of that audience, is sure to
be hissed; and one scene which should be disapproved would hazard the
whole piece. To write within such severe rules as these is as impossible
as to live up to some splenetic opinions: and if we judge according to the
sentiments of some critics, and of some Christians, no author will be
saved in this world, and no man in the next.

Chapter ii. — The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving
Upton.

Our history, just before it was obliged to turn about and travel
backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia and her maid from the
inn; we shall now therefore pursue the steps of that lovely creature, and
leave her unworthy lover a little longer to bemoan his ill-luck, or rather
his ill-conduct.

Sophia having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, across the
country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a mile from the
inn, when the young lady, looking behind her, saw several horses coming
after on full speed. This greatly alarmed her fears, and she called to the
guide to put on as fast as possible.

He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full gallop. But the
faster they went, the faster were they followed; and as the horses behind
were somewhat swifter than those before, so the former were at length
overtaken. A happy circumstance for poor Sophia; whose fears, joined to
her fatigue, had almost overpowered her spirits; but she was now instantly
relieved by a female voice, that greeted her in the softest manner, and
with the utmost civility. This greeting Sophia, as soon as she could
recover her breath, with like civility, and with the highest satisfaction
to herself, returned.

The travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such terror,
consisted, like her own company, of two females and a guide. The two
parties proceeded three full miles together before any one offered again
to open their mouths; when our heroine, having pretty well got the better
of her fear (but yet being somewhat surprized that the other still
continued to attend her, as she pursued no great road, and had already
passed through several turnings), accosted the strange lady in a most
obliging tone, and said, “She was very happy to find they were both
travelling the same way.” The other, who, like a ghost, only wanted
to be spoke to, readily answered, “That the happiness was entirely
hers; that she was a perfect stranger in that country, and was so
overjoyed at meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had perhaps been
guilty of an impertinence, which required great apology, in keeping pace
with her.” More civilities passed between these two ladies; for Mrs
Honour had now given place to the fine habit of the stranger, and had
fallen into the rear. But, though Sophia had great curiosity to know why
the other lady continued to travel on through the same bye-roads with
herself, nay, though this gave her some uneasiness, yet fear, or modesty,
or some other consideration, restrained her from asking the question.

The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which appears almost
below the dignity of history to mention. Her bonnet had been blown from
her head not less than five times within the last mile; nor could she come
at any ribbon or handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When Sophia was
informed of this, she immediately supplied her with a handkerchief for
this purpose; which while she was pulling from her pocket, she perhaps too
much neglected the management of her horse, for the beast, now unluckily
making a false step, fell upon his fore-legs, and threw his fair rider
from his back.

Though Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received not
the least damage: and the same circumstances which had perhaps contributed
to her fall now preserved her from confusion; for the lane which they were
then passing was narrow, and very much overgrown with trees, so that the
moon could here afford very little light, and was moreover, at present, so
obscured in a cloud, that it was almost perfectly dark. By these means the
young lady’s modesty, which was extremely delicate, escaped as free from
injury as her limbs, and she was once more reinstated in her saddle,
having received no other harm than a little fright by her fall.

Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the two ladies,
who were riding over a common side by side, looking stedfastly at each
other, at the same moment both their eyes became fixed; both their horses
stopt, and, both speaking together, with equal joy pronounced, the one the
name of Sophia, the other that of Harriet.

This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more than I believe it
will the sagacious reader, who must have imagined that the strange lady
could be no other than Mrs Fitzpatrick, the cousin of Miss Western, whom
we before mentioned to have sallied from the inn a few minutes after her.

So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins conceived at
this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate acquaintance and
friends, and had long lived together with their aunt Western), that it is
impossible to recount half the congratulations which passed between them,
before either asked a very natural question of the other, namely, whither
she was going?

This at last, however, came first from Mrs Fitzpatrick; but, easy and
natural as the question may seem, Sophia found it difficult to give it a
very ready and certain answer. She begged her cousin therefore to suspend
all curiosity till they arrived at some inn, “which I suppose,”
says she, “can hardly be far distant; and, believe me, Harriet, I
suspend as much curiosity on my side; for, indeed, I believe our
astonishment is pretty equal.”

The conversation which passed between these ladies on the road was, I
apprehend, little worth relating; and less certainly was that between the
two waiting-women; for they likewise began to pay their compliments to
each other. As for the guides, they were debarred from the pleasure of
discourse, the one being placed in the van, and the other obliged to bring
up the rear.

In this posture they travelled many hours, till they came into a wide and
well-beaten road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought them to
a very fair promising inn, where they all alighted: but so fatigued was
Sophia, that as she had sat her horse during the last five or six miles
with great difficulty, so was she now incapable of dismounting from him
without assistance. This the landlord, who had hold of her horse,
presently perceiving, offered to lift her in his arms from her saddle; and
she too readily accepted the tender of his service. Indeed fortune seems
to have resolved to put Sophia to the blush that day, and the second
malicious attempt succeeded better than the first; for my landlord had no
sooner received the young lady in his arms, than his feet, which the gout
had lately very severely handled, gave way, and down he tumbled; but, at
the same time, with no less dexterity than gallantry, contrived to throw
himself under his charming burden, so that he alone received any bruise
from the fall; for the great injury which happened to Sophia was a violent
shock given to her modesty by an immoderate grin, which, at her rising
from the ground, she observed in the countenances of most of the
bye-standers. This made her suspect what had really happened, and what we
shall not here relate for the indulgence of those readers who are capable
of laughing at the offence given to a young lady’s delicacy. Accidents of
this kind we have never regarded in a comical light; nor will we scruple
to say that he must have a very inadequate idea of the modesty of a
beautiful young woman, who would wish to sacrifice it to so paltry a
satisfaction as can arise from laughter.

This fright and shock, joined to the violent fatigue which both her mind
and body had undergone, almost overcame the excellent constitution of
Sophia, and she had scarce strength sufficient to totter into the inn,
leaning on the arm of her maid. Here she was no sooner seated than she
called for a glass of water; but Mrs Honour, very judiciously, in my
opinion, changed it into a glass of wine.

Mrs Fitzpatrick, hearing from Mrs Honour that Sophia had not been in bed
during the two last nights, and observing her to look very pale and wan
with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to refresh herself with some
sleep. She was yet a stranger to her history, or her apprehensions; but,
had she known both, she would have given the same advice; for rest was
visibly necessary for her; and their long journey through bye-roads so
entirely removed all danger of pursuit, that she was herself perfectly
easy on that account.

Sophia was easily prevailed on to follow the counsel of her friend, which
was heartily seconded by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise offered to
bear her cousin company, which Sophia, with much complacence, accepted.

The mistress was no sooner in bed than the maid prepared to follow her
example. She began to make many apologies to her sister Abigail for
leaving her alone in so horrid a place as an inn; but the other stopt her
short, being as well inclined to a nap as herself, and desired the honour
of being her bedfellow. Sophia’s maid agreed to give her a share of her
bed, but put in her claim to all the honour. So, after many courtsies and
compliments, to bed together went the waiting-women, as their mistresses
had done before them.

It was usual with my landlord (as indeed it is with the whole fraternity)
to enquire particularly of all coachmen, footmen, postboys, and others,
into the names of all his guests; what their estate was, and where it lay.
It cannot therefore be wondered at that the many particular circumstances
which attended our travellers, and especially their retiring all to sleep
at so extraordinary and unusual an hour as ten in the morning, should
excite his curiosity. As soon, therefore, as the guides entered the
kitchen, he began to examine who the ladies were, and whence they came;
but the guides, though they faithfully related all they knew, gave him
very little satisfaction. On the contrary, they rather enflamed his
curiosity than extinguished it.

This landlord had the character, among all his neighbours, of being a very
sagacious fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into things
than any man in the parish, the parson himself not excepted. Perhaps his
look had contributed not a little to procure him this reputation; for
there was in this something wonderfully wise and significant, especially
when he had a pipe in his mouth; which, indeed, he seldom was without. His
behaviour, likewise, greatly assisted in promoting the opinion of his
wisdom. In his deportment he was solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke,
which was seldom, he always delivered himself in a slow voice; and, though
his sentences were short, they were still interrupted with many hums and
ha’s, ay ays, and other expletives: so that, though he accompanied his
words with certain explanatory gestures, such as shaking or nodding the
head, or pointing with his fore-finger, he generally left his hearers to
understand more than he expressed; nay, he commonly gave them a hint that
he knew much more than he thought proper to disclose. This last
circumstance alone may, indeed, very well account for his character of
wisdom; since men are strangely inclined to worship what they do not
understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers on mankind have
totally relied for the success of their frauds.

This polite person, now taking his wife aside, asked her “what she
thought of the ladies lately arrived?” “Think of them?”
said the wife, “why, what should I think of them?” “I
know,” answered he, “what I think. The guides tell strange
stories. One pretends to be come from Gloucester, and the other from
Upton; and neither of them, for what I can find, can tell whither they are
going. But what people ever travel across the country from Upton hither,
especially to London? And one of the maid-servants, before she alighted
from her horse, asked if this was not the London road? Now I have put all
these circumstances together, and whom do you think I have found them out
to be?” “Nay,” answered she, “you know I never
pretend to guess at your discoveries.”——“It is a
good girl,” replied he, chucking her under the chin; “I must
own you have always submitted to my knowledge of these matters. Why, then,
depend upon it; mind what I say—depend upon it, they are certainly
some of the rebel ladies, who, they say, travel with the young Chevalier;
and have taken a roundabout way to escape the duke’s army.”

“Husband,” quoth the wife, “you have certainly hit it;
for one of them is dressed as fine as any princess; and, to be sure, she
looks for all the world like one.——But yet, when I consider
one thing”——“When you consider,” cries the
landlord contemptuously——“Come, pray let’s hear what you
consider.”——“Why, it is,” answered the wife,
“that she is too humble to be any very great lady: for, while our
Betty was warming the bed, she called her nothing but child, and my dear,
and sweetheart; and, when Betty offered to pull off her shoes and
stockings, she would not suffer her, saying, she would not give her the
trouble.”

“Pugh!” answered the husband, “that is nothing. Dost
think, because you have seen some great ladies rude and uncivil to persons
below them, that none of them know how to behave themselves when they come
before their inferiors? I think I know people of fashion when I see them—I
think I do. Did not she call for a glass of water when she came in?
Another sort of women would have called for a dram; you know they would.
If she be not a woman of very great quality, sell me for a fool; and, I
believe, those who buy me will have a bad bargain. Now, would a woman of
her quality travel without a footman, unless upon some such extraordinary
occasion?” “Nay, to be sure, husband,” cries she,
“you know these matters better than I, or most folk.” “I
think I do know something,” said he. “To be sure,”
answered the wife, “the poor little heart looked so piteous, when
she sat down in the chair, I protest I could not help having a compassion
for her almost as much as if she had been a poor body. But what’s to be
done, husband? If an she be a rebel, I suppose you intend to betray her up
to the court. Well, she’s a sweet-tempered, good-humoured lady, be she
what she will, and I shall hardly refrain from crying when I hear she is
hanged or beheaded.” “Pooh!” answered the husband.——“But,
as to what’s to be done, it is not so easy a matter to determine. I hope,
before she goes away, we shall have the news of a battle; for, if the
Chevalier should get the better, she may gain us interest at court, and
make our fortunes without betraying her.” “Why, that’s true,”
replied the wife; “and I heartily hope she will have it in her
power. Certainly she’s a sweet good lady; it would go horribly against me
to have her come to any harm.” “Pooh!” cries the
landlord, “women are always so tender-hearted. Why, you would not
harbour rebels, would you?” “No, certainly,” answered
the wife; “and as for betraying her, come what will on’t, nobody can
blame us. It is what anybody would do in our case.”

While our politic landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the
reputation of great wisdom among his neighbours, was engaged in debating
this matter with himself (for he paid little attention to the opinion of
his wife), news arrived that the rebels had given the duke the slip, and
had got a day’s march towards London; and soon after arrived a famous
Jacobite squire, who, with great joy in his countenance, shook the
landlord by the hand, saying, “All’s our own, boy, ten thousand
honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England for ever! ten thousand
French, my brave lad! I am going to tap away directly.”

This news determined the opinion of the wise man, and he resolved to make
his court to the young lady when she arose; for he had now (he said)
discovered that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron herself.

Chapter iii. — A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a
moon, a star, and an angel.

The sun (for he keeps very good hours at this time of the year) had been
some time retired to rest when Sophia arose greatly refreshed by her
sleep; which, short as it was, nothing but her extreme fatigue could have
occasioned; for, though she had told her maid, and perhaps herself too,
that she was perfectly easy when she left Upton, yet it is certain her
mind was a little affected with that malady which is attended with all the
restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the very distemper which
physicians mean (if they mean anything) by the fever on the spirits.

Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, having
summoned her maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a very
pretty woman, and, had she been in any other company but that of Sophia,
might have been thought beautiful; but when Mrs Honour of her own accord
attended (for her mistress would not suffer her to be waked), and had
equipped our heroine, the charms of Mrs Fitzpatrick, who had performed the
office of the morning-star, and had preceded greater glories, shared the
fate of that star, and were totally eclipsed the moment those glories
shone forth.

Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this instant.
We ought not, therefore, to condemn the maid of the inn for her hyperbole,
who, when she descended, after having lighted the fire, declared, and
ratified it with an oath, that if ever there was an angel upon earth, she
was now above-stairs.

Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to London; and Mrs
Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her; for the arrival of her husband at
Upton had put an end to her design of going to Bath, or to her aunt
Western. They had therefore no sooner finished their tea than Sophia
proposed to set out, the moon then shining extremely bright, and as for
the frost she defied it; nor had she any of those apprehensions which many
young ladies would have felt at travelling by night; for she had, as we
have before observed, some little degree of natural courage; and this, her
present sensations, which bordered somewhat on despair, greatly encreased.
Besides, as she had already travelled twice with safety by the light of
the moon, she was the better emboldened to trust to it a third time.

The disposition of Mrs Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, though the
greater terrors had conquered the less, and the presence of her husband
had driven her away at so unseasonable an hour from Upton, yet, being now
arrived at a place where she thought herself safe from his pursuit, these
lesser terrors of I know not what operated so strongly, that she earnestly
entreated her cousin to stay till the next morning, and not expose herself
to the dangers of travelling by night.

Sophia, who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither laugh nor
reason her cousin out of these apprehensions, at last gave way to them.
Perhaps, indeed, had she known of her father’s arrival at Upton, it might
have been more difficult to have persuaded her; for as to Jones, she had,
I am afraid, no great horror at the thoughts of being overtaken by him;
nay, to confess the truth, I believe she rather wished than feared it;
though I might honestly enough have concealed this wish from the reader,
as it was one of those secret spontaneous emotions of the soul to which
the reason is often a stranger.

When our young ladies had determined to remain all that evening in their
inn they were attended by the landlady, who desired to know what their
ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such charms were there in the voice, in
the manner, and in the affable deportment of Sophia, that she ravished the
landlady to the highest degree; and that good woman, concluding that she
had attended Jenny Cameron, became in a moment a stanch Jacobite, and
wished heartily well to the young Pretender’s cause, from the great
sweetness and affability with which she had been treated by his supposed
mistress.

The two cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal
curiosity to know what extraordinary accidents on both sides occasioned
this so strange and unexpected meeting. At last Mrs Fitzpatrick, having
obtained of Sophia a promise of communicating likewise in her turn, began
to relate what the reader, if he is desirous to know her history, may read
in the ensuing chapter.

Chapter iv. — The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.

Mrs Fitzpatrick, after a silence of a few moments, fetching a deep sigh,
thus began:

“It is natural to the unhappy to feel a secret concern in
recollecting those periods of their lives which have been most delightful
to them. The remembrance of past pleasures affects us with a kind of
tender grief, like what we suffer for departed friends; and the ideas of
both may be said to haunt our imaginations.

“For this reason, I never reflect without sorrow on those days (the
happiest far of my life) which we spent together when both were under the
care of my aunt Western. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs and Miss Giddy no
more? You remember, I am sure, when we knew each other by no other names.
Indeed, you gave the latter appellation with too much cause. I have since
experienced how much I deserved it. You, my Sophia, was always my superior
in everything, and I heartily hope you will be so in your fortune. I shall
never forget the wise and matronly advice you once gave me, when I
lamented being disappointed of a ball, though you could not be then
fourteen years old.——O my Sophy, how blest must have been my
situation, when I could think such a disappointment a misfortune; and when
indeed it was the greatest I had ever known!”

“And yet, my dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “it was
then a serious matter with you. Comfort yourself therefore with thinking,
that whatever you now lament may hereafter appear as trifling and
contemptible as a ball would at this time.”

“Alas, my Sophia,” replied the other lady, “you yourself
will think otherwise of my present situation; for greatly must that tender
heart be altered if my misfortunes do not draw many a sigh, nay, many a
tear, from you. The knowledge of this should perhaps deter me from
relating what I am convinced will so much affect you.” Here Mrs
Fitzpatrick stopt, till, at the repeated entreaties of Sophia, she thus
proceeded:

“Though you must have heard much of my marriage; yet, as matters may
probably have been misrepresented, I will set out from the very
commencement of my unfortunate acquaintance with my present husband; which
was at Bath, soon after you left my aunt, and returned home to your
father.

“Among the gay young fellows who were at this season at Bath, Mr
Fitzpatrick was one. He was handsome, dégagé, extremely gallant,
and in his dress exceeded most others. In short, my dear, if you was
unluckily to see him now, I could describe him no better than by telling
you he was the very reverse of everything which he is: for he hath
rusticated himself so long, that he is become an absolute wild Irishman.
But to proceed in my story: the qualifications which he then possessed so
well recommended him, that, though the people of quality at that time
lived separate from the rest of the company, and excluded them from all
their parties, Mr Fitzpatrick found means to gain admittance. It was
perhaps no easy matter to avoid him; for he required very little or no
invitation; and as, being handsome and genteel, he found it no very
difficult matter to ingratiate himself with the ladies, so, he having
frequently drawn his sword, the men did not care publickly to affront him.
Had it not been for some such reason, I believe he would have been soon
expelled by his own sex; for surely he had no strict title to be preferred
to the English gentry; nor did they seem inclined to show him any
extraordinary favour. They all abused him behind his back, which might
probably proceed from envy; for by the women he was well received, and
very particularly distinguished by them.

“My aunt, though no person of quality herself, as she had always
lived about the court, was enrolled in that party; for, by whatever means
you get into the polite circle, when you are once there, it is sufficient
merit for you that you are there. This observation, young as you was, you
could scarce avoid making from my aunt, who was free, or reserved, with
all people, just as they had more or less of this merit.

“And this merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr
Fitzpatrick to her favour. In which he so well succeeded, that he was
always one of her private parties. Nor was he backward in returning such
distinction; for he soon grew so very particular in his behaviour to her,
that the scandal club first began to take notice of it, and the
better-disposed persons made a match between them. For my own part, I
confess, I made no doubt but that his designs were strictly honourable, as
the phrase is; that is, to rob a lady of her fortune by way of marriage.
My aunt was, I conceived, neither young enough nor handsome enough to
attract much wicked inclination; but she had matrimonial charms in great
abundance.

“I was the more confirmed in this opinion from the extraordinary
respect which he showed to myself from the first moment of our
acquaintance. This I understood as an attempt to lessen, if possible, that
disinclination which my interest might be supposed to give me towards the
match; and I know not but in some measure it had that effect; for, as I
was well contented with my own fortune, and of all people the least a
slave to interested views, so I could not be violently the enemy of a man
with whose behaviour to me I was greatly pleased; and the more so, as I
was the only object of such respect; for he behaved at the same time to
many women of quality without any respect at all.

“Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another kind
of behaviour, which was perhaps more so. He now put on much softness and
tenderness, and languished and sighed abundantly. At times, indeed,
whether from art or nature I will not determine, he gave his usual loose
to gaiety and mirth; but this was always in general company, and with
other women; for even in a country-dance, when he was not my partner, he
became grave, and put on the softest look imaginable the moment he
approached me. Indeed he was in all things so very particular towards me,
that I must have been blind not to have discovered it. And, and, and——”
“And you was more pleased still, my dear Harriet,” cries
Sophia; “you need not be ashamed,” added she, sighing; “for
sure there are irresistible charms in tenderness, which too many men are
able to affect.” “True,” answered her cousin; “men,
who in all other instances want common sense, are very Machiavels in the
art of loving. I wish I did not know an instance.—Well, scandal now
began to be as busy with me as it had before been with my aunt; and some
good ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr Fitzpatrick had an intrigue
with us both.

“But, what may seem astonishing, my aunt never saw, nor in the least
seemed to suspect, that which was visible enough, I believe, from both our
behaviours. One would indeed think that love quite puts out the eyes of an
old woman. In fact, they so greedily swallow the addresses which are made
to them, that, like an outrageous glutton, they are not at leisure to
observe what passes amongst others at the same table. This I have observed
in more cases than my own; and this was so strongly verified by my aunt,
that, though she often found us together at her return from the pump, the
least canting word of his, pretending impatience at her absence,
effectually smothered all suspicion. One artifice succeeded with her to
admiration. This was his treating me like a little child, and never
calling me by any other name in her presence but that of pretty miss. This
indeed did him some disservice with your humble servant; but I soon saw
through it, especially as in her absence he behaved to me, as I have said,
in a different manner. However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a
conduct of which I had discovered the design, I smarted very severely for
it; for my aunt really conceived me to be what her lover (as she thought
him) called me, and treated me in all respects as a perfect infant. To say
the truth, I wonder she had not insisted on my again wearing
leading-strings.

“At last, my lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most solemn
manner, to disclose a secret which I had known long before. He now placed
all the love which he had pretended to my aunt to my account. He lamented,
in very pathetic terms, the encouragement she had given him, and made a
high merit of the tedious hours in which he had undergone her
conversation.—What shall I tell you, my dear Sophia?—Then I
will confess the truth. I was pleased with my man. I was pleased with my
conquest. To rival my aunt delighted me; to rival so many other women
charmed me. In short, I am afraid I did not behave as I should do, even
upon the very first declaration—I wish I did not almost give him
positive encouragement before we parted.

“The Bath now talked loudly—I might almost say, roared against
me. Several young women affected to shun my acquaintance, not so much,
perhaps, from any real suspicion, as from a desire of banishing me from a
company in which I too much engrossed their favourite man. And here I
cannot omit expressing my gratitude to the kindness intended me by Mr
Nash, who took me one day aside, and gave me advice, which if I had
followed, I had been a happy woman. `Child,’ says he, `I am sorry to see
the familiarity which subsists between you and a fellow who is altogether
unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your ruin. As for your old
stinking aunt, if it was to be no injury to you and my pretty Sophy
Western (I assure you I repeat his words), I should be heartily glad that
the fellow was in possession of all that belongs to her. I never advise
old women: for, if they take it into their heads to go to the devil, it is
no more possible than worth while to keep them from him. Innocence and
youth and beauty are worthy a better fate, and I would save them from his
clutches. Let me advise you therefore, dear child, never suffer this
fellow to be particular with you again.’ Many more things he said to me,
which I have now forgotten, and indeed I attended very little to them at
the time; for inclination contradicted all he said; and, besides, I could
not be persuaded that women of quality would condescend to familiarity
with such a person as he described.

“But I am afraid, my dear, I shall tire you with a detail of so many
minute circumstances. To be concise, therefore, imagine me married;
imagine me with my husband, at the feet of my aunt; and then imagine the
maddest woman in Bedlam, in a raving fit, and your imagination will
suggest to you no more than what really happened.

“The very next day my aunt left the place, partly to avoid seeing Mr
Fitzpatrick or myself, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing any one else;
for, though I am told she hath since denied everything stoutly, I believe
she was then a little confounded at her disappointment. Since that time, I
have written to her many letters, but never could obtain an answer, which
I must own sits somewhat the heavier, as she herself was, though
undesignedly, the occasion of all my sufferings: for, had it not been
under the colour of paying his addresses to her, Mr Fitzpatrick would
never have found sufficient opportunities to have engaged my heart, which,
in other circumstances, I still flatter myself would not have been an easy
conquest to such a person. Indeed, I believe I should not have erred so
grossly in my choice if I had relied on my own judgment; but I trusted
totally to the opinion of others, and very foolishly took the merit of a
man for granted whom I saw so universally well received by the women. What
is the reason, my dear, that we, who have understandings equal to the
wisest and greatest of the other sex, so often make choice of the silliest
fellows for companions and favourites? It raises my indignation to the
highest pitch to reflect on the numbers of women of sense who have been
undone by fools.” Here she paused a moment; but, Sophia making no
answer, she proceeded as in the next chapter.

Chapter v. — In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.

“We remained at Bath no longer than a fortnight after our wedding;
for as to any reconciliation with my aunt, there were no hopes; and of my
fortune not one farthing could be touched till I was of age, of which I
now wanted more than two years. My husband therefore was resolved to set
out for Ireland; against which I remonstrated very earnestly, and insisted
on a promise which he had made me before our marriage that I should never
take this journey against my consent; and indeed I never intended to
consent to it; nor will anybody, I believe, blame me for that resolution;
but this, however, I never mentioned to my husband, and petitioned only
for the reprieve of a month; but he had fixed the day, and to that day he
obstinately adhered.

“The evening before our departure, as we were disputing this point
with great eagerness on both sides, he started suddenly from his chair,
and left me abruptly, saying he was going to the rooms. He was hardly out
of the house when I saw a paper lying on the floor, which, I suppose, he
had carelessly pulled from his pocket, together with his handkerchief.
This paper I took up, and, finding it to be a letter, I made no scruple to
open and read it; and indeed I read it so often that I can repeat it to
you almost word for word. This then was the letter:

“This was the letter, word for word. Guess, my dear girl—guess
how this letter affected me. You prefer the niece on account of her ready
money! If every one of these words had been a dagger, I could with
pleasure have stabbed them into his heart; but I will not recount my
frantic behaviour on the occasion. I had pretty well spent my tears before
his return home; but sufficient remains of them appeared in my swollen
eyes. He threw himself sullenly into his chair, and for a long time we
were both silent. At length, in a haughty tone, he said, `I hope, madam,
your servants have packed up all your things; for the coach will be ready
by six in the morning.’ My patience was totally subdued by this
provocation, and I answered, `No, sir, there is a letter still remains
unpacked;’ and then throwing it on the table I fell to upbraiding him with
the most bitter language I could invent.

“Whether guilt, or shame, or prudence, restrained him I cannot say;
but, though he is the most passionate of men, he exerted no rage on this
occasion. He endeavoured, on the contrary, to pacify me by the most gentle
means. He swore the phrase in the letter to which I principally objected
was not his, nor had he ever written any such. He owned, indeed, the
having mentioned his marriage, and that preference which he had given to
myself, but denied with many oaths the having mentioned any such matter at
all on account of the straits he was in for money, arising, he said, from
his having too long neglected his estate in Ireland. And this, he said,
which he could not bear to discover to me, was the only reason of his
having so strenuously insisted on our journey. He then used several very
endearing expressions, and concluded by a very fond caress, and many
violent protestations of love.

“There was one circumstance which, though he did not appeal to it,
had much weight with me in his favour, and that was the word jointure in
the taylor’s letter, whereas my aunt never had been married, and this Mr
Fitzpatrick well knew.——As I imagined, therefore, that the
fellow must have inserted this of his own head, or from hearsay, I
persuaded myself he might have ventured likewise on that odious line on no
better authority. What reasoning was this, my dear? was I not an advocate
rather than a judge?—But why do I mention such a circumstance as
this, or appeal to it for the justification of my forgiveness?—In
short, had he been guilty of twenty times as much, half the tenderness and
fondness which he used would have prevailed on me to have forgiven him. I
now made no farther objections to our setting out, which we did the next
morning, and in a little more than a week arrived at the seat of Mr
Fitzpatrick.

“Your curiosity will excuse me from relating any occurrences which
past during our journey; for it would indeed be highly disagreeable to
travel it over again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me.

“This seat, then, is an ancient mansion-house: if I was in one of
those merry humours in which you have so often seen me, I could describe
it to you ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been formerly
inhabited by a gentleman. Here was room enough, and not the less room on
account of the furniture; for indeed there was very little in it. An old
woman, who seemed coeval with the building, and greatly resembled her whom
Chamont mentions in the Orphan, received us at the gate, and in a howl
scarce human, and to me unintelligible, welcomed her master home. In
short, the whole scene was so gloomy and melancholy, that it threw my
spirits into the lowest dejection; which my husband discerning, instead of
relieving, encreased by two or three malicious observations. `There are
good houses, madam,’ says he, `as you find, in other places besides
England; but perhaps you had rather be in a dirty lodgings at Bath.’

“Happy, my dear, is the woman who, in any state of life, hath a
cheerful good-natured companion to support and comfort her! But why do I
reflect on happy situations only to aggravate my own misery? my companion,
far from clearing up the gloom of solitude, soon convinced me that I must
have been wretched with him in any place, and in any condition. In a word,
he was a surly fellow, a character perhaps you have never seen; for,
indeed, no woman ever sees it exemplified but in a father, a brother, or a
husband; and, though you have a father, he is not of that character. This
surly fellow had formerly appeared to me the very reverse, and so he did
still to every other person. Good heaven! how is it possible for a man to
maintain a constant lie in his appearance abroad and in company, and to
content himself with shewing disagreeable truth only at home? Here, my
dear, they make themselves amends for the uneasy restraint which they put
on their tempers in the world; for I have observed, the more merry and gay
and good-humoured my husband hath at any time been in company, the more
sullen and morose he was sure to become at our next private meeting. How
shall I describe his barbarity? To my fondness he was cold and insensible.
My little comical ways, which you, my Sophy, and which others, have called
so agreeable, he treated with contempt. In my most serious moments he sung
and whistled; and whenever I was thoroughly dejected and miserable he was
angry, and abused me: for, though he was never pleased with my
good-humour, nor ascribed it to my satisfaction in him, yet my low spirits
always offended him, and those he imputed to my repentance of having (as
he said) married an Irishman.

“You will easily conceive, my dear Graveairs (I ask your pardon, I
really forgot myself), that, when a woman makes an imprudent match in the
sense of the world, that is, when she is not an arrant prostitute to
pecuniary interest, she must necessarily have some inclination and
affection for her man. You will as easily believe that this affection may
possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure you, contempt will wholly eradicate
it. This contempt I now began to entertain for my husband, whom I now
discovered to be—I must use the expression—an arrant
blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this discovery long
before; but women will suggest a thousand excuses to themselves for the
folly of those they like: besides, give me leave to tell you, it requires
a most penetrating eye to discern a fool through the disguises of gaiety
and good breeding.

“It will be easily imagined that, when I once despised my husband,
as I confess to you I soon did, I must consequently dislike his company;
and indeed I had the happiness of being very little troubled with it; for
our house was now most elegantly furnished, our cellars well stocked, and
dogs and horses provided in great abundance. As my gentleman therefore
entertained his neighbours with great hospitality, so his neighbours
resorted to him with great alacrity; and sports and drinking consumed so
much of his time, that a small part of his conversation, that is to say,
of his ill-humours, fell to my share.

“Happy would it have been for me if I could as easily have avoided
all other disagreeable company; but, alas! I was confined to some which
constantly tormented me; and the more, as I saw no prospect of being
relieved from them. These companions were my own racking thoughts, which
plagued and in a manner haunted me night and day. In this situation I past
through a scene, the horrors of which can neither be painted nor imagined.
Think, my dear, figure, if you can, to yourself, what I must have
undergone. I became a mother by the man I scorned, hated, and detested. I
went through all the agonies and miseries of a lying-in (ten times more
painful in such a circumstance than the worst labour can be when one
endures it for a man one loves) in a desert, or rather, indeed, a scene of
riot and revel, without a friend, without a companion, or without any of
those agreeable circumstances which often alleviate, and perhaps sometimes
more than compensate, the sufferings of our sex at that season.”

Chapter vi. — In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia
into a dreadful consternation.

Mrs Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her narrative when she was interrupted
by the entrance of dinner, greatly to the concern of Sophia; for the
misfortunes of her friend had raised her anxiety, and left her no appetite
but what Mrs Fitzpatrick was to satisfy by her relation.

The landlord now attended with a plate under his arm, and with the same
respect in his countenance and address which he would have put on had the
ladies arrived in a coach and six. — The married lady seemed less
affected with her own misfortunes than was her cousin; for the former eat
very heartily, whereas the latter could hardly swallow a morsel. Sophia
likewise showed more concern and sorrow in her countenance than appeared
in the other lady; who, having observed these symptoms in her friend,
begged her to be comforted, saying, “Perhaps all may yet end better
than either you or I expect.”

Our landlord thought he had now an opportunity to open his mouth, and was
resolved not to omit it. “I am sorry, madam,” cries he,
“that your ladyship can’t eat; for to be sure you must be hungry
after so long fasting. I hope your ladyship is not uneasy at anything,
for, as madam there says, all may end better than anybody expects. A
gentleman who was here just now brought excellent news; and perhaps some
folks who have given other folks the slip may get to London before they
are overtaken; and if they do, I make no doubt but they will find people
who will be very ready to receive them.”

All persons under the apprehension of danger convert whatever they see and
hear into the objects of that apprehension. Sophia therefore immediately
concluded, from the foregoing speech, that she was known, and pursued by
her father. She was now struck with the utmost consternation, and for a
few minutes deprived of the power of speech; which she no sooner recovered
than she desired the landlord to send his servants out of the room, and
then, addressing herself to him, said, “I perceive, sir, you know
who we are; but I beseech you—nay, I am convinced, if you have any
compassion or goodness, you will not betray us.”

“I betray your ladyship!” quoth the landlord; “no (and
then he swore several very hearty oaths); I would sooner be cut into ten
thousand pieces. I hate all treachery. I! I never betrayed any one in my
life yet, and I am sure I shall not begin with so sweet a lady as your
ladyship. All the world would very much blame me if I should, since it
will be in your ladyship’s power so shortly to reward me. My wife can
witness for me, I knew your ladyship the moment you came into the house: I
said it was your honour, before I lifted you from your horse, and I shall
carry the bruises I got in your ladyship’s service to the grave; but what
signified that, as long as I saved your ladyship? To be sure some people
this morning would have thought of getting a reward; but no such thought
ever entered into my head. I would sooner starve than take any reward for
betraying your ladyship.”

“I promise you, sir,” says Sophia, “if it be ever in my
power to reward you, you shall not lose by your generosity.”

“Alack-a-day, madam!” answered the landlord; “in your
ladyship’s power! Heaven put it as much into your will! I am only afraid
your honour will forget such a poor man as an innkeeper; but, if your
ladyship should not, I hope you will remember what reward I refused—refused!
that is, I would have refused, and to be sure it may be called refusing,
for I might have had it certainly; and to be sure you might have been in
some houses;—but, for my part, would not methinks for the world have
your ladyship wrong me so much as to imagine I ever thought of betraying
you, even before I heard the good news.”

“What news, pray?” says Sophia, something eagerly.

“Hath not your ladyship heard it, then?” cries the landlord;
“nay, like enough, for I heard it only a few minutes ago; and if I
had never heard it, may the devil fly away with me this instant if I would
have betrayed your honour! no, if I would, may I—” Here he
subjoined several dreadful imprecations, which Sophia at last interrupted,
and begged to know what he meant by the news.—He was going to
answer, when Mrs Honour came running into the room, all pale and
breathless, and cried out, “Madam, we are all undone, all ruined,
they are come, they are come!” These words almost froze up the blood
of Sophia; but Mrs Fitzpatrick asked Honour who were come?—“Who?”
answered she, “why, the French; several hundred thousands of them
are landed, and we shall be all murdered and ravished.”

As a miser, who hath, in some well-built city, a cottage, value twenty
shillings, when at a distance he is alarmed with the news of a fire, turns
pale and trembles at his loss; but when he finds the beautiful palaces
only are burnt, and his own cottage remains safe, he comes instantly to
himself, and smiles at his good fortunes: or as (for we dislike something
in the former simile) the tender mother, when terrified with the
apprehension that her darling boy is drowned, is struck senseless and
almost dead with consternation; but when she is told that little master is
safe, and the Victory only, with twelve hundred brave men, gone to the
bottom, life and sense again return, maternal fondness enjoys the sudden
relief from all its fears, and the general benevolence which at another
time would have deeply felt the dreadful catastrophe, lies fast asleep in
her mind;—so Sophia, than whom none was more capable of tenderly
feeling the general calamity of her country, found such immediate
satisfaction from the relief of those terrors she had of being overtaken
by her father, that the arrival of the French scarce made any impression
on her. She gently chid her maid for the fright into which she had thrown
her, and said “she was glad it was no worse; for that she had feared
somebody else was come.”

“Ay, ay,” quoth the landlord, smiling, “her ladyship
knows better things; she knows the French are our very best friends, and
come over hither only for our good. They are the people who are to make
Old England flourish again. I warrant her honour thought the duke was
coming; and that was enough to put her into a fright. I was going to tell
your ladyship the news.—His honour’s majesty, Heaven bless him, hath
given the duke the slip, and is marching as fast as he can to London, and
ten thousand French are landed to join him on the road.”

Sophia was not greatly pleased with this news, nor with the gentleman who
related it; but, as she still imagined he knew her (for she could not
possibly have any suspicion of the real truth), she durst not show any
dislike. And now the landlord, having removed the cloth from the table,
withdrew; but at his departure frequently repeated his hopes of being
remembered hereafter.

The mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the supposition of being
known at this house; for she still applied to herself many things which
the landlord had addressed to Jenny Cameron; she therefore ordered her
maid to pump out of him by what means he had become acquainted with her
person, and who had offered him the reward for betraying her; she likewise
ordered the horses to be in readiness by four in the morning, at which
hour Mrs Fitzpatrick promised to bear her company; and then, composing
herself as well as she could, she desired that lady to continue her story.

Chapter vii. — In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.

While Mrs Honour, in pursuance of the commands of her mistress, ordered a
bowl of punch, and invited my landlord and landlady to partake of it, Mrs
Fitzpatrick thus went on with her relation.

“Most of the officers who were quartered at a town in our
neighbourhood were of my husband’s acquaintance. Among these there was a
lieutenant, a very pretty sort of man, and who was married to a woman, so
agreeable both in her temper and conversation, that from our first knowing
each other, which was soon after my lying-in, we were almost inseparable
companions; for I had the good fortune to make myself equally agreeable to
her.

“The lieutenant, who was neither a sot nor a sportsman, was
frequently of our parties; indeed he was very little with my husband, and
no more than good breeding constrained him to be, as he lived almost
constantly at our house. My husband often expressed much dissatisfaction
at the lieutenant’s preferring my company to his; he was very angry with
me on that account, and gave me many a hearty curse for drawing away his
companions; saying, `I ought to be d—n’d for having spoiled one of
the prettiest fellows in the world, by making a milksop of him.’

“You will be mistaken, my dear Sophia, if you imagine that the anger
of my husband arose from my depriving him of a companion; for the
lieutenant was not a person with whose society a fool could be pleased;
and, if I should admit the possibility of this, so little right had my
husband to place the loss of his companion to me, that I am convinced it
was my conversation alone which induced him ever to come to the house. No,
child, it was envy, the worst and most rancorous kind of envy, the envy of
superiority of understanding. The wretch could not bear to see my
conversation preferred to his, by a man of whom he could not entertain the
least jealousy. O my dear Sophy, you are a woman of sense; if you marry a
man, as is most probable you will, of less capacity than yourself, make
frequent trials of his temper before marriage, and see whether he can bear
to submit to such a superiority.—Promise me, Sophy, you will take
this advice; for you will hereafter find its importance.” “It
is very likely I shall never marry at all,” answered Sophia; “I
think, at least, I shall never marry a man in whose understanding I see
any defects before marriage; and I promise you I would rather give up my
own than see any such afterwards.” “Give up your
understanding!” replied Mrs Fitzpatrick; “oh, fie, child! I
will not believe so meanly of you. Everything else I might myself be
brought to give up; but never this. Nature would not have allotted this
superiority to the wife in so many instances, if she had intended we
should all of us have surrendered it to the husband. This, indeed, men of
sense never expect of us; of which the lieutenant I have just mentioned
was one notable example; for though he had a very good understanding, he
always acknowledged (as was really true) that his wife had a better. And
this, perhaps, was one reason of the hatred my tyrant bore her.

“Before he would be so governed by a wife, he said, especially such
an ugly b— (for, indeed, she was not a regular beauty, but very
agreeable and extremely genteel), he would see all the women upon earth at
the devil, which was a very usual phrase with him. He said, he wondered
what I could see in her to be so charmed with her company: since this
woman, says he, hath come among us, there is an end of your beloved
reading, which you pretended to like so much, that you could not afford
time to return the visits of the ladies in this country; and I must
confess I had been guilty of a little rudeness this way; for the ladies
there are at least no better than the mere country ladies here; and I
think I need make no other excuse to you for declining any intimacy with
them.

“This correspondence, however, continued a whole year, even all the
while the lieutenant was quartered in that town; for which I was contented
to pay the tax of being constantly abused in the manner above mentioned by
my husband; I mean when he was at home; for he was frequently absent a
month at a time at Dublin, and once made a journey of two months to
London: in all which journeys I thought it a very singular happiness that
he never once desired my company; nay, by his frequent censures on men who
could not travel, as he phrased it, without a wife tied up to their tail,
he sufficiently intimated that, had I been never so desirous of
accompanying him, my wishes would have been in vain; but, Heaven knows,
such wishes were very far from my thoughts.

“At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my
solitude, to the tormenting conversation with my own reflections, and to
apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day long. How
many books do you think I read in three months?” “I can’t
guess, indeed, cousin,” answered Sophia. “Perhaps half a
score.” “Half a score! half a thousand, child!” answered
the other. “I read a good deal in Daniel’s English History of
France; a great deal in Plutarch’s Lives, the Atalantis, Pope’s Homer,
Dryden’s Plays, Chillingworth, the Countess D’Aulnois, and Locke’s Human
Understanding.

“During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I
thought, moving letters to my aunt; but, as I received no answer to any of
them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my application.”
Here she stopt, and, looking earnestly at Sophia, said, “Methinks,
my dear, I read something in your eyes which reproaches me of a neglect in
another place, where I should have met with a kinder return.”
“Indeed, dear Harriet,” answered Sophia, “your story is
an apology for any neglect; but, indeed, I feel that I have been guilty of
a remissness, without so good an excuse.—Yet pray proceed; for I
long, though I tremble, to hear the end.”

Thus, then, Mrs Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative:—“My husband
now took a second journey to England, where he continued upwards of three
months; during the greater part of this time I led a life which nothing
but having led a worse could make me think tolerable; for perfect solitude
can never be reconciled to a social mind, like mine, but when it relieves
you from the company of those you hate. What added to my wretchedness was
the loss of my little infant: not that I pretend to have had for it that
extravagant tenderness of which I believe I might have been capable under
other circumstances; but I resolved, in every instance, to discharge the
duty of the tenderest mother; and this care prevented me from feeling the
weight of that heaviest of all things, when it can be at all said to lie
heavy on our hands.

“I had spent full ten weeks almost entirely by myself, having seen
nobody all that time, except my servants and a very few visitors, when a
young lady, a relation to my husband, came from a distant part of Ireland
to visit me. She had staid once before a week at my house, and then I gave
her a pressing invitation to return; for she was a very agreeable woman,
and had improved good natural parts by a proper education. Indeed, she was
to me a welcome guest.

“A few days after her arrival, perceiving me in very low spirits,
without enquiring the cause, which, indeed, she very well knew, the young
lady fell to compassionating my case. She said, `Though politeness had
prevented me from complaining to my husband’s relations of his behaviour,
yet they all were very sensible of it, and felt great concern upon that
account; but none more than herself.’ And after some more general
discourse on this head, which I own I could not forbear countenancing, at
last, after much previous precaution and enjoined concealment, she
communicated to me, as a profound secret—that my husband kept a
mistress.

“You will certainly imagine I heard this news with the utmost
insensibility—Upon my word, if you do, your imagination will mislead
you. Contempt had not so kept down my anger to my husband, but that hatred
rose again on this occasion. What can be the reason of this? Are we so
abominably selfish, that we can be concerned at others having possession
even of what we despise? Or are we not rather abominably vain, and is not
this the greatest injury done to our vanity? What think you, Sophia?”

“I don’t know, indeed,” answered Sophia; “I have never
troubled myself with any of these deep contemplations; but I think the
lady did very ill in communicating to you such a secret.”

“And yet, my dear, this conduct is natural,” replied Mrs
Fitzpatrick; “and, when you have seen and read as much as myself,
you will acknowledge it to be so.”

“I am sorry to hear it is natural,” returned Sophia; “for
I want neither reading nor experience to convince me that it is very
dishonourable and very ill-natured: nay, it is surely as ill-bred to tell
a husband or wife of the faults of each other as to tell them of their
own.”

“Well,” continued Mrs Fitzpatrick, “my husband at last
returned; and, if I am thoroughly acquainted with my own thoughts, I hated
him now more than ever; but I despised him rather less: for certainly
nothing so much weakens our contempt, as an injury done to our pride or
our vanity.

“He now assumed a carriage to me so very different from what he had
lately worn, and so nearly resembling his behaviour the first week of our
marriage, that, had I now had any spark of love remaining, he might,
possibly, have rekindled my fondness for him. But, though hatred may
succeed to contempt, and may perhaps get the better of it, love, I
believe, cannot. The truth is, the passion of love is too restless to
remain contented without the gratification which it receives from its
object; and one can no more be inclined to love without loving than we can
have eyes without seeing. When a husband, therefore, ceases to be the
object of this passion, it is most probable some other man—I say, my
dear, if your husband grows indifferent to you—if you once come to
despise him—I say—that is—if you have the passion of
love in you—Lud! I have bewildered myself so—but one is apt,
in these abstracted considerations, to lose the concatenation of ideas, as
Mr Locke says:—in short, the truth is—in short, I scarce know
what it is; but, as I was saying, my husband returned, and his behaviour,
at first, greatly surprized me; but he soon acquainted me with the motive,
and taught me to account for it. In a word, then, he had spent and lost
all the ready money of my fortune; and, as he could mortgage his own
estate no deeper, he was now desirous to supply himself with cash for his
extravagance, by selling a little estate of mine, which he could not do
without my assistance; and to obtain this favour was the whole and sole
motive of all the fondness which he now put on.

“With this I peremptorily refused to comply. I told him, and I told
him truly, that, had I been possessed of the Indies at our first marriage,
he might have commanded it all; for it had been a constant maxim with me,
that where a woman disposes of her heart, she should always deposit her
fortune; but, as he had been so kind, long ago, to restore the former into
my possession, I was resolved likewise to retain what little remained of
the latter.

“I will not describe to you the passion into which these words, and
the resolute air in which they were spoken, threw him: nor will I trouble
you with the whole scene which succeeded between us. Out came, you may be
well assured, the story of the mistress; and out it did come, with all the
embellishments which anger and disdain could bestow upon it.

“Mr Fitzpatrick seemed a little thunderstruck with this, and more
confused than I had seen him, though his ideas are always confused enough,
heaven knows. He did not, however, endeavour to exculpate himself; but
took a method which almost equally confounded me. What was this but
recrimination? He affected to be jealous:—he may, for aught I know,
be inclined enough to jealousy in his natural temper; nay, he must have
had it from nature, or the devil must have put it into his head; for I
defy all the world to cast a just aspersion on my character: nay, the most
scandalous tongues have never dared censure my reputation. My fame, I
thank heaven, hath been always as spotless as my life; and let falsehood
itself accuse that if it dare. No, my dear Graveairs, however provoked,
however ill-treated, however injured in my love, I have firmly resolved
never to give the least room for censure on this account.—And yet,
my dear, there are some people so malicious, some tongues so venomous,
that no innocence can escape them. The most undesigned word, the most
accidental look, the least familiarity, the most innocent freedom, will be
misconstrued, and magnified into I know not what, by some people. But I
despise, my dear Graveairs, I despise all such slander. No such malice, I
assure you, ever gave me an uneasy moment. No, no, I promise you I am
above all that.—But where was I? O let me see, I told you my husband
was jealous—And of whom, I pray?—Why, of whom but the
lieutenant I mentioned to you before! He was obliged to resort above a
year and more back to find any object for this unaccountable passion, if,
indeed, he really felt any such, and was not an arrant counterfeit in
order to abuse me.

“But I have tired you already with too many particulars. I will now
bring my story to a very speedy conclusion. In short, then, after many
scenes very unworthy to be repeated, in which my cousin engaged so
heartily on my side, that Mr Fitzpatrick at last turned her out of doors;
when he found I was neither to be soothed nor bullied into compliance, he
took a very violent method indeed. Perhaps you will conclude he beat me;
but this, though he hath approached very near to it, he never actually
did. He confined me to my room, without suffering me to have either pen,
ink, paper, or book: and a servant every day made my bed, and brought me
my food.

“When I had remained a week under this imprisonment, he made me a
visit, and, with the voice of a schoolmaster, or, what is often much the
same, of a tyrant, asked me, `If I would yet comply?’ I answered, very
stoutly, `That I would die first.’ `Then so you shall, and be d—nd!’
cries he; `for you shall never go alive out of this room.’

“Here I remained a fortnight longer; and, to say the truth, my
constancy was almost subdued, and I began to think of submission; when,
one day, in the absence of my husband, who was gone abroad for some short
time, by the greatest good fortune in the world, an accident happened.—I—at
a time when I began to give way to the utmost despair——everything
would be excusable at such a time—at that very time I received——But
it would take up an hour to tell you all particulars.—In one word,
then (for I will not tire you with circumstances), gold, the common key to
all padlocks, opened my door, and set me at liberty.

“I now made haste to Dublin, where I immediately procured a passage
to England; and was proceeding to Bath, in order to throw myself into the
protection of my aunt, or of your father, or of any relation who would
afford it me. My husband overtook me last night at the inn where I lay,
and which you left a few minutes before me; but I had the good luck to
escape him, and to follow you.

“And thus, my dear, ends my history: a tragical one, I am sure, it
is to myself; but, perhaps, I ought rather to apologize to you for its
dullness.”

Sophia heaved a deep sigh, and answered, “Indeed, Harriet, I pity
you from my soul!——But what could you expect? Why, why, would
you marry an Irishman?”

“Upon my word,” replied her cousin, “your censure is
unjust. There are, among the Irish, men of as much worth and honour as any
among the English: nay, to speak the truth, generosity of spirit is rather
more common among them. I have known some examples there, too, of good
husbands; and I believe these are not very plenty in England. Ask me,
rather, what I could expect when I married a fool; and I will tell you a
solemn truth; I did not know him to be so.”—“Can no man,”
said Sophia, in a very low and altered voice, “do you think, make a
bad husband, who is not a fool?” “That,” answered the
other, “is too general a negative; but none, I believe, is so likely
as a fool to prove so. Among my acquaintance, the silliest fellows are the
worst husbands; and I will venture to assert, as a fact, that a man of
sense rarely behaves very ill to a wife who deserves very well.”

Chapter viii. — A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an
unexpected friend of Mrs Fitzpatrick.

Sophia now, at the desire of her cousin, related—not what follows,
but what hath gone before in this history: for which reason the reader
will, I suppose, excuse me for not repeating it over again.

One remark, however, I cannot forbear making on her narrative, namely,
that she made no more mention of Jones, from the beginning to the end,
than if there had been no such person alive. This I will neither endeavour
to account for nor to excuse. Indeed, if this may be called a kind of
dishonesty, it seems the more inexcusable, from the apparent openness and
explicit sincerity of the other lady.—But so it was.

Just as Sophia arrived at the conclusion of her story, there arrived in
the room where the two ladies were sitting a noise, not unlike, in
loudness, to that of a pack of hounds just let out from their kennel; nor,
in shrillness, to cats, when caterwauling; or to screech owls; or, indeed,
more like (for what animal can resemble a human voice?) to those sounds
which, in the pleasant mansions of that gate which seems to derive its
name from a duplicity of tongues, issue from the mouths, and sometimes
from the nostrils, of those fair river nymphs, ycleped of old the Naïades;
in the vulgar tongue translated oyster-wenches; for when, instead of the
antient libations of milk and honey and oil, the rich distillation from
the juniper-berry, or, perhaps, from malt, hath, by the early devotion of
their votaries, been poured forth in great abundance, should any daring
tongue with unhallowed license prophane, i.e., depreciate, the
delicate fat Milton oyster, the plaice sound and firm, the flounder as
much alive as when in the water, the shrimp as big as a prawn, the fine
cod alive but a few hours ago, or any other of the various treasures which
those water-deities who fish the sea and rivers have committed to the care
of the nymphs, the angry Naïades lift up their immortal voices, and the
prophane wretch is struck deaf for his impiety.

Such was the noise which now burst from one of the rooms below; and soon
the thunder, which long had rattled at a distance, began to approach
nearer and nearer, till, having ascended by degrees upstairs, it at last
entered the apartment where the ladies were. In short, to drop all
metaphor and figure, Mrs Honour, having scolded violently below-stairs,
and continued the same all the way up, came in to her mistress in a most
outrageous passion, crying out, “What doth your ladyship think?
Would you imagine that this impudent villain, the master of this house,
hath had the impudence to tell me, nay, to stand it out to my face, that
your ladyship is that nasty, stinking wh—re (Jenny Cameron they call
her), that runs about the country with the Pretender? Nay, the lying,
saucy villain had the assurance to tell me that your ladyship had owned
yourself to be so; but I have clawed the rascal; I have left the marks of
my nails in his impudent face. My lady! says I, you saucy scoundrel; my
lady is meat for no pretenders. She is a young lady of as good fashion,
and family, and fortune, as any in Somersetshire. Did you never hear of
the great Squire Western, sirrah? She is his only daughter; she is——,
and heiress to all his great estate. My lady to be called a nasty Scotch
wh—re by such a varlet!—To be sure I wish I had knocked his
brains out with the punch-bowl.”

The principal uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this occasion
Honour had herself caused, by having in her passion discovered who she
was. However, as this mistake of the landlord sufficiently accounted for
those passages which Sophia had before mistaken, she acquired some ease on
that account; nor could she, upon the whole, forbear smiling. This enraged
Honour, and she cried, “Indeed, madam, I did not think your ladyship
would have made a laughing matter of it. To be called whore by such an
impudent low rascal. Your ladyship may be angry with me, for aught I know,
for taking your part, since proffered service, they say, stinks; but to be
sure I could never bear to hear a lady of mine called whore.—Nor
will I bear it. I am sure your ladyship is as virtuous a lady as ever sat
foot on English ground, and I will claw any villain’s eyes out who dares
for to offer to presume for to say the least word to the contrary. Nobody
ever could say the least ill of the character of any lady that ever I
waited upon.”

Hinc illae lachrymae; in plain truth, Honour had as much love for
her mistress as most servants have, that is to say—But besides this,
her pride obliged her to support the character of the lady she waited on;
for she thought her own was in a very close manner connected with it. In
proportion as the character of her mistress was raised, hers likewise, as
she conceived, was raised with it; and, on the contrary, she thought the
one could not be lowered without the other.

On this subject, reader, I must stop a moment, to tell thee a story.
“The famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one day, from a house where she had
made a short visit, into her coach, saw a great mob assembled, and her
footman all bloody and dirty; the fellow, being asked by his mistress the
reason of his being in that condition, answered, `I have been fighting,
madam, with an impudent rascal who called your ladyship a wh—re.’
`You blockhead,’ replied Mrs Gwynn, `at this rate you must fight every day
of your life; why, you fool, all the world knows it.’ `Do they?’ cries the
fellow, in a muttering voice, after he had shut the coach-door, `they
shan’t call me a whore’s footman for all that.’”

Thus the passion of Mrs Honour appears natural enough, even if it were to
be no otherwise accounted for; but, in reality, there was another cause of
her anger; for which we must beg leave to remind our reader of a
circumstance mentioned in the above simile. There are indeed certain
liquors, which, being applied to our passions, or to fire, produce effects
the very reverse of those produced by water, as they serve to kindle and
inflame, rather than to extinguish. Among these, the generous liquor
called punch is one. It was not, therefore, without reason, that the
learned Dr Cheney used to call drinking punch pouring liquid fire down
your throat.

Now, Mrs Honour had unluckily poured so much of this liquid fire down her
throat, that the smoke of it began to ascend into her pericranium and
blinded the eyes of Reason, which is there supposed to keep her residence,
while the fire itself from the stomach easily reached the heart, and there
inflamed the noble passion of pride. So that, upon the whole, we shall
cease to wonder at the violent rage of the waiting-woman; though at first
sight we must confess the cause seems inadequate to the effect.

Sophia and her cousin both did all in their power to extinguish these
flames which had roared so loudly all over the house. They at length
prevailed; or, to carry the metaphor one step farther, the fire, having
consumed all the fuel which the language affords, to wit, every
reproachful term in it, at last went out of its own accord.

But, though tranquillity was restored above-stairs, it was not so below;
where my landlady, highly resenting the injury done to the beauty of her
husband by the flesh-spades of Mrs Honour, called aloud for revenge and
justice. As to the poor man, who had principally suffered in the
engagement, he was perfectly quiet. Perhaps the blood which he lost might
have cooled his anger: for the enemy had not only applied her nails to his
cheeks, but likewise her fist to his nostrils, which lamented the blow
with tears of blood in great abundance. To this we may add reflections on
his mistake; but indeed nothing so effectually silenced his resentment as
the manner in which he now discovered his error; for as to the behaviour
of Mrs Honour, it had the more confirmed him in his opinion; but he was
now assured by a person of great figure, and who was attended by a great
equipage, that one of the ladies was a woman of fashion, and his intimate
acquaintance.

By the orders of this person, the landlord now ascended, and acquainted
our fair travellers that a great gentleman below desired to do them the
honour of waiting on them. Sophia turned pale and trembled at this
message, though the reader will conclude it was too civil, notwithstanding
the landlord’s blunder, to have come from her father; but fear hath the
common fault of a justice of peace, and is apt to conclude hastily from
every slight circumstance, without examining the evidence on both sides.

To ease the reader’s curiosity, therefore, rather than his apprehensions,
we proceed to inform him that an Irish peer had arrived very late that
evening at the inn, in his way to London. This nobleman, having sallied
from his supper at the hurricane before commemorated, had seen the
attendant of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and upon a short enquiry, was informed that
her lady, with whom he was very particularly acquainted, was above. This
information he had no sooner received than he addressed himself to the
landlord, pacified him, and sent him upstairs with compliments rather
civiller than those which were delivered.

It may perhaps be wondered at that the waiting-woman herself was not the
messenger employed on this occasion; but we are sorry to say she was not
at present qualified for that, or indeed for any other office. The rum
(for so the landlord chose to call the distillation from malt) had basely
taken the advantage of the fatigue which the poor woman had undergone, and
had made terrible depredations on her noble faculties, at a time when they
were very unable to resist the attack.

We shall not describe this tragical scene too fully; but we thought
ourselves obliged, by that historic integrity which we profess, shortly to
hint a matter which we would otherwise have been glad to have spared. Many
historians, indeed, for want of this integrity, or of diligence, to say no
worse, often leave the reader to find out these little circumstances in
the dark, and sometimes to his great confusion and perplexity.

Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the entry of the
noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquaintance of Mrs Fitzpatrick,
but in reality a very particular friend of that lady. To say truth, it was
by his assistance that she had been enabled to escape from her husband;
for this nobleman had the same gallant disposition with those renowned
knights of whom we read in heroic story, and had delivered many an
imprisoned nymph from durance. He was indeed as bitter an enemy to the
savage authority too often exercised by husbands and fathers, over the
young and lovely of the other sex, as ever knight-errant was to the
barbarous power of enchanters; nay, to say truth, I have often suspected
that those very enchanters with which romance everywhere abounds were in
reality no other than the husbands of those days; and matrimony itself
was, perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs were said to be
confined.

This nobleman had an estate in the neighbourhood of Fitzpatrick, and had
been for some time acquainted with the lady. No sooner, therefore, did he
hear of her confinement, than he earnestly applied himself to procure her
liberty; which he presently effected, not by storming the castle,
according to the example of antient heroes, but by corrupting the
governor, in conformity with the modern art of war, in which craft is held
to be preferable to valour, and gold is found to be more irresistible than
either lead or steel.

This circumstance, however, as the lady did not think it material enough
to relate to her friend, we would not at that time impart it to the
reader. We rather chose to leave him a while under a supposition that she
had found, or coined, or by some very extraordinary, perhaps supernatural
means, had possessed herself of the money with which she had bribed her
keeper, than to interrupt her narrative by giving a hint of what seemed to
her of too little importance to be mentioned.

The peer, after a short conversation, could not forbear expressing some
surprize at meeting the lady in that place; nor could he refrain from
telling her he imagined she had been gone to Bath. Mrs Fitzpatrick very
freely answered, “That she had been prevented in her purpose by the
arrival of a person she need not mention. In short,” says she,
“I was overtaken by my husband (for I need not affect to conceal
what the world knows too well already). I had the good fortune to escape
in a most surprizing manner, and am now going to London with this young
lady, who is a near relation of mine, and who hath escaped from as great a
tyrant as my own.”

His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a husband, made a
speech full of compliments to both the ladies, and as full of invectives
against his own sex; nor indeed did he avoid some oblique glances at the
matrimonial institution itself, and at the unjust powers given by it to
man over the more sensible and more meritorious part of the species. He
ended his oration with an offer of his protection, and of his coach and
six, which was instantly accepted by Mrs Fitzpatrick, and at last, upon
her persuasions, by Sophia.

Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and the ladies
retired to rest, where Mrs Fitzpatrick entertained her cousin with many
high encomiums on the character of the noble peer, and enlarged very
particularly on his great fondness for his wife; saying, she believed he
was almost the only person of high rank who was entirely constant to the
marriage bed. “Indeed,” added she, “my dear Sophy, that
is a very rare virtue amongst men of condition. Never expect it when you
marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will certainly be deceived.”

A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which perhaps contributed
to form a dream of no very pleasant kind; but, as she never revealed this
dream to any one, so the reader cannot expect to see it related here.

Chapter ix. — The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A
stagecoach. The civility of chambermaids. The heroic temper of Sophia. Her
generosity. The return to it. The departure of the company, and their

arrival at London; with some remarks for the use of travellers.

Those members of society who are born to furnish the blessings of life now
began to light their candles, in order to pursue their daily labours for
the use of those who are born to enjoy these blessings. The sturdy hind
now attends the levee of his fellow-labourer the ox; the cunning
artificer, the diligent mechanic, spring from their hard mattress; and now
the bonny housemaid begins to repair the disordered drum-room, while the
riotous authors of that disorder, in broken interrupted slumbers, tumble
and toss, as if the hardness of down disquieted their repose.

In simple phrase, the clock had no sooner struck seven than the ladies
were ready for their journey; and, at their desire, his lordship and his
equipage were prepared to attend them.

And now a matter of some difficulty arose; and this was how his lordship
himself should be conveyed; for though in stage-coaches, where passengers
are properly considered as so much luggage, the ingenious coachman stows
half a dozen with perfect ease into the place of four; for well he
contrives that the fat hostess, or well-fed alderman, may take up no more
room than the slim miss, or taper master; it being the nature of guts,
when well squeezed, to give way, and to lie in a narrow compass; yet in
these vehicles, which are called, for distinction’s sake, gentlemen’s
coaches, though they are often larger than the others, this method of
packing is never attempted.

His lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty, by very
gallantly desiring to mount his horse; but Mrs Fitzpatrick would by no
means consent to it. It was therefore concluded that the Abigails should,
by turns, relieve each other on one of his lordship’s horses, which was
presently equipped with a side-saddle for that purpose.

Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies discharged their former
guides, and Sophia made a present to the landlord, partly to repair the
bruise which he had received under herself, and partly on account of what
he had suffered under the hands of her enraged waiting-woman. And now
Sophia first discovered a loss which gave her some uneasiness; and this
was of the hundred-pound bank-bill which her father had given her at their
last meeting; and which, within a very inconsiderable trifle, was all the
treasure she was at present worth. She searched everywhere, and shook and
tumbled all her things to no purpose, the bill was not to be found: and
she was at last fully persuaded that she had lost it from her pocket when
she had the misfortune of tumbling from her horse in the dark lane, as
before recorded: a fact that seemed the more probable, as she now
recollected some discomposure in her pockets which had happened at that
time, and the great difficulty with which she had drawn forth her
handkerchief the very instant before her fall, in order to relieve the
distress of Mrs Fitzpatrick.

Misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniencies they may be attended
with, are incapable of subduing a mind in which there is any strength,
without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, therefore, though nothing could
be worse timed than this accident at such a season, immediately got the
better of her concern, and, with her wonted serenity and cheerfulness of
countenance, returned to her company. His lordship conducted the ladies
into the vehicle, as he did likewise Mrs Honour, who, after many
civilities, and more dear madams, at last yielded to the well-bred
importunities of her sister Abigail, and submitted to be complimented with
the first ride in the coach; in which indeed she would afterwards have
been contented to have pursued her whole journey, had not her mistress,
after several fruitless intimations, at length forced her to take her turn
on horseback.

The coach, now having received its company, began to move forwards,
attended by many servants, and led by two captains, who had before rode
with his lordship, and who would have been dismissed from the vehicle upon
a much less worthy occasion than was this of accommodating two ladies. In
this they acted only as gentlemen; but they were ready at any time to have
performed the office of a footman, or indeed would have condescended
lower, for the honour of his lordship’s company, and for the convenience
of his table.

My landlord was so pleased with the present he had received from Sophia,
that he rather rejoiced in than regretted his bruise or his scratches. The
reader will perhaps be curious to know the quantum of this present;
but we cannot satisfy his curiosity. Whatever it was, it satisfied the
landlord for his bodily hurt; but he lamented he had not known before how
little the lady valued her money; “For to be sure,” says he,
“one might have charged every article double, and she would have
made no cavil at the reckoning.”

His wife, however, was far from drawing this conclusion; whether she
really felt any injury done to her husband more than he did himself, I
will not say: certain it is, she was much less satisfied with the
generosity of Sophia. “Indeed,” cries she, “my dear, the
lady knows better how to dispose of her money than you imagine. She might
very well think we should not put up such a business without some
satisfaction, and the law would have cost her an infinite deal more than
this poor little matter, which I wonder you would take.” “You
are always so bloodily wise,” quoth the husband: “it would
have cost her more, would it? dost fancy I don’t know that as well as
thee? but would any of that more, or so much, have come into our pockets?
Indeed, if son Tom the lawyer had been alive, I could have been glad to
have put such a pretty business into his hands. He would have got a good
picking out of it; but I have no relation now who is a lawyer, and why
should I go to law for the benefit of strangers?” “Nay, to be
sure,” answered she, “you must know best.” “I
believe I do,” replied he. “I fancy, when money is to be got,
I can smell it out as well as another. Everybody, let me tell you, would
not have talked people out of this. Mind that, I say; everybody would not
have cajoled this out of her, mind that.” The wife then joined in
the applause of her husband’s sagacity; and thus ended the short dialogue
between them on this occasion.

We will therefore take our leave of these good people, and attend his
lordship and his fair companions, who made such good expedition that they
performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the second evening
arrived in London, without having encountered any one adventure on the
road worthy the dignity of this history to relate. Our pen, therefore,
shall imitate the expedition which it describes, and our history shall
keep pace with the travellers who are its subject. Good writers will,
indeed, do well to imitate the ingenious traveller in this instance, who
always proportions his stay at any place to the beauties, elegancies, and
curiosities which it affords. At Eshur, at Stowe, at Wilton, at Eastbury,
and at Prior’s Park, days are too short for the ravished imagination;
while we admire the wondrous power of art in improving nature. In some of
these, art chiefly engages our admiration; in others, nature and art
contend for our applause; but, in the last, the former seems to triumph.
Here Nature appears in her richest attire, and Art, dressed with the
modestest simplicity, attends her benignant mistress. Here Nature indeed
pours forth the choicest treasures which she hath lavished on this world;
and here human nature presents you with an object which can be exceeded
only in the other.

The same taste, the same imagination, which luxuriously riots in these
elegant scenes, can be amused with objects of far inferior note. The
woods, the rivers, the lawns of Devon and of Dorset, attract the eye of
the ingenious traveller, and retard his pace, which delay he afterwards
compensates by swiftly scouring over the gloomy heath of Bagshot, or that
pleasant plain which extends itself westward from Stockbridge, where no
other object than one single tree only in sixteen miles presents itself to
the view, unless the clouds, in compassion to our tired spirits, kindly
open their variegated mansions to our prospect.

Not so travels the money-meditating tradesman, the sagacious justice, the
dignified doctor, the warm-clad grazier, with all the numerous offspring
of wealth and dulness. On they jog, with equal pace, through the verdant
meadows or over the barren heath, their horses measuring four miles and a
half per hour with the utmost exactness; the eyes of the beast and of his
master being alike directed forwards, and employed in contemplating the
same objects in the same manner. With equal rapture the good rider surveys
the proudest boasts of the architect, and those fair buildings with which
some unknown name hath adorned the rich cloathing town; where heaps of
bricks are piled up as a kind of monument to show that heaps of money have
been piled there before.

And now, reader, as we are in haste to attend our heroine, we will leave
to thy sagacity to apply all this to the Boeotian writers, and to those
authors who are their opposites. This thou wilt be abundantly able to
perform without our aid. Bestir thyself therefore on this occasion; for,
though we will always lend thee proper assistance in difficult places, as
we do not, like some others, expect thee to use the arts of divination to
discover our meaning, yet we shall not indulge thy laziness where nothing
but thy own attention is required; for thou art highly mistaken if thou
dost imagine that we intended, when we began this great work, to leave thy
sagacity nothing to do; or that, without sometimes exercising this talent,
thou wilt be able to travel through our pages with any pleasure or profit
to thyself.

Chapter x. — Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few
more concerning suspicion.

Our company, being arrived at London, were set down at his lordship’s
house, where, while they refreshed themselves after the fatigue of their
journey, servants were despatched to provide a lodging for the two ladies;
for, as her ladyship was not then in town, Mrs Fitzpatrick would by no
means consent to accept a bed in the mansion of the peer.

Some readers will, perhaps, condemn this extraordinary delicacy, as I may
call it, of virtue, as too nice and scrupulous; but we must make
allowances for her situation, which must be owned to have been very
ticklish; and, when we consider the malice of censorious tongues, we must
allow, if it was a fault, the fault was an excess on the right side, and
which every woman who is in the self-same situation will do well to
imitate. The most formal appearance of virtue, when it is only an
appearance, may, perhaps, in very abstracted considerations, seem to be
rather less commendable than virtue itself without this formality; but it
will, however, be always more commended; and this, I believe, will be
granted by all, that it is necessary, unless in some very particular
cases, for every woman to support either the one or the other.

A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for that evening;
but resolved early in the morning to enquire after the lady into whose
protection, as we have formerly mentioned, she had determined to throw
herself when she quitted her father’s house. And this she was the more
eager in doing from some observations she had made during her journey in
the coach.

Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of suspicion on
Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader the conceits which
filled her mind concerning Mrs Fitzpatrick; of whom she certainly
entertained at present some doubts; which, as they are very apt to enter
into the bosoms of the worst of people, we think proper not to mention
more plainly till we have first suggested a word or two to our reader
touching suspicion in general.

Of this there have always appeared to me to be two degrees. The first of
these I chuse to derive from the heart, as the extreme velocity of its
discernment seems to denote some previous inward impulse, and the rather
as this superlative degree often forms its own objects; sees what is not,
and always more than really exists. This is that quick-sighted penetration
whose hawk’s eyes no symptom of evil can escape; which observes not only
upon the actions, but upon the words and looks, of men; and, as it
proceeds from the heart of the observer, so it dives into the heart of the
observed, and there espies evil, as it were, in the first embryo; nay,
sometimes before it can be said to be conceived. An admirable faculty, if
it were infallible; but, as this degree of perfection is not even claimed
by more than one mortal being; so from the fallibility of such acute
discernment have arisen many sad mischiefs and most grievous heart-aches
to innocence and virtue. I cannot help, therefore, regarding this vast
quick-sightedness into evil as a vicious excess, and as a very pernicious
evil in itself. And I am the more inclined to this opinion, as I am afraid
it always proceeds from a bad heart, for the reasons I have above
mentioned, and for one more, namely, because I never knew it the property
of a good one. Now, from this degree of suspicion I entirely and
absolutely acquit Sophia.

A second degree of this quality seems to arise from the head. This is,
indeed, no other than the faculty of seeing what is before your eyes, and
of drawing conclusions from what you see. The former of these is
unavoidable by those who have any eyes, and the latter is perhaps no less
certain and necessary a consequence of our having any brains. This is
altogether as bitter an enemy to guilt as the former is to innocence: nor
can I see it in an unamiable light, even though, through human
fallibility, it should be sometimes mistaken. For instance, if a husband
should accidentally surprize his wife in the lap or in the embraces of
some of those pretty young gentlemen who profess the art of
cuckold-making, I should not highly, I think, blame him for concluding
something more than what he saw, from the familiarities which he really
had seen, and which we are at least favourable enough to when we call them
innocent freedoms. The reader will easily suggest great plenty of
instances to himself; I shall add but one more, which, however unchristian
it may be thought by some, I cannot help esteeming to be strictly
justifiable; and this is a suspicion that a man is capable of doing what
he hath done already, and that it is possible for one who hath been a
villain once to act the same part again. And, to confess the truth, of
this degree of suspicion I believe Sophia was guilty. From this degree of
suspicion she had, in fact, conceived an opinion that her cousin was
really not better than she should be.

The case, it seems, was this: Mrs Fitzpatrick wisely considered that the
virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the same situation with a poor
hare, which is certain, whenever it ventures abroad, to meet its enemies;
for it can hardly meet any other. No sooner therefore was she determined
to take the first opportunity of quitting the protection of her husband,
than she resolved to cast herself under the protection of some other man;
and whom could she so properly choose to be her guardian as a person of
quality, of fortune, of honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition
which inclines men to knight-errantry, that is, to be the champions of
ladies in distress, had often declared a violent attachment to herself,
and had already given her all the instances of it in his power?

But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vice-husband, or
guardian to an eloped lady, and as malice is apt to denominate him by a
more disagreeable appellation, it was concluded that his lordship should
perform all such kind offices to the lady in secret, and without publickly
assuming the character of her protector. Nay, to prevent any other person
from seeing him in this light, it was agreed that the lady should proceed
directly to Bath, and that his lordship should first go to London, and
thence should go down to that place by the advice of his physicians.

Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the lips or
behaviour of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who was infinitely less
expert at retaining a secret than was the good lady; and perhaps the exact
secrecy which Mrs Fitzpatrick had observed on this head in her narrative
served not a little to heighten those suspicions which were now risen in
the mind of her cousin.

Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought; for indeed there was not
a chairman in town to whom her house was not perfectly well known; and, as
she received, in return of her first message, a most pressing invitation,
she immediately accepted it. Mrs Fitzpatrick, indeed, did not desire her
cousin to stay with her with more earnestness than civility required.
Whether she had discerned and resented the suspicion above-mentioned, or
from what other motive it arose, I cannot say; but certain it is, she was
full as desirous of parting with Sophia as Sophia herself could be of
going.

The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, could not avoid
giving her a short hint of advice. She begged her, for heaven’s sake, to
take care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a situation she
stood; adding, she hoped some method would be found of reconciling her to
her husband. “You must remember, my dear,” says she, “the
maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us both; That
whenever the matrimonial alliance is broke, and war declared between
husband and wife, she can hardly make a disadvantageous peace for herself
on any conditions. These are my aunt’s very words, and she hath had a
great deal of experience in the world.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered,
with a contemptuous smile, “Never fear me, child, take care of
yourself; for you are younger than I. I will come and visit you in a few
days; but, dear Sophy, let me give you one piece of advice: leave the
character of Graveairs in the country, for, believe me, it will sit very
awkwardly upon you in this town.”

Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady
Bellaston, where she found a most hearty, as well as a most polite,
welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her
formerly with her aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see her,
and was no sooner acquainted with the reasons which induced her to leave
the squire and to fly to London than she highly applauded her sense and
resolution; and after expressing the highest satisfaction in the opinion
which Sophia had declared she entertained of her ladyship, by chusing her
house for an asylum, she promised her all the protection which it was in
her power to give.

As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I
apprehend, be contented to deposit her there a while, and to look a little
after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we have left
long enough to do penance for his past offences, which, as is the nature
of vice, brought sufficient punishment upon him themselves.

BOOK XII. — CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER.

Chapter i. — Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern
author, and what is to be considered as lawful prize.

The learned reader must have observed that in the course of this mighty
work, I have often translated passages out of the best antient authors,
without quoting the original, or without taking the least notice of the
book from whence they were borrowed.

This conduct in writing is placed in a very proper light by the ingenious
Abbé Bannier, in his preface to his Mythology, a work of great erudition
and of equal judgment. “It will be easy,” says he, “for
the reader to observe that I have frequently had greater regard to him
than to my own reputation: for an author certainly pays him a considerable
compliment, when, for his sake, he suppresses learned quotations that come
in his way, and which would have cost him but the bare trouble of
transcribing.”

To fill up a work with these scraps may, indeed, be considered as a
downright cheat on the learned world, who are by such means imposed upon
to buy a second time, in fragments and by retail, what they have already
in gross, if not in their memories, upon their shelves; and it is still
more cruel upon the illiterate, who are drawn in to pay for what is of no
manner of use to them. A writer who intermixes great quantity of Greek and
Latin with his works, deals by the ladies and fine gentlemen in the same
paultry manner with which they are treated by the auctioneers, who often
endeavour so to confound and mix up their lots, that, in order to purchase
the commodity you want, you are obliged at the same time to purchase that
which will do you no service.

And yet, as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested but that it may
be misunderstood by ignorance, and misrepresented by malice, I have been
sometimes tempted to preserve my own reputation at the expense of my
reader, and to transcribe the original, or at least to quote chapter and
verse, whenever I have made use either of the thought or expression of
another. I am, indeed, in some doubt that I have often suffered by the
contrary method; and that, by suppressing the original author’s name, I
have been rather suspected of plagiarism than reputed to act from the
amiable motive assigned by that justly celebrated Frenchman.

Now, to obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here confess and
justify the fact. The antients may be considered as a rich common, where
every person who hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus hath a free right
to fatten his muse. Or, to place it in a clearer light, we moderns are to
the antients what the poor are to the rich. By the poor here I mean that
large and venerable body which, in English, we call the mob. Now, whoever
hath had the honour to be admitted to any degree of intimacy with this
mob, must well know that it is one of their established maxims to plunder
and pillage their rich neighbours without any reluctance; and that this is
held to be neither sin nor shame among them. And so constantly do they
abide and act by this maxim, that, in every parish almost in the kingdom,
there is a kind of confederacy ever carrying on against a certain person
of opulence called the squire, whose property is considered as free-booty
by all his poor neighbours; who, as they conclude that there is no manner
of guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a point of honour and moral
obligation to conceal, and to preserve each other from punishment on all
such occasions.

In like manner are the antients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace, Cicero,
and the rest, to be esteemed among us writers, as so many wealthy squires,
from whom we, the poor of Parnassus, claim an immemorial custom of taking
whatever we can come at. This liberty I demand, and this I am as ready to
allow again to my poor neighbours in their turn. All I profess, and all I
require of my brethren, is to maintain the same strict honesty among
ourselves which the mob show to one another. To steal from one another is
indeed highly criminal and indecent; for this may be strictly stiled
defrauding the poor (sometimes perhaps those who are poorer than
ourselves), or, to set it under the most opprobrious colours, robbing the
spittal.

Since, therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own conscience cannot
lay any such pitiful theft to my charge, I am contented to plead guilty to
the former accusation; nor shall I ever scruple to take to myself any
passage which I shall find in an antient author to my purpose, without
setting down the name of the author from whence it was taken. Nay, I
absolutely claim a property in all such sentiments the moment they are
transcribed into my writings, and I expect all readers henceforwards to
regard them as purely and entirely my own. This claim, however, I desire
to be allowed me only on condition that I preserve strict honesty towards
my poor brethren, from whom, if ever I borrow any of that little of which
they are possessed, I shall never fail to put their mark upon it, that it
may be at all times ready to be restored to the right owner.

The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr Moore, who, having
formerly borrowed some lines of Pope and company, took the liberty to
transcribe six of them into his play of the Rival Modes. Mr Pope, however,
very luckily found them in the said play, and, laying violent hands on his
own property, transferred it back again into his own works; and, for a
further punishment, imprisoned the said Moore in the loathsome dungeon of
the Dunciad, where his unhappy memory now remains, and eternally will
remain, as a proper punishment for such his unjust dealings in the
poetical trade.

Chapter ii. — In which, though the squire doth not find his
daughter, something is found which puts an end to his pursuit.

The history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first trace
the footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he will soon arrive at an end of
his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend our heroe.

The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire departed from
the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued his daughter. The
hostler having informed him that she had crossed the Severn, he likewise
past that river with his equipage, and rode full speed, vowing the utmost
vengeance against poor Sophia, if he should but overtake her.

He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he called a
short council of war, in which, after hearing different opinions, he at
last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and struck directly
into the Worcester road.

In this road he proceeded about two miles, when he began to bemoan himself
most bitterly, frequently crying out, “What pity is it! Sure never
was so unlucky a dog as myself!” And then burst forth a volley of
oaths and execrations.

The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion.
“Sorrow not, sir,” says he, “like those without hope.
Howbeit we have not yet been able to overtake young madam, we may account
it some good fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright.
Peradventure she will soon be fatigated with her journey, and will tarry
in some inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and in that
case, in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be compos voti.”

“Pogh! d—n the slut!” answered the squire, “I am
lamenting the loss of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded hard
to lose one of the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been
this season, and especially after so long a frost.”

Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her wantonest
tricks, might not take pity of the squire; and, as she had determined not
to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve to make him amends
some other way, I will not assert; but he had hardly uttered the words
just before commemorated, and two or three oaths at their heels, when a
pack of hounds began to open their melodious throats at a small distance
from them, which the squire’s horse and his rider both perceiving, both
immediately pricked up their ears, and the squire, crying, “She’s
gone, she’s gone! Damn me if she is not gone!” instantly clapped
spurs to the beast, who little needed it, having indeed the same
inclination with his master; and now the whole company, crossing into a
corn-field, rode directly towards the hounds, with much hallowing and
whooping, while the poor parson, blessing himself, brought up the rear.

Thus fable reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the desire of a
passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine woman, no sooner
perceived a mouse than, mindful of her former sport, and still retaining
her pristine nature, she leaped from the bed of her husband to pursue the
little animal.

What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased with
the embraces of her amorous bridegroom; for, though some have remarked
that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats too will be
pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as the sagacious Sir
Roger L’Estrange observes, in his deep reflections, that, “if we
shut Nature out at the door, she will come in at the window; and that
puss, though a madam, will be a mouser still.” In the same manner we
are not to arraign the squire of any want of love for his daughter; for in
reality he had a great deal; we are only to consider that he was a squire
and a sportsman, and then we may apply the fable to him, and the judicious
reflections likewise.

The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued over
hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation and alacrity, and with
all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever once intrude
themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace, which, he
said, was one of the finest he ever saw, and which he swore was very well
worth going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his daughter, the
servants, we may easily believe, forgot their mistress; and the parson,
after having expressed much astonishment, in Latin, to himself, at length
likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of the young lady, and, jogging on
at a distance behind, began to meditate a portion of doctrine for the
ensuing Sunday.

The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the arrival of his
brother squire and sportsman; for all men approve merit in their own way,
and no man was more expert in the field than Mr Western, nor did any other
better know how to encourage the dogs with his voice, and to animate the
hunt with his holla.

Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend to any
manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity: for, if any of
them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or into a river, the
rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him to his fate: during this
time, therefore, the two squires, though often close to each other,
interchanged not a single word. The master of the hunt, however, often saw
and approved the great judgment of the stranger in drawing the dogs when
they were at a fault, and hence conceived a very high opinion of his
understanding, as the number of his attendants inspired no small reverence
to his quality. As soon, therefore, as the sport was ended by the death of
the little animal which had occasioned it, the two squires met, and in all
squire-like greeting saluted each other.

The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps relate
in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise concerns this
history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a place here. It
concluded with a second chace, and that with an invitation to dinner. This
being accepted, was followed by a hearty bout of drinking, which ended in
as hearty a nap on the part of Squire Western.

Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or for parson
Supple, at his cups that evening; for which the violent fatigue of mind as
well as body that he had undergone, may very well account, without the
least derogation from his honour. He was indeed, according to the vulgar
phrase, whistle drunk; for before he had swallowed the third bottle, he
became so entirely overpowered that though he was not carried off to bed
till long after, the parson considered him as absent, and having
acquainted the other squire with all relating to Sophia, he obtained his
promise of seconding those arguments which he intended to urge the next
morning for Mr Western’s return.

No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening, and
began to call for his morning draught, and to summon his horses in order
to renew his pursuit, than Mr Supple began his dissuasives, which the host
so strongly seconded, that they at length prevailed, and Mr Western agreed
to return home; being principally moved by one argument, viz., that he
knew not which way to go, and might probably be riding farther from his
daughter instead of towards her. He then took leave of his brother
sportsman, and expressing great joy that the frost was broken (which might
perhaps be no small motive to his hastening home), set forwards, or rather
backwards, for Somersetshire; but not before he had first despatched part
of his retinue in quest of his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a
volley of the most bitter execrations which he could invent.

Chapter iii. — The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed
between him and Partridge on the road.

At length we are once more come to our heroe; and, to say truth, we have
been obliged to part with him so long, that, considering the condition in
which we left him, I apprehend many of our readers have concluded we
intended to abandon him for ever; he being at present in that situation in
which prudent people usually desist from enquiring any farther after their
friends, lest they should be shocked by hearing such friends had hanged
themselves.

But, in reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly say,
neither have we all the vices of a prudent character; and though it is not
easy to conceive circumstances much more miserable than those of poor
Jones at present, we shall return to him, and attend upon him with the
same diligence as if he was wantoning in the brightest beams of fortune.

Mr Jones, then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a few minutes
after the departure of Squire Western, and pursued the same road on foot,
for the hostler told them that no horses were by any means to be at that
time procured at Upton. On they marched with heavy hearts; for though
their disquiet proceeded from very different reasons, yet displeased they
were both; and if Jones sighed bitterly, Partridge grunted altogether as
sadly at every step.

When they came to the cross-roads where the squire had stopt to take
counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and turning to Partridge, asked his opinion
which track they should pursue. “Ah, sir,” answered Partridge,
“I wish your honour would follow my advice.” “Why should
I not?” replied Jones; “for it is now indifferent to me
whither I go, or what becomes of me.” “My advice, then,”
said Partridge, “is, that you immediately face about and return
home; for who that hath such a home to return to as your honour, would
travel thus about the country like a vagabond? I ask pardon, sed vox ea
sola reperta est.”

“Alas!” cries Jones, “I have no home to return to;—but
if my friend, my father, would receive me, could I bear the country from
which Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia! Cruel! No; let me blame myself!—No;
let me blame thee. D—nation seize thee—fool—blockhead!
thou hast undone me, and I will tear thy soul from thy body.”—At
which words he laid violent hands on the collar of poor Partridge, and
shook him more heartily than an ague-fit, or his own fears had ever done
before.

Partridge fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy, vowing he had
meant no harm—when Jones, after staring wildly on him for a moment,
quitted his hold, and discharged a rage on himself, that, had it fallen on
the other, would certainly have put an end to his being, which indeed the
very apprehension of it had almost effected.

We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad pranks
which Jones played on this occasion, could we be well assured that the
reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as we are
apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should employ in painting
this scene, the said reader would be very apt to skip it entirely over, we
have saved ourselves that trouble. To say the truth, we have, from this
reason alone, often done great violence to the luxuriance of our genius,
and have left many excellent descriptions out of our work, which would
otherwise have been in it. And this suspicion, to be honest, arises, as is
generally the case, from our own wicked heart; for we have, ourselves,
been very often most horridly given to jumping, as we have run through the
pages of voluminous historians.

Suffice it then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the part of
a madman for many minutes, came, by degrees, to himself; which no sooner
happened, than, turning to Partridge, he very earnestly begged his pardon
for the attack he had made on him in the violence of his passion; but
concluded, by desiring him never to mention his return again; for he was
resolved never to see that country any more.

Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the injunction
now laid upon him. And then Jones very briskly cried out, “Since it
is absolutely impossible for me to pursue any farther the steps of my
angel—I will pursue those of glory. Come on, my brave lad, now for
the army:—it is a glorious cause, and I would willingly sacrifice my
life in it, even though it was worth my preserving.” And so saying,
he immediately struck into the different road from that which the squire
had taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very same through which Sophia
had before passed.

Our travellers now marched a full mile, without speaking a syllable to
each other, though Jones, indeed, muttered many things to himself. As to
Partridge, he was profoundly silent; for he was not, perhaps, perfectly
recovered from his former fright; besides, he had apprehensions of
provoking his friend to a second fit of wrath, especially as he now began
to entertain a conceit, which may not, perhaps, create any great wonder in
the reader. In short, he began now to suspect that Jones was absolutely
out of his senses.

At length, Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his
companion, and blamed him for his taciturnity; for which the poor man very
honestly accounted, from his fear of giving offence. And now this fear
being pretty well removed, by the most absolute promises of indemnity,
Partridge again took the bridle from his tongue; which, perhaps, rejoiced
no less at regaining its liberty, than a young colt, when the bridle is
slipt from his neck, and he is turned loose into the pastures.

As Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first
suggested itself, he fell upon that which was next uppermost in his mind,
namely, the Man of the Hill. “Certainly, sir,” says he,
“that could never be a man, who dresses himself and lives after such
a strange manner, and so unlike other folks. Besides, his diet, as the old
woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a fitter food for a horse
than a Christian: nay, landlord at Upton says that the neighbours
thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs strangely in my
head that it must have been some spirit, who, perhaps, might be sent to
forewarn us: and who knows but all that matter which he told us, of his
going to fight, and of his being taken prisoner, and of the great danger
he was in of being hanged, might be intended as a warning to us,
considering what we are going about? besides, I dreamt of nothing all last
night but of fighting; and methought the blood ran out of my nose, as
liquor out of a tap. Indeed, sir, infandum, regina, jubes renovare
dolorem.”

“Thy story, Partridge,” answered Jones, “is almost as
ill applied as thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to happen than death
to men who go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in it—and what
then?” “What then?” replied Partridge; “why then
there is an end of us, is there not? when I am gone, all is over with me.
What matters the cause to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I
shall never enjoy any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of
bells, and bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be
an end of poor Partridge.” “And an end of poor Partridge,”
cries Jones, “there must be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I
will repeat you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage
into a coward.

“I wish you would construe them,” cries Partridge; “for
Horace is a hard author, and I cannot understand as you repeat them.”

“I will repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my own,”
said Jones; “for I am but an indifferent poet:

`Who would not die in his dear country’s cause? Since, if base fear his
dastard step withdraws, From death he cannot fly:—One common grave
Receives, at last, the coward and the brave.’”

“That’s very certain,” cries Partridge. “Ay, sure, Mors
omnibus communis: but there is a great difference between dying in
one’s bed a great many years hence, like a good Christian, with all our
friends crying about us, and being shot to-day or to-morrow, like a mad
dog; or, perhaps, hacked in twenty pieces with the sword, and that too
before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy upon us! to be
sure the soldiers are a wicked kind of people. I never loved to have
anything to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to look upon
them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and swearing among them.
I wish your honour would repent: I heartily wish you would repent before
it is too late; and not think of going among them.—Evil
communication corrupts good manners. That is my principal reason. For as
for that matter, I am no more afraid than another man, not I; as to matter
of that. I know all human flesh must die; but yet a man may live many
years, for all that. Why, I am a middle-aged man now, and yet I may live a
great number of years. I have read of several who have lived to be above a
hundred, and some a great deal above a hundred. Not that I hope, I mean
that I promise myself, to live to any such age as that, neither.—But
if it be only to eighty or ninety. Heaven be praised, that is a great ways
off yet; and I am not afraid of dying then, no more than another man; but,
surely, to tempt death before a man’s time is come seems to me downright
wickedness and presumption. Besides, if it was to do any good indeed; but,
let the cause be what it will, what mighty matter of good can two people
do? and, for my part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a gun
above ten times in my life; and then it was not charged with bullets. And
for the sword, I never learned to fence, and know nothing of the matter.
And then there are those cannons, which certainly it must be thought the
highest presumption to go in the way of; and nobody but a madman—I
ask pardon; upon my soul I meant no harm; I beg I may not throw your
honour into another passion.”

“Be under no apprehension, Partridge,” cries Jones; “I
am now so well convinced of thy cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke
me on any account.” “Your honour,” answered he, “may
call me coward, or anything else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole
skin makes a man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus. I
never read in my grammar that a man can’t be a good man without fighting.
Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat.
Not a word of fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it,
that a man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds
Christian blood.”

Chapter iv. — The adventure of a beggar-man.

Just as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with which the
last chapter concluded, they arrived at another cross-way, when a lame
fellow in rags asked them for alms; upon which Partridge gave him a severe
rebuke, saying, “Every parish ought to keep their own poor.”
Jones then fell a-laughing, and asked Partridge, “if he was not
ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity in his
heart. Your religion,” says he, “serves you only for an excuse
for your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any man who is
really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his brethren in such a
miserable condition?” And at the same time, putting his hand in his
pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling.

“Master,” cries the fellow, after thanking him, “I have
a curious thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles off, if
your worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out to
every one; but, as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to the poor,
you won’t suspect a man of being a thief only because he is poor.”
He then pulled out a little gilt pocket-book, and delivered it into the
hands of Jones.

Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw in the
first page the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair hand. He no
sooner read the name than he prest it close to his lips; nor could he
avoid falling into some very frantic raptures, notwithstanding his
company; but, perhaps, these very raptures made him forget he was not
alone.

While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an excellent
brown buttered crust in his mouth or as if he had really been a book-worm,
or an author who had nothing to eat but his own works, a piece of paper
fell from its leaves to the ground, which Partridge took up, and delivered
to Jones, who presently perceived it to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed,
the very bill which Western had given his daughter the night before her
departure; and a Jew would have jumped to purchase it at five shillings
less than £100.

The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now proclaimed
aloud; and so did (though with somewhat a different aspect) those of the
poor fellow who had found the book; and who (I hope from a principle of
honesty) had never opened it: but we should not deal honestly by the
reader if we omitted to inform him of a circumstance which may be here a
little material, viz. that the fellow could not read.

Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the finding
the book, was affected with a mixture of concern at this new discovery;
for his imagination instantly suggested to him that the owner of the bill
might possibly want it before he should be able to convey it to her. He
then acquainted the finder that he knew the lady to whom the book
belonged, and would endeavour to find her out as soon as possible, and
return it her.

The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs Western to her niece; it had
cost five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought of a celebrated toyman;
but the real value of the silver which it contained in its clasp was about
eighteen-pence; and that price the said toyman, as it was altogether as
good as when it first issued from his shop, would now have given for it. A
prudent person would, however, have taken proper advantage of the
ignorance of this fellow, and would not have offered more than a shilling,
or perhaps sixpence, for it; nay, some perhaps would have given nothing,
and left the fellow to his action of trover, which some learned serjeants
may doubt whether he could, under these circumstances, have maintained.

Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside of generosity,
and may perhaps not very unjustly have been suspected of extravagance,
without any hesitation gave a guinea in exchange for the book. The poor
man, who had not for a long time before been possessed of so much
treasure, gave Mr Jones a thousand thanks, and discovered little less of
transport in his muscles than Jones had before shown when he had first
read the name of Sophia Western.

The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place where
he had found the pocket-book. Together, therefore, they proceeded directly
thither; but not so fast as Mr Jones desired; for his guide unfortunately
happened to be lame, and could not possibly travel faster than a mile an
hour. As this place, therefore, was at above three miles’ distance, though
the fellow had said otherwise, the reader need not be acquainted how long
they were in walking it.

Jones opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it as
often, talked much to himself, and very little to his companions. At all
which the guide exprest some signs of astonishment to Partridge; who more
than once shook his head, and cryed, Poor gentleman! orandum est ut sit
mens sana in corpore sano.

At length they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropt the
pocket-book, and where the fellow had as happily found it. Here Jones
offered to take leave of his guide, and to improve his pace; but the
fellow, in whom that violent surprize and joy which the first receipt of
the guinea had occasioned was now considerably abated, and who had now had
sufficient time to recollect himself, put on a discontented look, and,
scratching his head, said, “He hoped his worship would give him
something more. Your worship,” said he, “will, I hope, take it
into your consideration that if I had not been honest I might have kept
the whole.” And, indeed, this the reader must confess to have been
true. “If the paper there,” said he, “be worth £100, I
am sure the finding it deserves more than a guinea. Besides, suppose your
worship should never see the lady, nor give it her—and, though your
worship looks and talks very much like a gentleman, yet I have only your
worship’s bare word; and, certainly, if the right owner ben’t to be found,
it all belongs to the first finder. I hope your worship will consider of
all these matters: I am but a poor man, and therefore don’t desire to have
all; but it is but reasonable I should have my share. Your worship looks
like a good man, and, I hope, will consider my honesty; for I might have
kept every farthing, and nobody ever the wiser.” “I promise
thee, upon my honour,” cries Jones, “that I know the right
owner, and will restore it her.” “Nay, your worship,”
answered the fellow, “may do as you please as to that; if you will
but give me my share, that is, one-half of the money, your honour may keep
the rest yourself if you please;” and concluded with swearing, by a
very vehement oath, “that he would never mention a syllable of it to
any man living.”

“Lookee, friend,” cries Jones, “the right owner shall
certainly have again all that she lost; and as for any farther gratuity, I
really cannot give it you at present; but let me know your name, and where
you live, and it is more than possible you may hereafter have further
reason to rejoice at this morning’s adventure.”

“I don’t know what you mean by venture,” cries the fellow;
“it seems I must venture whether you will return the lady her money
or no; but I hope your worship will consider—” “Come,
come,” said Partridge, “tell his honour your name, and where
you may be found; I warrant you will never repent having put the money
into his hands.” The fellow, seeing no hopes of recovering the
possession of the pocket-book, at last complied in giving in his name and
place of abode, which Jones writ upon a piece of paper with the pencil of
Sophia; and then, placing the paper in the same page where she had writ
her name, he cried out, “There, friend, you are the happiest man
alive; I have joined your name to that of an angel.” “I don’t
know anything about angels,” answered the fellow; “but I wish
you would give me a little more money, or else return me the pocket-book.”
Partridge now waxed wrath: he called the poor cripple by several vile and
opprobrious names, and was absolutely proceeding to beat him, but Jones
would not suffer any such thing: and now, telling the fellow he would
certainly find some opportunity of serving him, Mr Jones departed as fast
as his heels would carry him; and Partridge, into whom the thoughts of the
hundred pound had infused new spirits, followed his leader; while the man,
who was obliged to stay behind, fell to cursing them both, as well as his
parents; “for had they,” says he, “sent me to
charity-school to learn to write and read and cast accounts, I should have
known the value of these matters as well as other people.”

Chapter v. — Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his
companion met on the road.

Our travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little time or
breath for conversation; Jones meditating all the way on Sophia, and
Partridge on the bank-bill, which, though it gave him some pleasure,
caused him at the same time to repine at fortune, which, in all his walks,
had never given him such an opportunity of showing his honesty. They had
proceeded above three miles, when Partridge, being unable any longer to
keep up with Jones, called to him, and begged him a little to slacken his
pace: with this he was the more ready to comply, as he had for some time
lost the footsteps of the horses, which the thaw had enabled him to trace
for several miles, and he was now upon a wide common, where were several
roads.

He here therefore stopt to consider which of these roads he should pursue;
when on a sudden they heard the noise of a drum, that seemed at no great
distance. This sound presently alarmed the fears of Partridge, and he
cried out, “Lord have mercy upon us all; they are certainly a
coming!” “Who is coming?” cries Jones; for fear had long
since given place to softer ideas in his mind; and since his adventure
with the lame man, he had been totally intent on pursuing Sophia, without
entertaining one thought of an enemy. “Who?” cries Partridge,
“why, the rebels: but why should I call them rebels? they may be
very honest gentlemen, for anything I know to the contrary. The devil take
him that affronts them, I say; I am sure, if they have nothing to say to
me, I will have nothing to say to them, but in a civil way. For Heaven’s
sake, sir, don’t affront them if they should come, and perhaps they may do
us no harm; but would it not be the wiser way to creep into some of yonder
bushes, till they are gone by? What can two unarmed men do perhaps against
fifty thousand? Certainly nobody but a madman; I hope your honour is not
offended; but certainly no man who hath mens sana in corpore sano——”
Here Jones interrupted this torrent of eloquence, which fear had inspired,
saying, “That by the drum he perceived they were near some town.”
He then made directly towards the place whence the noise proceeded,
bidding Partridge “take courage, for that he would lead him into no
danger;” and adding, “it was impossible the rebels should be
so near.”

Partridge was a little comforted with this last assurance; and though he
would more gladly have gone the contrary way, he followed his leader, his
heart beating time, but not after the manner of heroes, to the music of
the drum, which ceased not till they had traversed the common, and were
come into a narrow lane.

And now Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered something
painted flying in the air, a very few yards before him, which fancying to
be the colours of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, “Oh Lord, sir,
here they are; there is the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I never saw
anything so terrible; and we are within gun-shot of them already.”

Jones no sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was which
Partridge had thus mistaken. “Partridge,” says he, “I
fancy you will be able to engage this whole army yourself; for by the
colours I guess what the drum was which we heard before, and which beats
up for recruits to a puppet-show.”

“A puppet-show!” answered Partridge, with most eager
transport. “And is it really no more than that? I love a puppet-show
of all the pastimes upon earth. Do, good sir, let us tarry and see it.
Besides, I am quite famished to death; for it is now almost dark, and I
have not eat a morsel since three o’clock in the morning.”

They now arrived at an inn, or indeed an ale-house, where Jones was
prevailed upon to stop, the rather as he had no longer any assurance of
being in the road he desired. They walked both directly into the kitchen,
where Jones began to enquire if no ladies had passed that way in the
morning, and Partridge as eagerly examined into the state of their
provisions; and indeed his enquiry met with the better success; for Jones
could not hear news of Sophia; but Partridge, to his great satisfaction,
found good reason to expect very shortly the agreeable sight of an
excellent smoaking dish of eggs and bacon.

In strong and healthy constitutions love hath a very different effect from
what it causes in the puny part of the species. In the latter it generally
destroys all that appetite which tends towards the conservation of the
individual; but in the former, though it often induces forgetfulness, and
a neglect of food, as well as of everything else; yet place a good piece
of well-powdered buttock before a hungry lover, and he seldom fails very
handsomely to play his part. Thus it happened in the present case; for
though Jones perhaps wanted a prompter, and might have travelled much
farther, had he been alone, with an empty stomach; yet no sooner did he
sit down to the bacon and eggs, than he fell to as heartily and
voraciously as Partridge himself.

Before our travellers had finished their dinner, night came on, and as the
moon was now past the full, it was extremely dark. Partridge therefore
prevailed on Jones to stay and see the puppet-show, which was just going
to begin, and to which they were very eagerly invited by the master of the
said show, who declared that his figures were the finest which the world
had ever produced, and that they had given great satisfaction to all the
quality in every town in England.

The puppet-show was performed with great regularity and decency. It was
called the fine and serious part of the Provoked Husband; and it was
indeed a very grave and solemn entertainment, without any low wit or
humour, or jests; or, to do it no more than justice, without anything
which could provoke a laugh. The audience were all highly pleased. A grave
matron told the master she would bring her two daughters the next night,
as he did not show any stuff; and an attorney’s clerk and an exciseman
both declared, that the characters of Lord and Lady Townley were well
preserved, and highly in nature. Partridge likewise concurred with this
opinion.

The master was so highly elated with these encomiums, that he could not
refrain from adding some more of his own. He said, “The present age
was not improved in anything so much as in their puppet-shows; which, by
throwing out Punch and his wife Joan, and such idle trumpery, were at last
brought to be a rational entertainment. I remember,” said he,
“when I first took to the business, there was a great deal of low
stuff that did very well to make folks laugh; but was never calculated to
improve the morals of young people, which certainly ought to be
principally aimed at in every puppet-show: for why may not good and
instructive lessons be conveyed this way, as well as any other? My figures
are as big as the life, and they represent the life in every particular;
and I question not but people rise from my little drama as much improved
as they do from the great.” “I would by no means degrade the
ingenuity of your profession,” answered Jones, “but I should
have been glad to have seen my old acquaintance master Punch, for all
that; and so far from improving, I think, by leaving out him and his merry
wife Joan, you have spoiled your puppet-show.”

The dancer of wires conceived an immediate and high contempt for Jones,
from these words. And with much disdain in his countenance, he replied,
“Very probably, sir, that may be your opinion; but I have the
satisfaction to know the best judges differ from you, and it is impossible
to please every taste. I confess, indeed, some of the quality at Bath, two
or three years ago, wanted mightily to bring Punch again upon the stage. I
believe I lost some money for not agreeing to it; but let others do as
they will; a little matter shall never bribe me to degrade my own
profession, nor will I ever willingly consent to the spoiling the decency
and regularity of my stage, by introducing any such low stuff upon it.”

“Right, friend,” cries the clerk, “you are very right.
Always avoid what is low. There are several of my acquaintance in London,
who are resolved to drive everything which is low from the stage.”
“Nothing can be more proper,” cries the exciseman, pulling his
pipe from his mouth. “I remember,” added he, “(for I
then lived with my lord) I was in the footman’s gallery, the night when
this play of the Provoked Husband was acted first. There was a great deal
of low stuff in it about a country gentleman come up to town to stand for
parliament-man; and there they brought a parcel of his servants upon the
stage, his coachman I remember particularly; but the gentlemen in our
gallery could not bear anything so low, and they damned it. I observe,
friend, you have left all that matter out, and you are to be commended for
it.”

“Nay, gentlemen,” cries Jones, “I can never maintain my
opinion against so many; indeed, if the generality of his audience dislike
him, the learned gentleman who conducts the show might have done very
right in dismissing Punch from his service.”

The master of the show then began a second harangue, and said much of the
great force of example, and how much the inferior part of mankind would be
deterred from vice, by observing how odious it was in their superiors;
when he was unluckily interrupted by an incident, which, though perhaps we
might have omitted it at another time, we cannot help relating at present,
but not in this chapter.

Chapter vi. — From which it may be inferred that the best things are
liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.

A violent uproar now arose in the entry, where my landlady was well
cuffing her maid both with her fist and tongue. She had indeed missed the
wench from her employment, and, after a little search, had found her on
the puppet-show stage in company with the Merry Andrew, and in a situation
not very proper to be described.

Though Grace (for that was her name) had forfeited all title to modesty;
yet had she not impudence enough to deny a fact in which she was actually
surprized; she, therefore, took another turn, and attempted to mitigate
the offence. “Why do you beat me in this manner, mistress?”
cries the wench. “If you don’t like my doings, you may turn me away.
If I am a w—e” (for the other had liberally bestowed that
appellation on her), “my betters are so as well as I. What was the
fine lady in the puppet-show just now? I suppose she did not lie all night
out from her husband for nothing.”

The landlady now burst into the kitchen, and fell foul on both her husband
and the poor puppet-mover. “Here, husband,” says she, “you
see the consequence of harbouring these people in your house. If one doth
draw a little drink the more for them, one is hardly made amends for the
litter they make; and then to have one’s house made a bawdy-house of by
such lousy vermin. In short, I desire you would be gone to-morrow morning;
for I will tolerate no more such doings. It is only the way to teach our
servants idleness and nonsense; for to be sure nothing better can be
learned by such idle shows as these. I remember when puppet-shows were
made of good scripture stories, as Jephthah’s Rash Vow, and such good
things, and when wicked people were carried away by the devil. There was
some sense in those matters; but as the parson told us last Sunday, nobody
believes in the devil now-a-days; and here you bring about a parcel of
puppets drest up like lords and ladies, only to turn the heads of poor
country wenches; and when their heads are once turned topsy-turvy, no
wonder everything else is so.”

Virgil, I think, tells us, that when the mob are assembled in a riotous
and tumultuous manner, and all sorts of missile weapons fly about, if a
man of gravity and authority appears amongst them, the tumult is presently
appeased, and the mob, which when collected into one body, may be well
compared to an ass, erect their long ears at the grave man’s discourse.

On the contrary, when a set of grave men and philosophers are disputing;
when wisdom herself may in a manner be considered as present, and
administering arguments to the disputants; should a tumult arise among the
mob, or should one scold, who is herself equal in noise to a mighty mob,
appear among the said philosophers; their disputes cease in a moment,
wisdom no longer performs her ministerial office, and the attention of
every one is immediately attracted by the scold alone.

Thus the uproar aforesaid, and the arrival of the landlady, silenced the
master of the puppet-show, and put a speedy and final end to that grave
and solemn harangue, of which we have given the reader a sufficient taste
already. Nothing indeed could have happened so very inopportune as this
accident; the most wanton malice of fortune could not have contrived such
another stratagem to confound the poor fellow, while he was so
triumphantly descanting on the good morals inculcated by his exhibitions.
His mouth was now as effectually stopt, as that of quack must be, if, in
the midst of a declamation on the great virtues of his pills and powders,
the corpse of one of his martyrs should be brought forth, and deposited
before the stage, as a testimony of his skill.

Instead, therefore, of answering my landlady, the puppet-show man ran out
to punish his Merry Andrew; and now the moon beginning to put forth her
silver light, as the poets call it (though she looked at that time more
like a piece of copper), Jones called for his reckoning, and ordered
Partridge, whom my landlady had just awaked from a profound nap, to
prepare for his journey; but Partridge, having lately carried two points,
as my reader hath seen before, was emboldened to attempt a third, which
was to prevail with Jones to take up a lodging that evening in the house
where he then was. He introduced this with an affected surprize at the
intention which Mr Jones declared of removing; and, after urging many
excellent arguments against it, he at last insisted strongly that it could
be to no manner of purpose whatever; for that, unless Jones knew which way
the lady was gone, every step he took might very possibly lead him the
farther from her; “for you find, sir,” said he, “by all
the people in the house, that she is not gone this way. How much better,
therefore, would it be to stay till the morning, when we may expect to
meet with somebody to enquire of?”

This last argument had indeed some effect on Jones, and while he was
weighing it the landlord threw all the rhetoric of which he was master
into the same scale. “Sure, sir,” said he, “your servant
gives you most excellent advice; for who would travel by night at this
time of the year?” He then began in the usual stile to trumpet forth
the excellent accommodation which his house afforded; and my landlady
likewise opened on the occasion——But, not to detain the reader
with what is common to every host and hostess, it is sufficient to tell
him Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself with a few
hours’ rest, which indeed he very much wanted; for he had hardly shut his
eyes since he had left the inn where the accident of the broken head had
happened.

As soon as Jones had taken a resolution to proceed no farther that night,
he presently retired to rest, with his two bedfellows, the pocket-book and
the muff; but Partridge, who at several times had refreshed himself with
several naps, was more inclined to eating than to sleeping, and more to
drinking than to either.

And now the storm which Grace had raised being at an end, and my landlady
being again reconciled to the puppet-man, who on his side forgave the
indecent reflections which the good woman in her passion had cast on his
performances, a face of perfect peace and tranquillity reigned in the
kitchen; where sat assembled round the fire the landlord and landlady of
the house, the master of the puppet-show, the attorney’s clerk, the
exciseman, and the ingenious Mr Partridge; in which company past the
agreeable conversation which will be found in the next chapter.

Chapter vii. — Containing a remark or two of our own and many more
of the good company assembled in the kitchen.

Though the pride of Partridge did not submit to acknowledge himself a
servant, yet he condescended in most particulars to imitate the manners of
that rank. One instance of this was, his greatly magnifying the fortune of
his companion, as he called Jones: such is a general custom with all
servants among strangers, as none of them would willingly be thought the
attendant on a beggar: for, the higher the situation of the master is, the
higher consequently is that of the man in his own opinion; the truth of
which observation appears from the behaviour of all the footmen of the
nobility.

But, though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around them, and
the footmen of men of quality and of estate think themselves entitled to a
part of that respect which is paid to the quality and estate of their
masters, it is clearly otherwise with regard to virtue and understanding.
These advantages are strictly personal, and swallow themselves all the
respect which is paid to them. To say the truth, this is so very little,
that they cannot well afford to let any others partake with them. As these
therefore reflect no honour on the domestic, so neither is he at all
dishonoured by the most deplorable want of both in his master. Indeed it
is otherwise in the want of what is called virtue in a mistress, the
consequence of which we have before seen: for in this dishonour there is a
kind of contagion, which, like that of poverty, communicates itself to all
who approach it.

Now for these reasons we are not to wonder that servants (I mean among the
men only) should have so great regard for the reputation of the wealth of
their masters, and little or none at all for their character in other
points, and that, though they would be ashamed to be the footman of a
beggar, they are not so to attend upon a rogue or a blockhead; and do
consequently make no scruple to spread the fame of the iniquities and
follies of their said masters as far as possible, and this often with
great humour and merriment. In reality, a footman is often a wit as well
as a beau, at the expence of the gentleman whose livery he wears.

After Partridge, therefore, had enlarged greatly on the vast fortune to
which Mr Jones was heir, he very freely communicated an apprehension,
which he had begun to conceive the day before, and for which, as we hinted
at that very time, the behaviour of Jones seemed to have furnished a
sufficient foundation. In short, he was now pretty well confirmed in an
opinion that his master was out of his wits, with which opinion he very
bluntly acquainted the good company round the fire.

With this sentiment the puppet-show man immediately coincided. “I
own,” said he, “the gentleman surprized me very much, when he
talked so absurdly about puppet-shows. It is indeed hardly to be conceived
that any man in his senses should be so much mistaken; what you say now
accounts very well for all his monstrous notions. Poor gentleman! I am
heartily concerned for him; indeed he hath a strange wildness about his
eyes, which I took notice of before, though I did not mention it.”

The landlord agreed with this last assertion, and likewise claimed the
sagacity of having observed it. “And certainly,” added he,
“it must be so; for no one but a madman would have thought of
leaving so good a house to ramble about the country at that time of night.”

The exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth, said, “He thought
the gentleman looked and talked a little wildly;” and then turning
to Partridge, “if he be a madman,” says he, “he should
not be suffered to travel thus about the country; for possibly he may do
some mischief. It is a pity he was not secured and sent home to his
relations.”

Now some conceits of this kind were likewise lurking in the mind of
Partridge; for, as he was now persuaded that Jones had run away from Mr
Allworthy, he promised himself the highest rewards if he could by any
means convey him back. But fear of Jones, of whose fierceness and strength
he had seen, and indeed felt, some instances, had however represented any
such scheme as impossible to be executed, and had discouraged him from
applying himself to form any regular plan for the purpose. But no sooner
did he hear the sentiments of the exciseman than he embraced that
opportunity of declaring his own, and expressed a hearty wish that such a
matter could be brought about.

“Could be brought about!” says the exciseman: “why,
there is nothing easier.”

“Ah! sir,” answered Partridge, “you don’t know what a
devil of a fellow he is. He can take me up with one hand, and throw me out
at window; and he would, too, if he did but imagine—”

“Pogh!” says the exciseman, “I believe I am as good a
man as he. Besides, here are five of us.”

“I don’t know what five,” cries the landlady, “my
husband shall have nothing to do in it. Nor shall any violent hands be
laid upon anybody in my house. The young gentleman is as pretty a young
gentleman as ever I saw in my life, and I believe he is no more mad than
any of us. What do you tell of his having a wild look with his eyes? they
are the prettiest eyes I ever saw, and he hath the prettiest look with
them; and a very modest civil young man he is. I am sure I have bepitied
him heartily ever since the gentleman there in the corner told us he was
crost in love. Certainly that is enough to make any man, especially such a
sweet young gentleman as he is, to look a little otherwise than he did
before. Lady, indeed! what the devil would the lady have better than such
a handsome man with a great estate? I suppose she is one of your quality
folks, one of your Townly ladies that we saw last night in the
puppet-show, who don’t know what they would be at.”

The attorney’s clerk likewise declared he would have no concern in the
business without the advice of counsel. “Suppose,” says he,
“an action of false imprisonment should be brought against us, what
defence could we make? Who knows what may be sufficient evidence of
madness to a jury? But I only speak upon my own account; for it don’t look
well for a lawyer to be concerned in these matters, unless it be as a
lawyer. Juries are always less favourable to us than to other people. I
don’t therefore dissuade you, Mr Thomson (to the exciseman), nor the
gentleman, nor anybody else.”

The exciseman shook his head at this speech, and the puppet-show man said,
“Madness was sometimes a difficult matter for a jury to decide: for
I remember,” says he, “I was once present at a tryal of
madness, where twenty witnesses swore that the person was as mad as a
March hare; and twenty others, that he was as much in his senses as any
man in England.—And indeed it was the opinion of most people, that
it was only a trick of his relations to rob the poor man of his right.”

“Very likely!” cries the landlady. “I myself knew a poor
gentleman who was kept in a mad-house all his life by his family, and they
enjoyed his estate, but it did them no good; for though the law gave it
them, it was the right of another.”

“Pogh!” cries the clerk, with great contempt, “who hath
any right but what the law gives them? If the law gave me the best estate
in the country, I should never trouble myself much who had the right.”

“If it be so,” says Partridge, “Felix quem faciunt
aliena pericula cautum.”

My landlord, who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at the
gate, now returned into the kitchen, and with an affrighted countenance
cried out, “What do you think, gentlemen? The rebels have given the
duke the slip, and are got almost to London. It is certainly true, for a
man on horseback just now told me so.”

“I am glad of it with all my heart,” cries Partridge; “then
there will be no fighting in these parts.”

“I am glad,” cries the clerk, “for a better reason; for
I would always have right take place.”

“Ay, but,” answered the landlord, “I have heard some
people say this man hath no right.”

“I will prove the contrary in a moment,” cries the clerk:
“if my father dies seized of a right; do you mind me, seized of a
right, I say; doth not that right descend to his son; and doth not one
right descend as well as another?”

“But how can he have any right to make us papishes?” says the
landlord.

“Never fear that,” cries Partridge. “As to the matter of
right, the gentleman there hath proved it as clear as the sun; and as to
the matter of religion, it is quite out of the case. The papists
themselves don’t expect any such thing. A popish priest, whom I know very
well, and who is a very honest man, told me upon his word and honour they
had no such design.”

“And another priest, of my acquaintance,” said the landlady,
“hath told me the same thing; but my husband is always so afraid of
papishes. I know a great many papishes that are very honest sort of
people, and spend their money very freely; and it is always a maxim with
me, that one man’s money is as good as another’s.”

“Very true, mistress,” said the puppet-show man, “I
don’t care what religion comes; provided the Presbyterians are not
uppermost; for they are enemies to puppet-shows.”

“And so you would sacrifice your religion to your interest,”
cries the exciseman; “and are desirous to see popery brought in, are
you?”

“Not I, truly,” answered the other; “I hate popery as
much as any man; but yet it is a comfort to one, that one should be able
to live under it, which I could not do among Presbyterians. To be sure,
every man values his livelihood first; that must be granted; and I
warrant, if you would confess the truth, you are more afraid of losing
your place than anything else; but never fear, friend, there will be an
excise under another government as well as under this.”

“Why, certainly,” replied the exciseman, “I should be a
very ill man if I did not honour the king, whose bread I eat. That is no
more than natural, as a man may say: for what signifies it to me that
there would be an excise-office under another government, since my friends
would be out, and I could expect no better than to follow them? No, no,
friend, I shall never be bubbled out of my religion in hopes only of
keeping my place under another government; for I should certainly be no
better, and very probably might be worse.”

“Why, that is what I say,” cries the landlord, “whenever
folks say who knows what may happen! Odsooks! should not I be a blockhead
to lend my money to I know not who, because mayhap he may return it again?
I am sure it is safe in my own bureau, and there I will keep it.”

The attorney’s clerk had taken a great fancy to the sagacity of Partridge.
Whether this proceeded from the great discernment which the former had
into men, as well as things, or whether it arose from the sympathy between
their minds; for they were both truly Jacobites in principle; they now
shook hands heartily, and drank bumpers of strong beer to healths which we
think proper to bury in oblivion.

These healths were afterwards pledged by all present, and even by my
landlord himself, though reluctantly; but he could not withstand the
menaces of the clerk, who swore he would never set his foot within his
house again, if he refused. The bumpers which were swallowed on this
occasion soon put an end to the conversation. Here, therefore, we will put
an end to the chapter.

Chapter viii. — In which fortune seems to have been in a better
humour with Jones than we have hitherto seen her.

As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, sleeping
potions than fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have taken a very
large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon him. He had already slept
nine hours, and might perhaps have slept longer, had he not been awakened
by a most violent noise at his chamber-door, where the sound of many heavy
blows was accompanied with many exclamations of murder. Jones presently
leapt from his bed, where he found the master of the puppet-show
belabouring the back and ribs of his poor Merry-Andrew, without either
mercy or moderation.

Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and pinned
the insulting conqueror up to the wall: for the puppet-show man was no
more able to contend with Jones than the poor party-coloured jester had
been to contend with this puppet-man.

But though the Merry-Andrew was a little fellow, and not very strong, he
had nevertheless some choler about him. He therefore no sooner found
himself delivered from the enemy, than he began to attack him with the
only weapon at which he was his equal. From this he first discharged a
volley of general abusive words, and thence proceeded to some particular
accusations—“D—n your bl—d, you rascal,”
says he, “I have not only supported you (for to me you owe all the
money you get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to
rob the lady of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yesterday, in
the back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in a
wood to strip her—to strip one of the prettiest ladies that ever was
seen in the world? and here you have fallen upon me, and have almost
murdered me, for doing no harm to a girl as willing as myself, only
because she likes me better than you.”

Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him at
the same time the most violent injunctions of forbearance from any further
insult on the Merry-Andrew; and then taking the poor wretch with him into
his own apartment, he soon learned tidings of his Sophia, whom the fellow,
as he was attending his master with his drum the day before, had seen pass
by. He easily prevailed with the lad to show him the exact place, and then
having summoned Partridge, he departed with the utmost expedition.

It was almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got ready for
his departure: for Partridge was not in any haste, nor could the reckoning
be presently adjusted; and when both these were settled and over, Jones
would not quit the place before he had perfectly reconciled all
differences between the master and the man.

When this was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by the trusty
Merry-Andrew conducted to the spot by which Sophia had past; and then
having handsomely rewarded his conductor, he again pushed on with the
utmost eagerness, being highly delighted with the extraordinary manner in
which he received his intelligence. Of this Partridge was no sooner
acquainted, than he, with great earnestness, began to prophesy, and
assured Jones that he would certainly have good success in the end: for,
he said, “two such accidents could never have happened to direct him
after his mistress, if Providence had not designed to bring them together
at last.” And this was the first time that Jones lent any attention
to the superstitious doctrines of his companion.

They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain overtook
them; and, as they happened to be at the same time in sight of an
ale-house, Partridge, with much earnest entreaty, prevailed with Jones to
enter, and weather the storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed it may be
called one) which partakes more of the English than of the French
disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, it will always
rally again in time; and so it did with Partridge, who was no sooner
arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the same questions which
he had asked the night before. The consequence of this was an excellent
cold chine being produced upon the table, upon which not only Partridge,
but Jones himself, made a very hearty breakfast, though the latter began
to grow again uneasy, as the people of the house could give him no fresh
information concerning Sophia.

Their meal being over, Jones was again preparing to sally, notwithstanding
the violence of the storm still continued; but Partridge begged heartily
for another mug; and at last casting his eyes on a lad at the fire, who
had entered into the kitchen, and who at that instant was looking as
earnestly at him, he turned suddenly to Jones, and cried, “Master,
give me your hand, a single mug shan’t serve the turn this bout. Why,
here’s more news of Madam Sophia come to town. The boy there standing by
the fire is the very lad that rode before her. I can swear to my own
plaister on his face.”—“Heavens bless you, sir,”
cries the boy, “it is your own plaister sure enough; I shall have
always reason to remember your goodness; for it hath almost cured me.”

At these words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the boy follow
him immediately, departed from the kitchen into a private apartment; for,
so delicate was he with regard to Sophia, that he never willingly
mentioned her name in the presence of many people; and, though he had, as
it were, from the overflowings of his heart, given Sophia as a toast among
the officers, where he thought it was impossible she should be known; yet,
even there, the reader may remember how difficultly he was prevailed upon
to mention her surname.

Hard therefore was it, and perhaps, in the opinion of many sagacious
readers, very absurd and monstrous, that he should principally owe his
present misfortune to the supposed want of that delicacy with which he so
abounded; for, in reality, Sophia was much more offended at the freedoms
which she thought (and not without good reason) he had taken with her name
and character, than at any freedoms, in which, under his present
circumstances, he had indulged himself with the person of another woman;
and to say truth, I believe Honour could never have prevailed on her to
leave Upton without her seeing Jones, had it not been for those two strong
instances of a levity in his behaviour, so void of respect, and indeed so
highly inconsistent with any degree of love and tenderness in great and
delicate minds.

But so matters fell out, and so I must relate them; and if any reader is
shocked at their appearing unnatural, I cannot help it. I must remind such
persons that I am not writing a system, but a history, and I am not
obliged to reconcile every matter to the received notions concerning truth
and nature. But if this was never so easy to do, perhaps it might be more
prudent in me to avoid it. For instance, as the fact at present before us
now stands, without any comment of mine upon it, though it may at first
sight offend some readers, yet, upon more mature consideration, it must
please all; for wise and good men may consider what happened to Jones at
Upton as a just punishment for his wickedness with regard to women, of
which it was indeed the immediate consequence; and silly and bad persons
may comfort themselves in their vices by flattering their own hearts that
the characters of men are rather owing to accident than to virtue. Now,
perhaps the reflections which we should be here inclined to draw would
alike contradict both these conclusions, and would show that these
incidents contribute only to confirm the great, useful, and uncommon
doctrine, which it is the purpose of this whole work to inculcate, and
which we must not fill up our pages by frequently repeating, as an
ordinary parson fills his sermon by repeating his text at the end of every
paragraph.

We are contented that it must appear, however unhappily Sophia had erred
in her opinion of Jones, she had sufficient reason for her opinion; since,
I believe, every other young lady would, in her situation, have erred in
the same manner. Nay, had she followed her lover at this very time, and
had entered this very alehouse the moment he was departed from it, she
would have found the landlord as well acquainted with her name and person
as the wench at Upton had appeared to be. For while Jones was examining
his boy in whispers in an inner room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy
in his disposition, was in the kitchen very openly catechising the other
guide who had attended Mrs Fitzpatrick; by which means the landlord, whose
ears were open on all such occasions, became perfectly well acquainted
with the tumble of Sophia from her horse, &c., with the mistake
concerning Jenny Cameron, with the many consequences of the punch, and, in
short, with almost everything which had happened at the inn whence we
despatched our ladies in a coach-and-six when we last took our leaves of
them.

Chapter ix. — Containing little more than a few odd observations.

Jones had been absent a full half-hour, when he returned into the kitchen
in a hurry, desiring the landlord to let him know that instant what was to
pay. And now the concern which Partridge felt at being obliged to quit the
warm chimney-corner, and a cup of excellent liquor, was somewhat
compensated by hearing that he was to proceed no farther on foot, for
Jones, by golden arguments, had prevailed with the boy to attend him back
to the inn whither he had before conducted Sophia; but to this however the
lad consented, upon condition that the other guide would wait for him at
the alehouse; because, as the landlord at Upton was an intimate
acquaintance of the landlord at Gloucester, it might some time or other
come to the ears of the latter that his horses had been let to more than
one person; and so the boy might be brought to account for money which he
wisely intended to put in his own pocket.

We were obliged to mention this circumstance, trifling as it may seem,
since it retarded Mr Jones a considerable time in his setting out; for the
honesty of this latter boy was somewhat high—that is, somewhat
high-priced, and would indeed have cost Jones very dear, had not
Partridge, who, as we have said, was a very cunning fellow, artfully
thrown in half-a-crown to be spent at that very alehouse, while the boy
was waiting for his companion. This half-crown the landlord no sooner got
scent of, than he opened after it with such vehement and persuasive
outcry, that the boy was soon overcome, and consented to take half-a-crown
more for his stay. Here we cannot help observing, that as there is so much
of policy in the lowest life, great men often overvalue themselves on
those refinements in imposture, in which they are frequently excelled by
some of the lowest of the human species.

The horses being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the side-saddle,
on which his dear Sophia had rid. The lad, indeed, very civilly offered
him the use of his; but he chose the side-saddle, probably because it was
softer. Partridge, however, though full as effeminate as Jones, could not
bear the thoughts of degrading his manhood; he therefore accepted the
boy’s offer: and now, Jones being mounted on the side-saddle of his
Sophia, the boy on that of Mrs Honour, and Partridge bestriding the third
horse, they set forwards on their journey, and within four hours arrived
at the inn where the reader hath already spent so much time. Partridge was
in very high spirits during the whole way, and often mentioned to Jones
the many good omens of his future success which had lately befriended him;
and which the reader, without being the least superstitious, must allow to
have been particularly fortunate. Partridge was moreover better pleased
with the present pursuit of his companion than he had been with his
pursuit of glory; and from these very omens, which assured the pedagogue
of success, he likewise first acquired a clear idea of the amour between
Jones and Sophia; to which he had before given very little attention, as
he had originally taken a wrong scent concerning the reasons of Jones’s
departure; and as to what happened at Upton, he was too much frightened
just before and after his leaving that place to draw any other conclusions
from thence than that poor Jones was a downright madman: a conceit which
was not at all disagreeable to the opinion he before had of his
extraordinary wildness, of which, he thought, his behaviour on their
quitting Gloucester so well justified all the accounts he had formerly
received. He was now, however, pretty well satisfied with his present
expedition, and henceforth began to conceive much worthier sentiments of
his friend’s understanding.

The clock had just struck three when they arrived, and Jones immediately
bespoke post-horses; but unluckily there was not a horse to be procured in
the whole place; which the reader will not wonder at when he considers the
hurry in which the whole nation, and especially this part of it, was at
this time engaged, when expresses were passing and repassing every hour of
the day and night.

Jones endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former guide to escorte
him to Coventry; but he was inexorable. While he was arguing with the boy
in the inn-yard, a person came up to him, and saluting him by his name,
enquired how all the good family did in Somersetshire; and now Jones
casting his eyes upon this person, presently discovered him to be Mr
Dowling, the lawyer, with whom he had dined at Gloucester, and with much
courtesy returned the salutation.

Dowling very earnestly pressed Mr Jones to go no further that night; and
backed his solicitations with many unanswerable arguments, such as, that
it was almost dark, that the roads were very dirty, and that he would be
able to travel much better by day-light, with many others equally good,
some of which Jones had probably suggested to himself before; but as they
were then ineffectual, so they were still: and he continued resolute in
his design, even though he should be obliged to set out on foot.

When the good attorney found he could not prevail on Jones to stay, he as
strenuously applied himself to persuade the guide to accompany him. He
urged many motives to induce him to undertake this short journey, and at
last concluded with saying, “Do you think the gentleman won’t very
well reward you for your trouble?”

Two to one are odds at every other thing as well as at foot-ball. But the
advantage which this united force hath in persuasion or entreaty must have
been visible to a curious observer; for he must have often seen, that when
a father, a master, a wife, or any other person in authority, have stoutly
adhered to a denial against all the reasons which a single man could
produce, they have afterwards yielded to the repetition of the same
sentiments by a second or third person, who hath undertaken the cause,
without attempting to advance anything new in its behalf. And hence,
perhaps, proceeds the phrase of seconding an argument or a motion, and the
great consequence this is of in all assemblies of public debate. Hence,
likewise, probably it is, that in our courts of law we often hear a
learned gentleman (generally a serjeant) repeating for an hour together
what another learned gentleman, who spoke just before him, had been
saying.

Instead of accounting for this, we shall proceed in our usual manner to
exemplify it in the conduct of the lad above mentioned, who submitted to
the persuasions of Mr Dowling, and promised once more to admit Jones into
his side-saddle; but insisted on first giving the poor creatures a good
bait, saying, they had travelled a great way, and been rid very hard.
Indeed this caution of the boy was needless; for Jones, notwithstanding
his hurry and impatience, would have ordered this of himself; for he by no
means agreed with the opinion of those who consider animals as mere
machines, and when they bury their spurs in the belly of their horse,
imagine the spur and the horse to have an equal capacity of feeling pain.

While the beasts were eating their corn, or rather were supposed to eat it
(for, as the boy was taking care of himself in the kitchen, the ostler
took great care that his corn should not be consumed in the stable), Mr
Jones, at the earnest desire of Mr Dowling, accompanied that gentleman
into his room, where they sat down together over a bottle of wine.

Chapter x. — In which Mr Jones and Mr Dowling drink a bottle
together.

Mr Dowling, pouring out a glass of wine, named the health of the good
Squire Allworthy; adding, “If you please, sir, we will likewise
remember his nephew and heir, the young squire: Come, sir, here’s Mr
Blifil to you, a very pretty young gentleman; and who, I dare swear, will
hereafter make a very considerable figure in his country. I have a borough
for him myself in my eye.”

“Sir,” answered Jones, “I am convinced you don’t intend
to affront me, so I shall not resent it; but I promise you, you have
joined two persons very improperly together; for one is the glory of the
human species, and the other is a rascal who dishonours the name of man.”

Dowling stared at this. He said, “He thought both the gentlemen had
a very unexceptionable character. As for Squire Allworthy himself,”
says he, “I never had the happiness to see him; but all the world
talks of his goodness. And, indeed, as to the young gentleman, I never saw
him but once, when I carried him the news of the loss of his mother; and
then I was so hurried, and drove, and tore with the multiplicity of
business, that I had hardly time to converse with him; but he looked so
like a very honest gentleman, and behaved himself so prettily, that I
protest I never was more delighted with any gentleman since I was born.”

“I don’t wonder,” answered Jones, “that he should impose
upon you in so short an acquaintance; for he hath the cunning of the devil
himself, and you may live with him many years, without discovering him. I
was bred up with him from my infancy, and we were hardly ever asunder; but
it is very lately only that I have discovered half the villany which is in
him. I own I never greatly liked him. I thought he wanted that generosity
of spirit, which is the sure foundation of all that is great and noble in
human nature. I saw a selfishness in him long ago which I despised; but it
is lately, very lately, that I have found him capable of the basest and
blackest designs; for, indeed, I have at last found out, that he hath
taken an advantage of the openness of my own temper, and hath concerted
the deepest project, by a long train of wicked artifice, to work my ruin,
which at last he hath effected.”

“Ay! ay!” cries Dowling; “I protest, then, it is a pity
such a person should inherit the great estate of your uncle Allworthy.”

“Alas, sir,” cries Jones, “you do me an honour to which
I have no title. It is true, indeed, his goodness once allowed me the
liberty of calling him by a much nearer name; but as this was only a
voluntary act of goodness, I can complain of no injustice when he thinks
proper to deprive me of this honour; since the loss cannot be more
unmerited than the gift originally was. I assure you, sir, I am no
relation of Mr Allworthy; and if the world, who are incapable of setting a
true value on his virtue, should think, in his behaviour to me, he hath
dealt hardly by a relation, they do an injustice to the best of men: for I—but
I ask your pardon, I shall trouble you with no particulars relating to
myself; only as you seemed to think me a relation of Mr Allworthy, I
thought proper to set you right in a matter that might draw some censures
upon him, which I promise you I would rather lose my life than give
occasion to.”

“I protest, sir,” cried Dowling, “you talk very much
like a man of honour; but instead of giving me any trouble, I protest it
would give me great pleasure to know how you came to be thought a relation
of Mr Allworthy’s, if you are not. Your horses won’t be ready this
half-hour, and as you have sufficient opportunity, I wish you would tell
me how all that happened; for I protest it seems very surprizing that you
should pass for a relation of a gentleman, without being so.”

Jones, who in the compliance of his disposition (though not in his
prudence) a little resembled his lovely Sophia, was easily prevailed on to
satisfy Mr Dowling’s curiosity, by relating the history of his birth and
education, which he did, like Othello.

the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;

Mr Dowling was indeed very greatly affected with this relation; for he had
not divested himself of humanity by being an attorney. Indeed, nothing is
more unjust than to carry our prejudices against a profession into private
life, and to borrow our idea of a man from our opinion of his calling.
Habit, it is true, lessens the horror of those actions which the
profession makes necessary, and consequently habitual; but in all other
instances, Nature works in men of all professions alike; nay, perhaps,
even more strongly with those who give her, as it were, a holiday, when
they are following their ordinary business. A butcher, I make no doubt,
would feel compunction at the slaughter of a fine horse; and though a
surgeon can feel no pain in cutting off a limb, I have known him
compassionate a man in a fit of the gout. The common hangman, who hath
stretched the necks of hundreds, is known to have trembled at his first
operation on a head: and the very professors of human blood-shedding, who,
in their trade of war, butcher thousands, not only of their
fellow-professors, but often of women and children, without remorse; even
these, I say, in times of peace, when drums and trumpets are laid aside,
often lay aside all their ferocity, and become very gentle members of
civil society. In the same manner an attorney may feel all the miseries
and distresses of his fellow-creatures, provided he happens not to be
concerned against them.

Jones, as the reader knows, was yet unacquainted with the very black
colours in which he had been represented to Mr Allworthy; and as to other
matters, he did not shew them in the most disadvantageous light; for
though he was unwilling to cast any blame on his former friend and patron;
yet he was not very desirous of heaping too much upon himself. Dowling
therefore observed, and not without reason, that very ill offices must
have been done him by somebody: “For certainly,” cries he,
“the squire would never have disinherited you only for a few faults,
which any young gentleman might have committed. Indeed, I cannot properly
say disinherited: for to be sure by law you cannot claim as heir. That’s
certain; that nobody need go to counsel for. Yet when a gentleman had in a
manner adopted you thus as his own son, you might reasonably have expected
some very considerable part, if not the whole; nay, if you had expected
the whole, I should not have blamed you: for certainly all men are for
getting as much as they can, and they are not to be blamed on that
account.”

“Indeed you wrong me,” said Jones; “I should have been
contented with very little: I never had any view upon Mr Allworthy’s
fortune; nay, I believe I may truly say, I never once considered what he
could or might give me. This I solemnly declare, if he had done a
prejudice to his nephew in my favour, I would have undone it again. I had
rather enjoy my own mind than the fortune of another man. What is the poor
pride arising from a magnificent house, a numerous equipage, a splendid
table, and from all the other advantages or appearances of fortune,
compared to the warm, solid content, the swelling satisfaction, the
thrilling transports, and the exulting triumphs, which a good mind enjoys,
in the contemplation of a generous, virtuous, noble, benevolent action? I
envy not Blifil in the prospect of his wealth; nor shall I envy him in the
possession of it. I would not think myself a rascal half an hour, to
exchange situations. I believe, indeed, Mr Blifil suspected me of the
views you mention; and I suppose these suspicions, as they arose from the
baseness of his own heart, so they occasioned his baseness to me. But, I
thank Heaven, I know, I feel—I feel my innocence, my friend; and I
would not part with that feeling for the world. For as long as I know I
have never done, nor even designed, an injury to any being whatever,

He then filled a bumper of wine, and drunk it off to the health of his
dear Lalage; and, filling Dowling’s glass likewise up to the brim,
insisted on his pledging him. “Why, then, here’s Miss Lalage’s
health with all my heart,” cries Dowling. “I have heard her
toasted often, I protest, though I never saw her; but they say she’s
extremely handsome.”

Though the Latin was not the only part of this speech which Dowling did
not perfectly understand; yet there was somewhat in it that made a very
strong impression upon him. And though he endeavoured by winking, nodding,
sneering, and grinning, to hide the impression from Jones (for we are as
often ashamed of thinking right as of thinking wrong), it is certain he
secretly approved as much of his sentiments as he understood, and really
felt a very strong impulse of compassion for him. But we may possibly take
some other opportunity of commenting upon this, especially if we should
happen to meet Mr Dowling any more in the course of our history. At
present we are obliged to take our leave of that gentleman a little
abruptly, in imitation of Mr Jones; who was no sooner informed, by
Partridge, that his horses were ready, than he deposited his reckoning,
wished his companion a good night, mounted, and set forward towards
Coventry, though the night was dark, and it just then began to rain very
hard.

Chapter xi. — The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for
Coventry; with the sage remarks of Partridge.

No road can be plainer than that from the place where they now were to
Coventry; and though neither Jones, nor Partridge, nor the guide, had ever
travelled it before, it would have been almost impossible to have missed
their way, had it not been for the two reasons mentioned in the conclusion
of the last chapter.

These two circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to
intervene, our travellers deviated into a much less frequented track; and
after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the stately spires of
Coventry, they found themselves still in a very dirty lane, where they saw
no symptoms of approaching the suburbs of a large city.

Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their way; but this
the guide insisted upon was impossible; a word which, in common
conversation, is often used to signify not only improbable, but often what
is really very likely, and, sometimes, what hath certainly happened; an
hyperbolical violence like that which is so frequently offered to the
words infinite and eternal; by the former of which it is usual to express
a distance of half a yard, and by the latter, a duration of five minutes.
And thus it is as usual to assert the impossibility of losing what is
already actually lost. This was, in fact, the case at present; for,
notwithstanding all the confident assertions of the lad to the contrary,
it is certain they were no more in the right road to Coventry, than the
fraudulent, griping, cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven.

It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader, who hath never been in those
circumstances, to imagine the horror with which darkness, rain, and wind,
fill persons who have lost their way in the night; and who, consequently,
have not the pleasant prospect of warm fires, dry cloaths, and other
refreshments, to support their minds in struggling with the inclemencies
of the weather. A very imperfect idea of this horror will, however, serve
sufficiently to account for the conceits which now filled the head of
Partridge, and which we shall presently be obliged to open.

Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of their road; and
the boy himself at last acknowledged he believed they were not in the
right road to Coventry; though he affirmed, at the same time, it was
impossible they should have mist the way. But Partridge was of a different
opinion. He said, “When they first set out he imagined some mischief
or other would happen.—Did not you observe, sir,” said he to
Jones, “that old woman who stood at the door just as you was taking
horse? I wish you had given her a small matter, with all my heart; for she
said then you might repent it; and at that very instant it began to rain,
and the wind hath continued rising ever since. Whatever some people may
think, I am very certain it is in the power of witches to raise the wind
whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often in my time: and if
ever I saw a witch in all my life, that old woman was certainly one. I
thought so to myself at that very time; and if I had had any halfpence in
my pocket, I would have given her some; for to be sure it is always good
to be charitable to those sort of people, for fear what may happen; and
many a person hath lost his cattle by saving a halfpenny.”

Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this mistake was
likely to occasion in his journey, could not help smiling at the
superstition of his friend, whom an accident now greatly confirmed in his
opinion. This was a tumble from his horse; by which, however, he received
no other injury than what the dirt conferred on his cloaths.

Partridge had no sooner recovered his legs, than he appealed to his fall,
as conclusive evidence of all he had asserted; but Jones finding he was
unhurt, answered with a smile: “This witch of yours, Partridge, is a
most ungrateful jade, and doth not, I find, distinguish her friends from
others in her resentment. If the old lady had been angry with me for
neglecting her, I don’t see why she should tumble you from your horse,
after all the respect you have expressed for her.”

“It is ill jesting,” cries Partridge, “with people who
have power to do these things; for they are often very malicious. I
remember a farrier, who provoked one of them, by asking her when the time
she had bargained with the devil for would be out; and within three months
from that very day one of his best cows was drowned. Nor was she satisfied
with that; for a little time afterwards he lost a barrel of best-drink:
for the old witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run all over the
cellar, the very first evening he had tapped it to make merry with some of
his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived with him afterwards; for
she worried the poor man so, that he took to drinking; and in a year or
two his stock was seized, and he and his family are now come to the
parish.”

The guide, and perhaps his horse too, were both so attentive to this
discourse, that, either through want of care, or by the malice of the
witch, they were now both sprawling in the dirt.

Partridge entirely imputed this fall, as he had done his own, to the same
cause. He told Mr Jones, “It would certainly be his turn next; and
earnestly entreated him to return back, and find out the old woman, and
pacify her. We shall very soon,” added he, “reach the inn; for
though we have seemed to go forward, I am very certain we are in the
identical place in which we were an hour ago; and I dare swear, if it was
daylight, we might now see the inn we set out from.”

Instead of returning any answer to this sage advice, Jones was entirely
attentive to what had happened to the boy, who received no other hurt than
what had before befallen Partridge, and which his cloaths very easily
bore, as they had been for many years inured to the like. He soon regained
his side-saddle, and by the hearty curses and blows which he bestowed on
his horse, quickly satisfied Mr Jones that no harm was done.

Chapter xii. — Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary
to the advice of Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.

They now discovered a light at some distance, to the great pleasure of
Jones, and to the no small terror of Partridge, who firmly believed
himself to be bewitched, and that this light was a Jack-with-a-lantern, or
somewhat more mischievous.

But how were these fears increased, when, as they approached nearer to
this light (or lights as they now appeared), they heard a confused sound
of human voices; of singing, laughing, and hallowing, together with a
strange noise that seemed to proceed from some instruments; but could
hardly be allowed the name of music! indeed, to favour a little the
opinion of Partridge, it might very well be called music bewitched.

It is impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror than what now
seized on Partridge; the contagion of which had reached the post-boy, who
had been very attentive to many things that the other had uttered. He now,
therefore, joined in petitioning Jones to return; saying he firmly
believed what Partridge had just before said, that though the horses
seemed to go on, they had not moved a step forwards during at least the
last half-hour.

Jones could not help smiling in the midst of his vexation, at the fears of
these poor fellows. “Either we advance,” says he, “towards
the lights, or the lights have advanced towards us; for we are now at a
very little distance from them; but how can either of you be afraid of a
set of people who appear only to be merry-making?”

“Merry-making, sir!” cries Partridge; “who could be
merry-making at this time of night, and in such a place, and such weather?
They can be nothing but ghosts or witches, or some evil spirits or other,
that’s certain.”

“Let them be what they will,” cries Jones, “I am
resolved to go up to them, and enquire the way to Coventry. All witches,
Partridge, are not such ill-natured hags as that we had the misfortune to
meet with last.”

“O Lord, sir,” cries Partridge, “there is no knowing
what humour they will be in; to be sure it is always best to be civil to
them; but what if we should meet with something worse than witches, with
evil spirits themselves?——Pray, sir, be advised; pray, sir,
do. If you had read so many terrible accounts as I have of these matters,
you would not be so fool-hardy.——The Lord knows whither we
have got already, or whither we are going; for sure such darkness was
never seen upon earth, and I question whether it can be darker in the
other world.”

Jones put forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all these hints
and cautions, and poor Partridge was obliged to follow; for though he
hardly dared to advance, he dared still less to stay behind by himself.

At length they arrived at the place whence the lights and different noises
had issued. This Jones perceived to be no other than a barn, where a great
number of men and women were assembled, and diverting themselves with much
apparent jollity.

Jones no sooner appeared before the great doors of the barn, which were
open, than a masculine and very rough voice from within demanded, who was
there?—To which Jones gently answered, a friend; and immediately
asked the road to Coventry.

“If you are a friend,” cries another of the men in the barn,
“you had better alight till the storm is over” (for indeed it
was now more violent than ever;) “you are very welcome to put up
your horse; for there is sufficient room for him at the end of the barn.”

“You are very obliging,” returned Jones; “and I will
accept your offer for a few minutes, whilst the rain continues; and here
are two more who will be glad of the same favour.” This was accorded
with more good-will than it was accepted: for Partridge would rather have
submitted to the utmost inclemency of the weather than have trusted to the
clemency of those whom he took for hobgoblins; and the poor post-boy was
now infected with the same apprehensions; but they were both obliged to
follow the example of Jones; the one because he durst not leave his horse,
and the other because he feared nothing so much as being left by himself.

Had this history been writ in the days of superstition, I should have had
too much compassion for the reader to have left him so long in suspense,
whether Beelzebub or Satan was about actually to appear in person, with
all his hellish retinue; but as these doctrines are at present very
unfortunate, and have but few, if any believers, I have not been much
aware of conveying any such terrors. To say truth, the whole furniture of
the infernal regions hath long been appropriated by the managers of
playhouses, who seem lately to have laid them by as rubbish, capable only
of affecting the upper gallery; a place in which few of our readers ever
sit.

However, though we do not suspect raising any great terror on this
occasion, we have reason to fear some other apprehensions may here arise
in our reader, into which we would not willingly betray him; I mean that
we are going to take a voyage into fairy-land, and introduce a set of
beings into our history, which scarce any one was ever childish enough to
believe, though many have been foolish enough to spend their time in
writing and reading their adventures.

To prevent, therefore, any such suspicions, so prejudicial to the credit
of an historian, who professes to draw his materials from nature only, we
shall now proceed to acquaint the reader who these people were, whose
sudden appearance had struck such terrors into Partridge, had more than
half frightened the post-boy, and had a little surprized even Mr Jones
himself.

The people then assembled in this barn were no other than a company of
Egyptians, or, as they are vulgarly called, gypsies, and they were now
celebrating the wedding of one of their society.

It is impossible to conceive a happier set of people than appeared here to
be met together. The utmost mirth, indeed, shewed itself in every
countenance; nor was their ball totally void of all order and decorum.
Perhaps it had more than a country assembly is sometimes conducted with:
for these people are subject to a formal government and laws of their own,
and all pay obedience to one great magistrate, whom they call their king.

Greater plenty, likewise, was nowhere to be seen than what flourished in
this barn. Here was indeed no nicety nor elegance, nor did the keen
appetite of the guests require any. Here was good store of bacon, fowls,
and mutton, to which every one present provided better sauce himself than
the best and dearest French cook can prepare.

Aeneas is not described under more consternation in the temple of Juno,

Dum stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno,

than was our heroe at what he saw in this barn. While he was looking
everywhere round him with astonishment, a venerable person approached him
with many friendly salutations, rather of too hearty a kind to be called
courtly. This was no other than the king of the gypsies himself. He was
very little distinguished in dress from his subjects, nor had he any
regalia of majesty to support his dignity; and yet there seemed (as Mr
Jones said) to be somewhat in his air which denoted authority, and
inspired the beholders with an idea of awe and respect; though all this
was perhaps imaginary in Jones; and the truth may be, that such ideas are
incident to power, and almost inseparable from it.

There was somewhat in the open countenance and courteous behaviour of
Jones which, being accompanied with much comeliness of person, greatly
recommended him at first sight to every beholder. These were, perhaps, a
little heightened in the present instance, by that profound respect which
he paid to the king of the gypsies, the moment he was acquainted with his
dignity, and which was the sweeter to his gypseian majesty, as he was not
used to receive such homage from any but his own subjects.

The king ordered a table to be spread with the choicest of their
provisions for his accommodation; and, having placed himself at his right
hand, his majesty began to discourse with our heroe in the following
manner:—

“Me doubt not, sir, but you have often seen some of my people, who
are what you call de parties detache: for dey go about everywhere; but me
fancy you imagine not we be so considrable body as we be; and may be you
will be surprize more when you hear de gypsy be as orderly and well govern
people as any upon face of de earth.

“Me have honour, as me say, to be deir king, and no monarch can do
boast of more dutiful subject, ne no more affectionate. How far me deserve
deir good-will, me no say; but dis me can say, dat me never design anyting
but to do dem good. Me sall no do boast of dat neider: for what can me do
oderwise dan consider of de good of dose poor people who go about all day
to give me always de best of what dey get. Dey love and honour me
darefore, because me do love and take care of dem; dat is all, me know no
oder reason.

“About a tousand or two tousand year ago, me cannot tell to a year
or two, as can neider write nor read, dere was a great what you call—a
volution among de gypsy; for dere was de lord gypsy in dose days; and dese
lord did quarrel vid one anoder about de place; but de king of de gypsy
did demolish dem all, and made all his subject equal vid each oder; and
since dat time dey have agree very well; for dey no tink of being king,
and may be it be better for dem as dey be; for me assure you it be ver
troublesome ting to be king, and always to do justice; me have often wish
to be de private gypsy when me have been forced to punish my dear friend
and relation; for dough we never put to death, our punishments be ver
severe. Dey make de gypsy ashamed of demselves, and dat be ver terrible
punishment; me ave scarce ever known de gypsy so punish do harm any more.”

The king then proceeded to express some wonder that there was no such
punishment as shame in other governments. Upon which Jones assured him to
the contrary; for that there were many crimes for which shame was
inflicted by the English laws, and that it was indeed one consequence of
all punishment. “Dat be ver strange,” said the king; “for
me know and hears good deal of your people, dough me no live among dem;
and me have often hear dat sham is de consequence and de cause too of many
of your rewards. Are your rewards and punishments den de same ting?”

While his majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden uproar arose
in the barn, and as it seems upon this occasion:—the courtesy of
these people had by degrees removed all the apprehensions of Partridge,
and he was prevailed upon not only to stuff himself with their food, but
to taste some of their liquors, which by degrees entirely expelled all
fear from his composition, and in its stead introduced much more agreeable
sensations.

A young female gypsy, more remarkable for her wit than her beauty, had
decoyed the honest fellow aside, pretending to tell his fortune. Now, when
they were alone together in a remote part of the barn, whether it
proceeded from the strong liquor, which is never so apt to inflame
inordinate desire as after moderate fatigue; or whether the fair gypsy
herself threw aside the delicacy and decency of her sex, and tempted the
youth Partridge with express solicitations; but they were discovered in a
very improper manner by the husband of the gypsy, who, from jealousy it
seems, had kept a watchful eye over his wife, and had dogged her to the
place, where he found her in the arms of her gallant.

To the great confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before the
king; who heard the accusation, and likewise the culprit’s defence, which
was indeed very trifling; for the poor fellow was confounded by the plain
evidence which appeared against him, and had very little to say for
himself. His majesty, then turning towards Jones, said, “Sir, you
have hear what dey say; what punishment do you tink your man deserve?”

Jones answered, “He was sorry for what had happened, and that
Partridge should make the husband all the amends in his power: he said, he
had very little money about him at that time;” and, putting his hand
into his pocket, offered the fellow a guinea. To which he immediately
answered, “He hoped his honour would not think of giving him less
than five.”

This sum, after some altercation, was reduced to two; and Jones, having
stipulated for the full forgiveness of both Partridge and the wife, was
going to pay the money; when his majesty, restraining his hand, turned to
the witness and asked him, “At what time he had discovered the
criminals?” To which he answered, “That he had been desired by
the husband to watch the motions of his wife from her first speaking to
the stranger, and that he had never lost sight of her afterwards till the
crime had been committed.” The king then asked, “if the
husband was with him all that time in his lurking-place?” To which
he answered in the affirmative. His Egyptian majesty then addressed
himself to the husband as follows: “Me be sorry to see any gypsy dat
have no more honour dan to sell de honour of his wife for money. If you
had de love for your wife, you would have prevented dis matter, and not
endeavour to make her de whore dat you might discover her. Me do order dat
you have no money given you, for you deserve punishment, not reward; me do
order derefore, dat you be de infamous gypsy, and do wear pair of horns
upon your forehead for one month, and dat your wife be called de whore,
and pointed at all dat time; for you be de infamous gypsy, but she be no
less de infamous whore.”

The gypsies immediately proceeded to execute the sentence, and left Jones
and Partridge alone with his majesty.

Jones greatly applauded the justice of the sentence: upon which the king,
turning to him, said, “Me believe you be surprize: for me suppose
you have ver bad opinion of my people; me suppose you tink us all de
tieves.”

“I must confess, sir,” said Jones, “I have not heard so
favourable an account of them as they seem to deserve.”

“Me vil tell you,” said the king, “how the difference is
between you and us. My people rob your people, and your people rob one
anoder.”

Jones afterwards proceeded very gravely to sing forth the happiness of
those subjects who live under such a magistrate.

Indeed their happiness appears to have been so compleat, that we are aware
lest some advocate for arbitrary power should hereafter quote the case of
those people, as an instance of the great advantages which attend that
government above all others.

Now if an absolute monarch, with all these great and rare qualifications,
should be allowed capable of conferring the greatest good on society; it
must be surely granted, on the contrary, that absolute power, vested in
the hands of one who is deficient in them all, is likely to be attended
with no less a degree of evil.

In short, our own religion furnishes us with adequate ideas of the
blessing, as well as curse, which may attend absolute power. The pictures
of heaven and of hell will place a very lively image of both before our
eyes; for though the prince of the latter can have no power but what he
originally derives from the omnipotent Sovereign in the former, yet it
plainly appears from Scripture that absolute power in his infernal
dominions is granted to their diabolical ruler. This is indeed the only
absolute power which can by Scripture be derived from heaven. If,
therefore, the several tyrannies upon earth can prove any title to a
Divine authority, it must be derived from this original grant to the
prince of darkness; and these subordinate deputations must consequently
come immediately from him whose stamp they so expressly bear.

To conclude, as the examples of all ages shew us that mankind in general
desire power only to do harm, and, when they obtain it, use it for no
other purpose; it is not consonant with even the least degree of prudence
to hazard an alteration, where our hopes are poorly kept in countenance by
only two or three exceptions out of a thousand instances to alarm our
fears. In this case it will be much wiser to submit to a few
inconveniencies arising from the dispassionate deafness of laws, than to
remedy them by applying to the passionate open ears of a tyrant.

Nor can the example of the gypsies, though possibly they may have long
been happy under this form of government, be here urged; since we must
remember the very material respect in which they differ from all other
people, and to which perhaps this their happiness is entirely owing,
namely, that they have no false honours among them, and that they look on
shame as the most grievous punishment in the world.

Chapter xiii. — A dialogue between Jones and Partridge.

The honest lovers of liberty will, we doubt not, pardon that long
digression into which we were led at the close of the last chapter, to
prevent our history from being applied to the use of the most pernicious
doctrine which priestcraft had ever the wickedness or the impudence to
preach.

We will now proceed with Mr Jones, who, when the storm was over, took
leave of his Egyptian majesty, after many thanks for his courteous
behaviour and kind entertainment, and set out for Coventry; to which place
(for it was still dark) a gypsy was ordered to conduct him.

Jones having, by reason of his deviation, travelled eleven miles instead
of six, and most of those through very execrable roads, where no
expedition could have been made in quest of a midwife, did not arrive at
Coventry till near twelve. Nor could he possibly get again into the saddle
till past two; for post-horses were now not easy to get; nor were the
hostler or post-boy in half so great a hurry as himself, but chose rather
to imitate the tranquil disposition of Partridge; who, being denied the
nourishment of sleep, took all opportunities to supply its place with
every other kind of nourishment, and was never better pleased than when he
arrived at an inn, nor ever more dissatisfied than when he was again
forced to leave it.

Jones now travelled post; we will follow him, therefore, according to our
custom, and to the rules of Longinus, in the same manner. From Coventry he
arrived at Daventry, from Daventry at Stratford, and from Stratford at
Dunstable, whither he came the next day a little after noon, and within a
few hours after Sophia had left it; and though he was obliged to stay here
longer than he wished, while a smith, with great deliberation, shoed the
post-horse he was to ride, he doubted not but to overtake his Sophia
before she should set out from St Albans; at which place he concluded, and
very reasonably, that his lordship would stop and dine.

And had he been right in this conjecture, he most probably would have
overtaken his angel at the aforesaid place; but unluckily my lord had
appointed a dinner to be prepared for him at his own house in London, and,
in order to enable him to reach that place in proper time, he had ordered
a relay of horses to meet him at St Albans. When Jones therefore arrived
there, he was informed that the coach-and-six had set out two hours
before.

If fresh post-horses had been now ready, as they were not, it seemed so
apparently impossible to overtake the coach before it reached London, that
Partridge thought he had now a proper opportunity to remind his friend of
a matter which he seemed entirely to have forgotten; what this was the
reader will guess, when we inform him that Jones had eat nothing more than
one poached egg since he had left the alehouse where he had first met the
guide returning from Sophia; for with the gypsies he had feasted only his
understanding.

The landlord so entirely agreed with the opinion of Mr Partridge, that he
no sooner heard the latter desire his friend to stay and dine, than he
very readily put in his word, and retracting his promise before given of
furnishing the horses immediately, he assured Mr Jones he would lose no
time in bespeaking a dinner, which, he said, could be got ready sooner
than it was possible to get the horses up from grass, and to prepare them
for their journey by a feed of corn.

Jones was at length prevailed on, chiefly by the latter argument of the
landlord; and now a joint of mutton was put down to the fire. While this
was preparing, Partridge, being admitted into the same apartment with his
friend or master, began to harangue in the following manner.

“Certainly, sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you deserve
young Madam Western; for what a vast quantity of love must a man have, to
be able to live upon it without any other food, as you do? I am positive I
have eat thirty times as much within these last twenty-four hours as your
honour, and yet I am almost famished; for nothing makes a man so hungry as
travelling, especially in this cold raw weather. And yet I can’t tell how
it is, but your honour is seemingly in perfect good health, and you never
looked better nor fresher in your life. It must be certainly love that you
live upon.”

“And a very rich diet too, Partridge,” answered Jones. “But
did not fortune send me an excellent dainty yesterday? Dost thou imagine I
cannot live more than twenty-four hours on this dear pocket-book?”

“Undoubtedly,” cries Partridge, “there is enough in that
pocket-book to purchase many a good meal. Fortune sent it to your honour
very opportunely for present use, as your honour’s money must be almost
out by this time.”

“What do you mean?” answered Jones; “I hope you don’t
imagine that I should be dishonest enough, even if it belonged to any
other person, besides Miss Western——”

“Dishonest!” replied Partridge, “heaven forbid I should
wrong your honour so much! but where’s the dishonesty in borrowing a
little for present spending, since you will be so well able to pay the
lady hereafter? No, indeed, I would have your honour pay it again, as soon
as it is convenient, by all means; but where can be the harm in making use
of it now you want it? Indeed, if it belonged to a poor body, it would be
another thing; but so great a lady, to be sure, can never want it,
especially now as she is along with a lord, who, it can’t be doubted, will
let her have whatever she hath need of. Besides, if she should want a
little, she can’t want the whole, therefore I would give her a little; but
I would be hanged before I mentioned the having found it at first, and
before I got some money of my own; for London, I have heard, is the very
worst of places to be in without money. Indeed, if I had not known to whom
it belonged, I might have thought it was the devil’s money, and have been
afraid to use it; but as you know otherwise, and came honestly by it, it
would be an affront to fortune to part with it all again, at the very time
when you want it most; you can hardly expect she should ever do you such
another good turn; for fortuna nunquam perpetuo est bona. You will
do as you please, notwithstanding all I say; but for my part, I would be
hanged before I mentioned a word of the matter.”

“By what I can see, Partridge,” cries Jones, “hanging is
a matter non longe alienum a Scaevolae studiis.” “You
should say alienus,” says Partridge,—“I remember
the passage; it is an example under communis, alienus, immunis, variis
casibus serviunt.” “If you do remember it,” cries
Jones, “I find you don’t understand it; but I tell thee, friend, in
plain English, that he who finds another’s property, and wilfully detains
it from the known owner, deserves, in foro conscientiae, to be
hanged, no less than if he had stolen it. And as for this very identical
bill, which is the property of my angel, and was once in her dear
possession, I will not deliver it into any hands but her own, upon any
consideration whatever, no, though I was as hungry as thou art, and had no
other means to satisfy my craving appetite; this I hope to do before I
sleep; but if it should happen otherwise, I charge thee, if thou would’st
not incur my displeasure for ever, not to shock me any more by the bare
mention of such detestable baseness.”

“I should not have mentioned it now,” cries Partridge, “if
it had appeared so to me; for I’m sure I scorn any wickedness as much as
another; but perhaps you know better; and yet I might have imagined that I
should not have lived so many years, and have taught school so long,
without being able to distinguish between fas et nefas; but it
seems we are all to live and learn. I remember my old schoolmaster, who
was a prodigious great scholar, used often to say, Polly matete cry
town is my daskalon. The English of which, he told us, was, That a
child may sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I have lived to a
fine purpose, truly, if I am to be taught my grammar at this time of day.
Perhaps, young gentleman, you may change your opinion, if you live to my
years: for I remember I thought myself as wise when I was a stripling of
one or two and twenty as I am now. I am sure I always taught alienus,
and my master read it so before me.”

There were not many instances in which Partridge could provoke Jones, nor
were there many in which Partridge himself could have been hurried out of
his respect. Unluckily, however, they had both hit on one of these. We
have already seen Partridge could not bear to have his learning attacked,
nor could Jones bear some passage or other in the foregoing speech. And
now, looking upon his companion with a contemptuous and disdainful air (a
thing not usual with him), he cried, “Partridge, I see thou art a
conceited old fool, and I wish thou art not likewise an old rogue. Indeed,
if I was as well convinced of the latter as I am of the former, thou
should’st travel no farther in my company.”

The sage pedagogue was contented with the vent which he had already given
to his indignation; and, as the vulgar phrase is, immediately drew in his
horns. He said, he was sorry he had uttered anything which might give
offence, for that he had never intended it; but Nemo omnibus horis
sapit.

As Jones had the vices of a warm disposition, he was entirely free from
those of a cold one; and if his friends must have confest his temper to
have been a little too easily ruffled, his enemies must at the same time
have confest, that it as soon subsided; nor did it at all resemble the
sea, whose swelling is more violent and dangerous after a storm is over
than while the storm itself subsists. He instantly accepted the submission
of Partridge, shook him by the hand, and with the most benign aspect
imaginable, said twenty kind things, and at the same time very severely
condemned himself, though not half so severely as he will most probably be
condemned by many of our good readers.

Partridge was now highly comforted, as his fears of having offended were
at once abolished, and his pride completely satisfied by Jones having
owned himself in the wrong, which submission he instantly applied to what
had principally nettled him, and repeated in a muttering voice, “To
be sure, sir, your knowledge may be superior to mine in some things; but
as to the grammar, I think I may challenge any man living. I think, at
least, I have that at my finger’s end.”

If anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man now enjoyed,
he received this addition by the arrival of an excellent shoulder of
mutton, that at this instant came smoaking to the table. On which, having
both plentifully feasted, they again mounted their horses, and set forward
for London.

Chapter xiv. — What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St
Albans.

They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk of
the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby horse,
rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London; to which
Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman replied, “I should
be obliged to you, sir, if you will accept of my company; for it is very
late, and I am a stranger to the road.” Jones readily complied with
the request; and on they travelled together, holding that sort of
discourse which is usual on such occasions.

Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject the
stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he had very
little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge could
not forbear putting in his word. “Your honour,” said he,
“may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundred-pound
bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose it;
but, for my part, I never was less afraid in my life; for we are four of
us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in England can’t rob
us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a man
can die but once.—That’s my comfort, a man can die but once.”

Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which hath
raised a certain nation among the moderns to a high pitch of glory, there
was another reason for the extraordinary courage which Partridge now
discovered; for he had at present as much of that quality as was in the
power of liquor to bestow.

Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the stranger
turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a pistol, demanded that little
bank-note which Partridge had mentioned.

Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand; however, he
presently recollected himself, and told the highwayman, all the money he
had in his pocket was entirely at his service; and so saying, he pulled
out upwards of three guineas, and offered to deliver it; but the other
answered with an oath, That would not do. Jones answered coolly, he was
very sorry for it, and returned the money into his pocket.

The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the bank-note that
moment, he must shoot him; holding his pistol at the same time very near
to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the fellow’s hand, which
trembled so that he could scarce hold the pistol in it, and turned the
muzzle from him. A struggle then ensued, in which the former wrested the
pistol from the hand of his antagonist, and both came from their horses on
the ground together, the highwayman upon his back, and the victorious
Jones upon him.

The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to say
the truth, he was in strength by no means a match for Jones. “Indeed,
sir,” says he, “I could have had no intention to shoot you;
for you will find the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery I
ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to this.”

At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards’ distance, lay another
person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder voice than the
highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who, endeavouring to
make his escape from the engagement, had been thrown from his horse, and
lay flat on his face, not daring to look up, and expecting every minute to
be shot.

In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise concerned
than for his horses, having secured the stumbling beast, came up to him,
and told him his master had got the better of the highwayman.

Partridge leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where Jones
stood with his sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor fellow; which
Partridge no sooner saw than he cried out, “Kill the villain, sir,
run him through the body, kill him this instant!”

Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more merciful
hands; for Jones having examined the pistol, and found it to be really
unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him, before Partridge came
up: namely, that he was a novice in the trade, and that he had been driven
to it by the distress he mentioned, the greatest indeed imaginable, that
of five hungry children, and a wife lying in of the sixth, in the utmost
want and misery. The truth of all which the highwayman most vehemently
asserted, and offered to convince Mr Jones of it, if he would take the
trouble to go to his house, which was not above two miles off; saying,
“That he desired no favour, but upon condition of proving all he had
all alledged.”

Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word, and go
with him, declaring that his fate should depend entirely on the truth of
his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately expressed so much
alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his veracity, and began
now to entertain sentiments of compassion for him. He returned the fellow
his empty pistol, advised him to think of honester means of relieving his
distress, and gave him a couple of guineas for the immediate support of
his wife and his family; adding, “he wished he had more for his
sake, for the hundred pound that had been mentioned was not his own.”

Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning this
action; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of extraordinary humanity,
while those of a more saturnine temper will consider it as a want of
regard to that justice which every man owes his country. Partridge
certainly saw it in that light; for he testified much dissatisfaction on
the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and said, he should not wonder if the
rogue attacked them again before they reached London.

The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and gratitude. He
actually dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He vowed he would immediately
return home, and would never afterwards commit such a transgression:
whether he kept his word or no, perhaps may appear hereafter.

Our travellers having remounted their horses, arrived in town without
encountering any new mishap. On the road much pleasant discourse passed
between Jones and Partridge, on the subject of their last adventure: in
which Jones exprest a great compassion for those highwaymen who are, by
unavoidable distress, driven, as it were, to such illegal courses, as
generally bring them to a shameful death: “I mean,” said he,
“those only whose highest guilt extends no farther than to robbery,
and who are never guilty of cruelty nor insult to any person, which is a
circumstance that, I must say, to the honour of our country, distinguishes
the robbers of England from those of all other nations; for murder is,
amongst those, almost inseparably incident to robbery.”

“No doubt,” answered Partridge, “it is better to take
away one’s money than one’s life; and yet it is very hard upon honest men,
that they can’t travel about their business without being in danger of
these villains. And to be sure it would be better that all rogues were
hanged out of the way, than that one honest man should suffer. For my own
part, indeed, I should not care to have the blood of any of them on my own
hands; but it is very proper for the law to hang them all. What right hath
any man to take sixpence from me, unless I give it him? Is there any
honesty in such a man?”

“No, surely,” cries Jones, “no more than there is in him
who takes the horses out of another man’s stable, or who applies to his
own use the money which he finds, when he knows the right owner.”

These hints stopt the mouth of Partridge; nor did he open it again till
Jones, having thrown some sarcastical jokes on his cowardice, he offered
to excuse himself on the inequality of fire-arms, saying, “A
thousand naked men are nothing to one pistol; for though it is true it
will kill but one at a single discharge, yet who can tell but that one may
be himself?”

BOOK XIII. — CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.

Chapter i. — An Invocation.

Come, bright love of fame, inspire my glowing breast: not thee I will
call, who, over swelling tides of blood and tears, dost bear the heroe on
to glory, while sighs of millions waft his spreading sails; but thee,
fair, gentle maid, whom Mnesis, happy nymph, first on the banks of Hebrus
did produce. Thee, whom Maeonia educated, whom Mantua charmed, and who, on
that fair hill which overlooks the proud metropolis of Britain, sat’st,
with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the heroic lyre; fill my ravished fancy
with the hopes of charming ages yet to come. Foretel me that some tender
maid, whose grandmother is yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the
fictitious name of Sophia, she reads the real worth which once existed in
my Charlotte, shall from her sympathetic breast send forth the heaving
sigh. Do thou teach me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to
feed on future praise. Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the
little parlour in which I sit at this instant shall be reduced to a worse
furnished box, I shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor saw
me, and whom I shall neither know nor see.

And thou, much plumper dame, whom no airy forms nor phantoms of
imagination cloathe; whom the well-seasoned beef, and pudding richly
stained with plums, delight: thee I call: of whom in a treckschuyte, in
some Dutch canal, the fat ufrow gelt, impregnated by a jolly merchant of
Amsterdam, was delivered: in Grub-street school didst thou suck in the
elements of thy erudition. Here hast thou, in thy maturer age, taught
poetry to tickle not the fancy, but the pride of the patron. Comedy from
thee learns a grave and solemn air; while tragedy storms aloud, and rends
th’ affrighted theatres with its thunders. To soothe thy wearied limbs in
slumber, Alderman History tells his tedious tale; and, again, to awaken
thee, Monsieur Romance performs his surprizing tricks of dexterity. Nor
less thy well-fed bookseller obeys thy influence. By thy advice the heavy,
unread, folio lump, which long had dozed on the dusty shelf, piecemealed
into numbers, runs nimbly through the nation. Instructed by thee, some
books, like quacks, impose on the world by promising wonders; while others
turn beaus, and trust all their merits to a gilded outside. Come, thou
jolly substance, with thy shining face, keep back thy inspiration, but
hold forth thy tempting rewards; thy shining, chinking heap; thy quickly
convertible bank-bill, big with unseen riches; thy often-varying stock;
the warm, the comfortable house; and, lastly, a fair portion of that
bounteous mother, whose flowing breasts yield redundant sustenance for all
her numerous offspring, did not some too greedily and wantonly drive their
brethren from the teat. Come thou, and if I am too tasteless of thy
valuable treasures, warm my heart with the transporting thought of
conveying them to others. Tell me, that through thy bounty, the pratling
babes, whose innocent play hath often been interrupted by my labours, may
one time be amply rewarded for them.

And now, this ill-yoked pair, this lean shadow and this fat substance,
have prompted me to write, whose assistance shall I invoke to direct my
pen?

First, Genius; thou gift of Heaven; without whose aid in vain we struggle
against the stream of nature. Thou who dost sow the generous seeds which
art nourishes, and brings to perfection. Do thou kindly take me by the
hand, and lead me through all the mazes, the winding labyrinths of nature.
Initiate me into all those mysteries which profane eyes never beheld.
Teach me, which to thee is no difficult task, to know mankind better than
they know themselves. Remove that mist which dims the intellects of
mortals, and causes them to adore men for their art, or to detest them for
their cunning, in deceiving others, when they are, in reality, the objects
only of ridicule, for deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin disguise of
wisdom from self-conceit, of plenty from avarice, and of glory from
ambition. Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy Lucian, thy
Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Molière, thy Shakespear, thy Swift, thy
Marivaux, fill my pages with humour; till mankind learn the good-nature to
laugh only at the follies of others, and the humility to grieve at their
own.

And thou, almost the constant attendant on true genius, Humanity, bring
all thy tender sensations. If thou hast already disposed of them all
between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton, steal them a little while from their
bosoms. Not without these the tender scene is painted. From these alone
proceed the noble, disinterested friendship, the melting love, the
generous sentiment, the ardent gratitude, the soft compassion, the candid
opinion; and all those strong energies of a good mind, which fill the
moistened eyes with tears, the glowing cheeks with blood, and swell the
heart with tides of grief, joy, and benevolence.

And thou, O Learning! (for without thy assistance nothing pure, nothing
correct, can genius produce) do thou guide my pen. Thee in thy favourite
fields, where the limpid, gently-rolling Thames washes thy Etonian banks,
in early youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy birchen altar, with true
Spartan devotion, I have sacrificed my blood. Come then, and from thy
vast, luxuriant stores, in long antiquity piled up, pour forth the rich
profusion. Open thy Maeonian and thy Mantuan coffers, with whatever else
includes thy philosophic, thy poetic, and thy historical treasures,
whether with Greek or Roman characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the
ponderous chests: give me a while that key to all thy treasures, which to
thy Warburton thou hast entrusted.

Lastly, come Experience, long conversant with the wise, the good, the
learned, and the polite. Nor with them only, but with every kind of
character, from the minister at his levee, to the bailiff in his
spunging-house; from the dutchess at her drum, to the landlady behind her
bar. From thee only can the manners of mankind be known; to which the
recluse pedant, however great his parts or extensive his learning may be,
hath ever been a stranger.

Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the task I have
undertaken; and, without all your assistance, will, I find, be too heavy
for me to support. But if you all smile on my labours I hope still to
bring them to a happy conclusion.

Chapter ii. — What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.

The learned Dr Misaubin used to say, that the proper direction to him was
To Dr Misaubin, in the World; intimating that there were few
people in it to whom his great reputation was not known. And, perhaps,
upon a very nice examination into the matter, we shall find that this
circumstance bears no inconsiderable part among the many blessings of
grandeur.

The great happiness of being known to posterity, with the hopes of which
we so delighted ourselves in the preceding chapter, is the portion of few.
To have the several elements which compose our names, as Sydenham
expresses it, repeated a thousand years hence, is a gift beyond the power
of title and wealth; and is scarce to be purchased, unless by the sword
and the pen. But to avoid the scandalous imputation, while we yet live, of
being one whom nobody knows (a scandal, by the bye, as old as the
days of Homer[*]) will always be the envied portion of those, who have a
legal title either to honour or estate.

From that figure, therefore, which the Irish peer, who brought Sophia to
town, hath already made in this history, the reader will conclude,
doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have discovered his house
in London without knowing the particular street or square which he
inhabited, since he must have been one whom everybody knows. To say
the truth, so it would have been to any of those tradesmen who are
accustomed to attend the regions of the great; for the doors of the great
are generally no less easy to find than it is difficult to get entrance
into them. But Jones, as well as Partridge, was an entire stranger in
London; and as he happened to arrive first in a quarter of the town, the
inhabitants of which have very little intercourse with the householders of
Hanover or Grosvenor-square (for he entered through Gray’s-inn-lane), so
he rambled about some time before he could even find his way to those
happy mansions where fortune segregates from the vulgar those magnanimous
heroes, the descendants of antient Britons, Saxons, or Danes, whose
ancestors, being born in better days, by sundry kinds of merit, have
entailed riches and honour on their posterity.

Jones, being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian fields, would
now soon have discovered his lordship’s mansion; but the peer unluckily
quitted his former house when he went for Ireland; and as he was just
entered into a new one, the fame of his equipage had not yet sufficiently
blazed in the neighbourhood; so that, after a successless enquiry till the
clock had struck eleven, Jones at last yielded to the advice of Partridge,
and retreated to the Bull and Gate in Holborn, that being the inn where he
had first alighted, and where he retired to enjoy that kind of repose
which usually attends persons in his circumstances.

Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia; and many a
weary step he took to no better purpose than before. At last, whether it
was that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in her power to
disappoint him, he came into the very street which was honoured by his
lordship’s residence; and, being directed to the house, he gave one gentle
rap at the door.

The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had conceived no high idea
of the person approaching, conceived but little better from the appearance
of Mr Jones, who was drest in a suit of fustian, and had by his side the
weapon formerly purchased of the serjeant; of which, though the blade
might be composed of well-tempered steel, the handle was composed only of
brass, and that none of the brightest. When Jones, therefore, enquired
after the young lady who had come to town with his lordship, this fellow
answered surlily, “That there were no ladies there.” Jones
then desired to see the master of the house; but was informed that his
lordship would see nobody that morning. And upon growing more pressing the
porter said, “he had positive orders to let no person in; but if you
think proper,” said he, “to leave your name, I will acquaint
his lordship; and if you call another time you shall know when he will see
you.”

Jones now declared, “that he had very particular business with the
young lady, and could not depart without seeing her.” Upon which the
porter, with no very agreeable voice or aspect, affirmed, “that
there was no young lady in that house, and consequently none could he see;”
adding, “sure you are the strangest man I ever met with, for you
will not take an answer.”

I have often thought that, by the particular description of Cerberus, the
porter of hell, in the 6th Aeneid, Virgil might possibly intend to
satirize the porters of the great men in his time; the picture, at least,
resembles those who have the honour to attend at the doors of our great
men. The porter in his lodge answers exactly to Cerberus in his den, and,
like him, must be appeased by a sop before access can be gained to his
master. Perhaps Jones might have seen him in that light, and have
recollected the passage where the Sibyl, in order to procure an entrance
for Aeneas, presents the keeper of the Stygian avenue with such a sop.
Jones, in like manner, now began to offer a bribe to the human Cerberus,
which a footman, overhearing, instantly advanced, and declared, “if
Mr Jones would give him the sum proposed, he would conduct him to the
lady.” Jones instantly agreed, and was forthwith conducted to the
lodging of Mrs Fitzpatrick by the very fellow who had attended the ladies
thither the day before.

Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to good. The
gamester, who loses his party at piquet by a single point, laments his bad
luck ten times as much as he who never came within a prospect of the game.
So in a lottery, the proprietors of the next numbers to that which wins
the great prize are apt to account themselves much more unfortunate than
their fellow-sufferers. In short, these kind of hairbreadth missings of
happiness look like the insults of Fortune, who may be considered as thus
playing tricks with us, and wantonly diverting herself at our expense.

Jones, who more than once already had experienced this frolicsome
disposition of the heathen goddess, was now again doomed to be tantalized
in the like manner; for he arrived at the door of Mrs Fitzpatrick about
ten minutes after the departure of Sophia. He now addressed himself to the
waiting-woman belonging to Mrs Fitzpatrick; who told him the disagreeable
news that the lady was gone, but could not tell him whither; and the same
answer he afterwards received from Mrs Fitzpatrick herself. For as that
lady made no doubt but that Mr Jones was a person detached from her uncle
Western, in pursuit of his daughter, so she was too generous to betray
her.

Though Jones had never seen Mrs Fitzpatrick, yet he had heard that a
cousin of Sophia was married to a gentleman of that name. This, however,
in the present tumult of his mind, never once recurred to his memory; but
when the footman, who had conducted him from his lordship’s, acquainted
him with the great intimacy between the ladies, and with their calling
each other cousin, he then recollected the story of the marriage which he
had formerly heard; and as he was presently convinced that this was the
same woman, he became more surprized at the answer which he had received,
and very earnestly desired leave to wait on the lady herself; but she as
positively refused him that honour.

Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred than most
who frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt behaviour to a lady.
When he had received, therefore, a peremptory denial, he retired for the
present, saying to the waiting-woman, “That if this was an improper
hour to wait on her lady, he would return in the afternoon; and that he
then hoped to have the honour of seeing her.” The civility with
which he uttered this, added to the great comeliness of his person, made
an impression on the waiting-woman, and she could not help answering;
“Perhaps, sir, you may;” and, indeed, she afterwards said
everything to her mistress, which she thought most likely to prevail on
her to admit a visit from the handsome young gentleman; for so she called
him.

Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now with her cousin,
and was denied to him; which he imputed to her resentment of what had
happened at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to procure him
lodgings, he remained all day in the street, watching the door where he
thought his angel lay concealed; but no person did he see issue forth,
except a servant of the house, and in the evening he returned to pay his
visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick, which that good lady at last condescended to
admit.

There is a certain air of natural gentility, which it is neither in the
power of dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr Jones, as hath been before
hinted, was possessed of this in a very eminent degree. He met, therefore,
with a reception from the lady somewhat different from what his apparel
seemed to demand; and after he had paid her his proper respects, was
desired to sit down.

The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the particulars
of this conversation, which ended very little to the satisfaction of poor
Jones. For though Mrs Fitzpatrick soon discovered the lover (as all women
have the eyes of hawks in those matters), yet she still thought it was
such a lover, as a generous friend of the lady should not betray her to.
In short, she suspected this was the very Mr Blifil, from whom Sophia had
flown; and all the answers which she artfully drew from Jones, concerning
Mr Allworthy’s family, confirmed her in this opinion. She therefore
strictly denied any knowledge concerning the place whither Sophia was
gone; nor could Jones obtain more than a permission to wait on her again
the next evening.

When Jones was departed Mrs Fitzpatrick communicated her suspicion
concerning Mr Blifil to her maid; who answered, “Sure, madam, he is
too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any woman in the world to run away
from. I had rather fancy it is Mr Jones.”—“Mr Jones!”
said the lady, “what Jones?” For Sophia had not given the
least hint of any such person in all their conversation; but Mrs Honour
had been much more communicative, and had acquainted her sister Abigail
with the whole history of Jones, which this now again related to her
mistress.

Mrs Fitzpatrick no sooner received this information, than she immediately
agreed with the opinion of her maid; and, what is very unaccountable, saw
charms in the gallant, happy lover, which she had overlooked in the
slighted squire. “Betty,” says she, “you are certainly
in the right: he is a very pretty fellow, and I don’t wonder that my
cousin’s maid should tell you so many women are fond of him. I am sorry
now I did not inform him where my cousin was; and yet, if he be so
terrible a rake as you tell me, it is a pity she should ever see him any
more; for what but her ruin can happen from marrying a rake and a beggar
against her father’s consent? I protest, if he be such a man as the wench
described him to you, it is but an office of charity to keep her from him;
and I am sure it would be unpardonable in me to do otherwise, who have
tasted so bitterly of the misfortunes attending such marriages.”

Here she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, which was no other
than his lordship; and as nothing passed at this visit either new or
extraordinary, or any ways material to this history, we shall here put an
end to this chapter.

Chapter iii. — A project of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady
Bellaston.

When Mrs Fitzpatrick retired to rest, her thoughts were entirely taken up
by her cousin Sophia and Mr Jones. She was, indeed, a little offended with
the former, for the disingenuity which she now discovered. In which
meditation she had not long exercised her imagination before the following
conceit suggested itself; that could she possibly become the means of
preserving Sophia from this man, and of restoring her to her father, she
should, in all human probability, by so great a service to the family,
reconcile to herself both her uncle and her aunt Western.

As this was one of her most favourite wishes, so the hope of success
seemed so reasonable, that nothing remained but to consider of proper
methods to accomplish her scheme. To attempt to reason the case with
Sophia did not appear to her one of those methods: for as Betty had
reported from Mrs Honour, that Sophia had a violent inclination to Jones,
she conceived that to dissuade her from the match was an endeavour of the
same kind, as it would be very heartily and earnestly to entreat a moth
not to fly into a candle.

If the reader will please to remember that the acquaintance which Sophia
had with Lady Bellaston was contracted at the house of Mrs Western, and
must have grown at the very time when Mrs Fitzpatrick lived with this
latter lady, he will want no information, that Mrs Fitzpatrick must have
been acquainted with her likewise. They were, besides, both equally her
distant relations.

After much consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early in the
morning to that lady, and endeavour to see her, unknown to Sophia, and to
acquaint her with the whole affair. For she did not in the least doubt,
but that the prudent lady, who had often ridiculed romantic love, and
indiscreet marriages, in her conversation, would very readily concur in
her sentiments concerning this match, and would lend her utmost assistance
to prevent it.

This resolution she accordingly executed; and the next morning before the
sun, she huddled on her cloaths, and at a very unfashionable,
unseasonable, unvisitable hour, went to Lady Bellaston, to whom she got
access, without the least knowledge or suspicion of Sophia, who, though
not asleep, lay at that time awake in her bed, with Honour snoring by her
side.

Mrs Fitzpatrick made many apologies for an early, abrupt visit, at an hour
when, she said, “she should not have thought of disturbing her
ladyship, but upon business of the utmost consequence.” She then
opened the whole affair, told all she had heard from Betty; and did not
forget the visit which Jones had paid to herself the preceding evening.

Lady Bellaston answered with a smile, “Then you have seen this
terrible man, madam; pray, is he so very fine a figure as he is
represented? for Etoff entertained me last night almost two hours with
him. The wench I believe is in love with him by reputation.” Here
the reader will be apt to wonder; but the truth is, that Mrs Etoff, who
had the honour to pin and unpin the Lady Bellaston, had received compleat
information concerning the said Mr Jones, and had faithfully conveyed the
same to her lady last night (or rather that morning) while she was
undressing; on which accounts she had been detained in her office above
the space of an hour and a half.

The lady indeed, though generally well enough pleased with the narratives
of Mrs Etoff at those seasons, gave an extraordinary attention to her
account of Jones; for Honour had described him as a very handsome fellow,
and Mrs Etoff, in her hurry, added so much to the beauty of his person to
her report, that Lady Bellaston began to conceive him to be a kind of
miracle in nature.

The curiosity which her woman had inspired was now greatly increased by
Mrs Fitzpatrick, who spoke as much in favour of the person of Jones as she
had before spoken in dispraise of his birth, character, and fortune.

When Lady Bellaston had heard the whole, she answered gravely, “Indeed,
madam, this is a matter of great consequence. Nothing can certainly be
more commendable than the part you act; and I shall be very glad to have
my share in the preservation of a young lady of so much merit, and for
whom I have so much esteem.”

“Doth not your ladyship think,” says Mrs Fitzpatrick eagerly,
“that it would be the best way to write immediately to my uncle, and
acquaint him where my cousin is?”

The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered—“Why,
no, madam, I think not. Di Western hath described her brother to me to be
such a brute, that I cannot consent to put any woman under his power who
hath escaped from it. I have heard he behaved like a monster to his own
wife, for he is one of those wretches who think they have a right to
tyrannise over us, and from such I shall ever esteem it the cause of my
sex to rescue any woman who is so unfortunate to be under their power.—The
business, dear cousin, will be only to keep Miss Western from seeing this
young fellow, till the good company, which she will have an opportunity of
meeting here, give her a properer turn.”

“If he should find her out, madam,” answered the other,
“your ladyship may be assured he will leave nothing unattempted to
come at her.”

“But, madam,” replied the lady, “it is impossible he
should come here—though indeed it is possible he may get some
intelligence where she is, and then may lurk about the house—I wish
therefore I knew his person.

“Is there no way, madam, by which I could have a sight of him? for,
otherwise, you know, cousin, she may contrive to see him here without my
knowledge.” Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, “That he had threatened
her with another visit that afternoon, and that, if her ladyship pleased
to do her the honour of calling upon her then, she would hardly fail of
seeing him between six and seven; and if he came earlier she would, by
some means or other, detain him till her ladyship’s arrival.”—Lady
Bellaston replied, “She would come the moment she could get from
dinner, which she supposed would be by seven at farthest; for that it was
absolutely necessary she should be acquainted with his person. Upon my
word, madam,” says she, “it was very good to take this care of
Miss Western; but common humanity, as well as regard to our family,
requires it of us both; for it would be a dreadful match indeed.”

Mrs Fitzpatrick failed not to make a proper return to the compliment which
Lady Bellaston had bestowed on her cousin, and, after some little
immaterial conversation, withdrew; and, getting as fast as she could into
her chair, unseen by Sophia or Honour, returned home.

Chapter iv. — Which consists of visiting.

Mr Jones had walked within sight of a certain door during the whole day,
which, though one of the shortest, appeared to him to be one of the
longest in the whole year. At length, the clock having struck five, he
returned to Mrs Fitzpatrick, who, though it was a full hour earlier than
the decent time of visiting, received him very civilly; but still
persisted in her ignorance concerning Sophia.

Jones, in asking for his angel, had dropped the word cousin, upon which
Mrs Fitzpatrick said, “Then, sir, you know we are related: and, as
we are, you will permit me the right of enquiring into the particulars of
your business with my cousin.” Here Jones hesitated a good while,
and at last answered, “He had a considerable sum of money of hers in
his hands, which he desired to deliver to her.” He then produced the
pocket-book, and acquainted Mrs Fitzpatrick with the contents, and with
the method in which they came into his hands. He had scarce finished his
story, when a most violent noise shook the whole house. To attempt to
describe this noise to those who have heard it would be in vain; and to
aim at giving any idea of it to those who have never heard the like, would
be still more vain: for it may be truly said—

In short, a footman knocked, or rather thundered, at the door. Jones was a
little surprized at the sound, having never heard it before; but Mrs
Fitzpatrick very calmly said, that, as some company were coming, she could
not make him any answer now; but if he pleased to stay till they were
gone, she intimated she had something to say to him.

The door of the room now flew open, and, after pushing in her hoop
sideways before her, entered Lady Bellaston, who having first made a very
low courtesy to Mrs Fitzpatrick, and as low a one to Mr Jones, was ushered
to the upper end of the room.

We mention these minute matters for the sake of some country ladies of our
acquaintance, who think it contrary to the rules of modesty to bend their
knees to a man.

The company were hardly well settled, before the arrival of the peer
lately mentioned, caused a fresh disturbance, and a repetition of
ceremonials.

These being over, the conversation began to be (as the phrase is)
extremely brilliant. However, as nothing past in it which can be thought
material to this history, or, indeed, very material in itself, I shall
omit the relation; the rather, as I have known some very fine polite
conversation grow extremely dull, when transcribed into books, or repeated
on the stage. Indeed, this mental repast is a dainty, of which those who
are excluded from polite assemblies must be contented to remain as
ignorant as they must of the several dainties of French cookery, which are
served only at the tables of the great. To say the truth, as neither of
these are adapted to every taste, they might both be often thrown away on
the vulgar.

Poor Jones was rather a spectator of this elegant scene, than an actor in
it; for though, in the short interval before the peer’s arrival, Lady
Bellaston first, and afterwards Mrs Fitzpatrick, had addressed some of
their discourse to him; yet no sooner was the noble lord entered, than he
engrossed the whole attention of the two ladies to himself; and as he took
no more notice of Jones than if no such person had been present, unless by
now and then staring at him, the ladies followed his example.

The company had now staid so long, that Mrs Fitzpatrick plainly perceived
they all designed to stay out each other. She therefore resolved to rid
herself of Jones, he being the visitant to whom she thought the least
ceremony was due. Taking therefore an opportunity of a cessation of chat,
she addressed herself gravely to him, and said, “Sir, I shall not
possibly be able to give you an answer to-night as to that business; but
if you please to leave word where I may send to you to-morrow—-”

Jones had natural, but not artificial good-breeding. Instead therefore of
communicating the secret of his lodgings to a servant, he acquainted the
lady herself with it particularly, and soon after very ceremoniously
withdrew.

He was no sooner gone than the great personages, who had taken no notice
of him present, began to take much notice of him in his absence; but if
the reader hath already excused us from relating the more brilliant part
of this conversation, he will surely be very ready to excuse the
repetition of what may be called vulgar abuse; though, perhaps, it may be
material to our history to mention an observation of Lady Bellaston, who
took her leave in a few minutes after him, and then said to Mrs
Fitzpatrick, at her departure, “I am satisfied on the account of my
cousin; she can be in no danger from this fellow.”

Our history shall follow the example of Lady Bellaston, and take leave of
the present company, which was now reduced to two persons; between whom,
as nothing passed, which in the least concerns us or our reader, we shall
not suffer ourselves to be diverted by it from matters which must seem of
more consequence to all those who are at all interested in the affairs of
our heroe.

Chapter v. — An adventure which happened to Mr Jones at his
lodgings, with some account of a young gentleman who lodged there, and of
the mistress of the house, and her two daughters.

The next morning, as early as it was decent, Jones attended at Mrs
Fitzpatrick’s door, where he was answered that the lady was not at home;
an answer which surprized him the more, as he had walked backwards and
forwards in the street from break of day; and if she had gone out, he must
have seen her. This answer, however, he was obliged to receive, and not
only now, but to five several visits which he made her that day.

To be plain with the reader, the noble peer had from some reason or other,
perhaps from a regard for the lady’s honour, insisted that she should not
see Mr Jones, whom he looked on as a scrub, any more; and the lady had
complied in making that promise to which we now see her so strictly
adhere.

But as our gentle reader may possibly have a better opinion of the young
gentleman than her ladyship, and may even have some concern, should it be
apprehended that, during this unhappy separation from Sophia, he took up
his residence either at an inn, or in the street; we shall now give an
account of his lodging, which was indeed in a very reputable house, and in
a very good part of the town.

Mr Jones, then, had often heard Mr Allworthy mention the gentlewoman at
whose house he used to lodge when he was in town. This person, who, as
Jones likewise knew, lived in Bond-street, was the widow of a clergyman,
and was left by him, at his decease, in possession of two daughters, and
of a compleat set of manuscript sermons.

Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now arrived at the age of
seventeen, and Betty, the younger, at that of ten.

Hither Jones had despatched Partridge, and in this house he was provided
with a room for himself in the second floor, and with one for Partridge in
the fourth.

The first floor was inhabited by one of those young gentlemen, who, in the
last age, were called men of wit and pleasure about town, and properly
enough; for as men are usually denominated from their business or
profession, so pleasure may be said to have been the only business or
profession of those gentlemen to whom fortune had made all useful
occupations unnecessary. Playhouses, coffeehouses, and taverns were the
scenes of their rendezvous. Wit and humour were the entertainment of their
looser hours, and love was the business of their more serious moments.
Wine and the muses conspired to kindle the brightest flames in their
breasts; nor did they only admire, but some were able to celebrate the
beauty they admired, and all to judge of the merit of such compositions.

Such, therefore, were properly called the men of wit and pleasure; but I
question whether the same appellation may, with the same propriety, be
given to those young gentlemen of our times, who have the same ambition to
be distinguished for parts. Wit certainly they have nothing to do with. To
give them their due, they soar a step higher than their predecessors, and
may be called men of wisdom and vertù (take heed you do not read virtue).
Thus at an age when the gentlemen above mentioned employ their time in
toasting the charms of a woman, or in making sonnets in her praise; in
giving their opinion of a play at the theatre, or of a poem at Will’s or
Button’s; these gentlemen are considering the methods to bribe a
corporation, or meditating speeches for the House of Commons, or rather
for the magazines. But the science of gaming is that which above all
others employs their thoughts. These are the studies of their graver
hours, while for their amusements they have the vast circle of
connoisseurship, painting, music, statuary, and natural philosophy, or
rather unnatural, which deals in the wonderful, and knows nothing
of Nature, except her monsters and imperfections.

When Jones had spent the whole day in vain enquiries after Mrs
Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate to his apartment. Here,
while he was venting his grief in private, he heard a violent uproar
below-stairs; and soon after a female voice begged him for heaven’s sake
to come and prevent murder. Jones, who was never backward on any occasion
to help the distressed, immediately ran down-stairs; when stepping into
the dining-room, whence all the noise issued, he beheld the young
gentleman of wisdom and vertù just before mentioned, pinned close to the
wall by his footman, and a young woman standing by, wringing her hands,
and crying out, “He will be murdered! he will be murdered!”
and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in some danger of being choaked,
when Jones flew hastily to his assistance, and rescued him, just as he was
breathing his last, from the unmerciful clutches of the enemy.

Though the fellow had received several kicks and cuffs from the little
gentleman, who had more spirit than strength, he had made it a kind of
scruple of conscience to strike his master, and would have contented
himself with only choaking him; but towards Jones he bore no such respect;
he no sooner therefore found himself a little roughly handled by his new
antagonist, than he gave him one of those punches in the guts which,
though the spectators at Broughton’s amphitheatre have such exquisite
delight in seeing them, convey but very little pleasure in the feeling.

The lusty youth had no sooner received this blow, than he meditated a most
grateful return; and now ensued a combat between Jones and the footman,
which was very fierce, but short; for this fellow was no more able to
contend with Jones than his master had before been to contend with him.

And now, Fortune, according to her usual custom, reversed the face of
affairs. The former victor lay breathless on the ground, and the
vanquished gentleman had recovered breath enough to thank Mr Jones for his
seasonable assistance; he received likewise the hearty thanks of the young
woman present, who was indeed no other than Miss Nancy, the eldest
daughter of the house.

The footman, having now recovered his legs, shook his head at Jones, and,
with a sagacious look, cried—“O d—n me, I’ll have
nothing more to do with you; you have been upon the stage, or I’m d—nably
mistaken.” And indeed we may forgive this his suspicion; for such
was the agility and strength of our heroe, that he was, perhaps, a match
for one of the first-rate boxers, and could, with great ease, have beaten
all the muffled[*] graduates of Mr Broughton’s school.

The master, foaming with wrath, ordered his man immediately to strip, to
which the latter very readily agreed, on condition of receiving his wages.
This condition was presently complied with, and the fellow was discharged.

And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, very strenuously
insisted that his deliverer should take part of a bottle of wine with him;
to which Jones, after much entreaty, consented, though more out of
complacence than inclination; for the uneasiness of his mind fitted him
very little for conversation at this time. Miss Nancy likewise, who was
the only female then in the house, her mamma and sister being both gone to
the play, condescended to favour them with her company.

When the bottle and glasses were on the table the gentleman began to
relate the occasion of the preceding disturbance.

“I hope, sir,” said he to Jones, “you will not from this
accident conclude, that I make a custom of striking my servants, for I
assure you this is the first time I have been guilty of it in my
remembrance, and I have passed by many provoking faults in this very
fellow, before he could provoke me to it; but when you hear what hath
happened this evening, you will, I believe, think me excusable. I happened
to come home several hours before my usual time, when I found four
gentlemen of the cloth at whist by my fire;—and my Hoyle, sir—my
best Hoyle, which cost me a guinea, lying open on the table, with a
quantity of porter spilt on one of the most material leaves of the whole
book. This, you will allow, was provoking; but I said nothing till the
rest of the honest company were gone, and then gave the fellow a gentle
rebuke, who, instead of expressing any concern, made me a pert answer,
`That servants must have their diversions as well as other people; that he
was sorry for the accident which had happened to the book, but that
several of his acquaintance had bought the same for a shilling, and that I
might stop as much in his wages, if I pleased.’ I now gave him a severer
reprimand than before, when the rascal had the insolence to—-In
short, he imputed my early coming home to——In short, he cast a
reflection——He mentioned the name of a young lady, in a manner—in
such a manner that incensed me beyond all patience, and, in my passion, I
struck him.”

Jones answered, “That he believed no person living would blame him;
for my part,” said he, “I confess I should, on the
last-mentioned provocation, have done the same thing.”

Our company had not sat long before they were joined by the mother and
daughter, at their return from the play. And now they all spent a very
chearful evening together; for all but Jones were heartily merry, and even
he put on as much constrained mirth as possible. Indeed, half his natural
flow of animal spirits, joined to the sweetness of his temper, was
sufficient to make a most amiable companion; and notwithstanding the
heaviness of his heart, so agreeable did he make himself on the present
occasion, that, at their breaking up, the young gentleman earnestly
desired his further acquaintance. Miss Nancy was well pleased with him;
and the widow, quite charmed with her new lodger, invited him, with the
other, next morning to breakfast.

Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, though a very
little creature, she was extremely pretty, and the widow had all the
charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. As she was one of the most
innocent creatures in the world, so she was one of the most chearful. She
never thought, nor spoke, nor wished any ill, and had constantly that
desire of pleasing, which may be called the happiest of all desires in
this, that it scarce ever fails of attaining its ends, when not disgraced
by affectation. In short, though her power was very small, she was in her
heart one of the warmest friends. She had been a most affectionate wife,
and was a most fond and tender mother. As our history doth not, like a
newspaper, give great characters to people who never were heard of before,
nor will ever be heard of again, the reader may hence conclude, that this
excellent woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in our
history.

Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentleman himself, whose
wine he had been drinking. He thought he discerned in him much good sense,
though a little too much tainted with town-foppery; but what recommended
him most to Jones were some sentiments of great generosity and humanity,
which occasionally dropt from him; and particularly many expressions of
the highest disinterestedness in the affair of love. On which subject the
young gentleman delivered himself in a language which might have very well
become an Arcadian shepherd of old, and which appeared very extraordinary
when proceeding from the lips of a modern fine gentleman; but he was only
one by imitation, and meant by nature for a much better character.

Chapter vi. — What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with
some hints concerning the government of daughters.

Our company brought together in the morning the same good inclinations
towards each other, with which they had separated the evening before; but
poor Jones was extremely disconsolate; for he had just received
information from Partridge, that Mrs Fitzpatrick had left her lodging, and
that he could not learn whither she was gone. This news highly afflicted
him, and his countenance, as well as his behaviour, in defiance of all his
endeavours to the contrary, betrayed manifest indications of a disordered
mind.

The discourse turned at present, as before, on love; and Mr Nightingale
again expressed many of those warm, generous, and disinterested sentiments
upon this subject, which wise and sober men call romantic, but which wise
and sober women generally regard in a better light. Mrs Miller (for so the
mistress of the house was called) greatly approved these sentiments; but
when the young gentleman appealed to Miss Nancy, she answered only,
“That she believed the gentleman who had spoke the least was capable
of feeling most.”

This compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we should have
been sorry had he passed it by unregarded. He made her indeed a very
polite answer, and concluded with an oblique hint, that her own silence
subjected her to a suspicion of the same kind: for indeed she had scarce
opened her lips either now or the last evening.

“I am glad, Nanny,” says Mrs Miller, “the gentleman hath
made the observation; I protest I am almost of his opinion. What can be
the matter with you, child? I never saw such an alteration. What is become
of all your gaiety? Would you think, sir, I used to call her my little
prattler? She hath not spoke twenty words this week.”

Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a maid-servant,
who brought a bundle in her hand, which, she said, “was delivered by
a porter for Mr Jones.” She added, “That the man immediately
went away, saying, it required no answer.”

Jones expressed some surprize on this occasion, and declared it must be
some mistake; but the maid persisting that she was certain of the name,
all the women were desirous of having the bundle immediately opened; which
operation was at length performed by little Betsy, with the consent of Mr
Jones: and the contents were found to be a domino, a mask, and a
masquerade ticket.

Jones was now more positive than ever in asserting, that these things must
have been delivered by mistake; and Mrs Miller herself expressed some
doubt, and said, “She knew not what to think.” But when Mr
Nightingale was asked, he delivered a very different opinion. “All I
can conclude from it, sir,” said he, “is, that you are a very
happy man; for I make no doubt but these were sent you by some lady whom
you will have the happiness of meeting at the masquerade.”

Jones had not a sufficient degree of vanity to entertain any such
flattering imagination; nor did Mrs Miller herself give much assent to
what Mr Nightingale had said, till Miss Nancy having lifted up the domino,
a card dropt from the sleeve, in which was written as follows:—

Mrs Miller and Miss Nancy now both agreed with Mr Nightingale; nay, Jones
himself was almost persuaded to be of the same opinion. And as no other
lady but Mrs Fitzpatrick, he thought, knew his lodging, he began to
flatter himself with some hopes, that it came from her, and that he might
possibly see his Sophia. These hopes had surely very little foundation;
but as the conduct of Mrs Fitzpatrick, in not seeing him according to her
promise, and in quitting her lodgings, had been very odd and
unaccountable, he conceived some faint hopes, that she (of whom he had
formerly heard a very whimsical character) might possibly intend to do him
that service in a strange manner, which she declined doing by more
ordinary methods. To say the truth, as nothing certain could be concluded
from so odd and uncommon an incident, he had the greater latitude to draw
what imaginary conclusions from it he pleased. As his temper therefore was
naturally sanguine, he indulged it on this occasion, and his imagination
worked up a thousand conceits, to favour and support his expectations of
meeting his dear Sophia in the evening.

Reader, if thou hast any good wishes towards me, I will fully repay them
by wishing thee to be possessed of this sanguine disposition of mind;
since, after having read much and considered long on that subject of
happiness which hath employed so many great pens, I am almost inclined to
fix it in the possession of this temper; which puts us, in a manner, out
of the reach of Fortune, and makes us happy without her assistance.
Indeed, the sensations of pleasure it gives are much more constant as well
as much keener, than those which that blind lady bestows; nature having
wisely contrived, that some satiety and languor should be annexed to all
our real enjoyments, lest we should be so taken up by them, as to be stopt
from further pursuits. I make no manner of doubt but that, in this light,
we may see the imaginary future chancellor just called to the bar, the
archbishop in crape, and the prime minister at the tail of an opposition,
more truly happy than those who are invested with all the power and profit
of those respective offices.

Mr Jones having now determined to go to the masquerade that evening, Mr
Nightingale offered to conduct him thither. The young gentleman, at the
same time, offered tickets to Miss Nancy and her mother; but the good
woman would not accept them. She said, “she did not conceive the
harm which some people imagined in a masquerade; but that such extravagant
diversions were proper only for persons of quality and fortune, and not
for young women who were to get their living, and could, at best, hope to
be married to a good tradesman.”——“A tradesman!”
cries Nightingale, “you shan’t undervalue my Nancy. There is not a
nobleman upon earth above her merit.” “O fie! Mr Nightingale,”
answered Mrs Miller, “you must not fill the girl’s head with such
fancies: but if it was her good luck” (says the mother with a
simper) “to find a gentleman of your generous way of thinking, I
hope she would make a better return to his generosity than to give her
mind up to extravagant pleasures. Indeed, where young ladies bring great
fortunes themselves, they have some right to insist on spending what is
their own; and on that account I have heard the gentlemen say, a man has
sometimes a better bargain with a poor wife, than with a rich one.——But
let my daughters marry whom they will, I shall endeavour to make them
blessings to their husbands:——I beg, therefore, I may hear of
no more masquerades. Nancy is, I am certain, too good a girl to desire to
go; for she must remember when you carried her thither last year, it
almost turned her head; and she did not return to herself, or to her
needle, in a month afterwards.”

Though a gentle sigh, which stole from the bosom of Nancy, seemed to argue
some secret disapprobation of these sentiments, she did not dare openly to
oppose them. For as this good woman had all the tenderness, so she had
preserved all the authority of a parent; and as her indulgence to the
desires of her children was restrained only by her fears for their safety
and future welfare, so she never suffered those commands which proceeded
from such fears to be either disobeyed or disputed. And this the young
gentleman, who had lodged two years in the house, knew so well, that he
presently acquiesced in the refusal.

Mr Nightingale, who grew every minute fonder of Jones, was very desirous
of his company that day to dinner at the tavern, where he offered to
introduce him to some of his acquaintance; but Jones begged to be excused,
“as his cloaths,” he said, “were not yet come to town.”

To confess the truth, Mr Jones was now in a situation, which sometimes
happens to be the case of young gentlemen of much better figure than
himself. In short, he had not one penny in his pocket; a situation in much
greater credit among the antient philosophers than among the modern wise
men who live in Lombard-street, or those who frequent White’s
chocolate-house. And, perhaps, the great honours which those philosophers
have ascribed to an empty pocket may be one of the reasons of that high
contempt in which they are held in the aforesaid street and
chocolate-house.

Now if the antient opinion, that men might live very comfortably on virtue
only, be, as the modern wise men just above-mentioned pretend to have
discovered, a notorious error; no less false is, I apprehend, that
position of some writers of romance, that a man can live altogether on
love; for however delicious repasts this may afford to some of our senses
or appetites, it is most certain it can afford none to others. Those,
therefore, who have placed too great a confidence in such writers, have
experienced their error when it was too late; and have found that love was
no more capable of allaying hunger, than a rose is capable of delighting
the ear, or a violin of gratifying the smell.

Notwithstanding, therefore, all the delicacies which love had set before
him, namely, the hopes of seeing Sophia at the masquerade; on which,
however ill-founded his imagination might be, he had voluptuously feasted
during the whole day, the evening no sooner came than Mr Jones began to
languish for some food of a grosser kind. Partridge discovered this by
intuition, and took the occasion to give some oblique hints concerning the
bank-bill; and, when these were rejected with disdain, he collected
courage enough once more to mention a return to Mr Allworthy.

“Partridge,” cries Jones, “you cannot see my fortune in
a more desperate light than I see it myself; and I begin heartily to
repent that I suffered you to leave a place where you was settled, and to
follow me. However, I insist now on your returning home; and for the
expense and trouble which you have so kindly put yourself to on my
account, all the cloaths I left behind in your care I desire you would
take as your own. I am sorry I can make you no other acknowledgment.”

He spoke these words with so pathetic an accent, that Partridge, among
whose vices ill-nature or hardness of heart were not numbered, burst into
tears; and after swearing he would not quit him in his distress, he began
with the most earnest entreaties to urge his return home. “For
heaven’s sake, sir,” says he, “do but consider; what can your
honour do?—how is it possible you can live in this town without
money? Do what you will, sir, or go wherever you please, I am resolved not
to desert you. But pray, sir, consider—do pray, sir, for your own
sake, take it into your consideration; and I’m sure,” says he,
“that your own good sense will bid you return home.”

“How often shall I tell thee,” answered Jones, “that I
have no home to return to? Had I any hopes that Mr Allworthy’s doors would
be open to receive me, I want no distress to urge me—nay, there is
no other cause upon earth, which could detain me a moment from flying to
his presence; but, alas! that I am for ever banished from. His last words
were—O, Partridge, they still ring in my ears—his last words
were, when he gave me a sum of money—what it was I know not, but
considerable I’m sure it was—his last words were—`I am
resolved from this day forward, on no account to converse with you any
more.’”

Here passion stopt the mouth of Jones, as surprize for a moment did that
of Partridge; but he soon recovered the use of speech, and after a short
preface, in which he declared he had no inquisitiveness in his temper,
enquired what Jones meant by a considerable sum—he knew not how much—and
what was become of the money.

In both these points he now received full satisfaction; on which he was
proceeding to comment, when he was interrupted by a message from Mr
Nightingale, who desired his master’s company in his apartment.

When the two gentlemen were both attired for the masquerade, and Mr
Nightingale had given orders for chairs to be sent for, a circumstance of
distress occurred to Jones, which will appear very ridiculous to many of
my readers. This was how to procure a shilling; but if such readers will
reflect a little on what they have themselves felt from the want of a
thousand pounds, or, perhaps, of ten or twenty, to execute a favourite
scheme, they will have a perfect idea of what Mr Jones felt on this
occasion. For this sum, therefore, he applied to Partridge, which was the
first he had permitted him to advance, and was the last he intended that
poor fellow should advance in his service. To say the truth, Partridge had
lately made no offer of this kind. Whether it was that he desired to see
the bank-bill broke in upon, or that distress should prevail on Jones to
return home, or from what other motive it proceeded, I will not determine.

Chapter vii. — Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.

Our cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great
Arbiter Deliciarum, the great high-priest of pleasure, presides; and, like
other heathen priests, imposes on his votaries by the pretended presence
of the deity, when in reality no such deity is there.

Mr Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his companion, soon left
him, and walked off with a female, saying, “Now you are here, sir,
you must beat about for your own game.”

Jones began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was present; and
these hopes gave him more spirits than the lights, the music, and the
company; though these are pretty strong antidotes against the spleen. He
now accosted every woman he saw, whose stature, shape, or air, bore any
resemblance to his angel. To all of whom he endeavoured to say something
smart, in order to engage an answer, by which he might discover that voice
which he thought it impossible he should mistake. Some of these answered
by a question, in a squeaking voice, Do you know me? Much the greater
number said, I don’t know you, sir, and nothing more. Some called him an
impertinent fellow; some made him no answer at all; some said, Indeed I
don’t know your voice, and I shall have nothing to say to you; and many
gave him as kind answers as he could wish, but not in the voice he desired
to hear.

Whilst he was talking with one of these last (who was in the habit of a
shepherdess) a lady in a domino came up to him, and slapping him on the
shoulder, whispered him, at the same time, in the ear, “If you talk
any longer with that trollop, I will acquaint Miss Western.”

Jones no sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting his former
companion, he applied to the domino, begging and entreating her to show
him the lady she had mentioned, if she was then in the room.

The mask walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost apartment before
she spoke; and then, instead of answering him, sat down, and declared she
was tired. Jones sat down by her, and still persisted in his entreaties;
at last the lady coldly answered, “I imagined Mr Jones had been a
more discerning lover, than to suffer any disguise to conceal his mistress
from him.” “Is she here, then, madam?” replied Jones,
with some vehemence. Upon which the lady cried—“Hush, sir, you
will be observed. I promise you, upon my honour, Miss Western is not here.”

Jones, now taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating her in the most
earnest manner, to acquaint him where he might find Sophia; and when he
could obtain no direct answer, he began to upbraid her gently for having
disappointed him the day before; and concluded, saying, “Indeed, my
good fairy queen, I know your majesty very well, notwithstanding the
affected disguise of your voice. Indeed, Mrs Fitzpatrick, it is a little
cruel to divert yourself at the expense of my torments.”

The mask answered, “Though you have so ingeniously discovered me, I
must still speak in the same voice, lest I should be known by others. And
do you think, good sir, that I have no greater regard for my cousin, than
to assist in carrying on an affair between you two, which must end in her
ruin, as well as your own? Besides, I promise you, my cousin is not mad
enough to consent to her own destruction, if you are so much her enemy as
to tempt her to it.”

“Alas, madam!” said Jones, “you little know my heart,
when you call me an enemy of Sophia.”

“And yet to ruin any one,” cries the other, “you will
allow, is the act of an enemy; and when by the same act you must knowingly
and certainly bring ruin on yourself, is it not folly or madness, as well
as guilt? Now, sir, my cousin hath very little more than her father will
please to give her; very little for one of her fashion—you know him,
and you know your own situation.”

Jones vowed he had no such design on Sophia, “That he would rather
suffer the most violent of deaths than sacrifice her interest to his
desires.” He said, “he knew how unworthy he was of her, every
way, that he had long ago resolved to quit all such aspiring thoughts, but
that some strange accidents had made him desirous to see her once more,
when he promised he would take leave of her for ever. No, madam,”
concluded he, “my love is not of that base kind which seeks its own
satisfaction at the expense of what is most dear to its object. I would
sacrifice everything to the possession of my Sophia, but Sophia herself.”

Though the reader may have already conceived no very sublime idea of the
virtue of the lady in the mask; and though possibly she may hereafter
appear not to deserve one of the first characters of her sex; yet, it is
certain, these generous sentiments made a strong impression upon her, and
greatly added to the affection she had before conceived for our young
heroe.

The lady now, after silence of a few moments, said, “She did not see
his pretensions to Sophia so much in the light of presumption, as of
imprudence. Young fellows,” says she, “can never have too
aspiring thoughts. I love ambition in a young man, and I would have you
cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may succeed with those who
are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am convinced there are women——but
don’t you think me a strange creature, Mr Jones, to be thus giving advice
to a man with whom I am so little acquainted, and one with whose behaviour
to me I have so little reason to be pleased?”

Here Jones began to apologize, and to hope he had not offended in anything
he had said of her cousin.—To which the mask answered, “And
are you so little versed in the sex, to imagine you can well affront a
lady more than by entertaining her with your passion for another woman? If
the fairy queen had conceived no better opinion of your gallantry, she
would scarce have appointed you to meet her at the masquerade.”

Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; but
gallantry to the ladies was among his principles of honour; and he held it
as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge to love, as if it had been
a challenge to fight. Nay, his very love to Sophia made it necessary for
him to keep well with the lady, as he made no doubt but she was capable of
bringing him into the presence of the other.

He began therefore to make a very warm answer to her last speech, when a
mask, in the character of an old woman, joined them. This mask was one of
those ladies who go to a masquerade only to vent ill-nature, by telling
people rude truths, and by endeavouring, as the phrase is, to spoil as
much sport as they are able. This good lady, therefore, having observed
Jones, and his friend, whom she well knew, in close consultation together
in a corner of the room, concluded she could nowhere satisfy her spleen
better than by interrupting them. She attacked them, therefore, and soon
drove them from their retirement; nor was she contented with this, but
pursued them to every place which they shifted to avoid her; till Mr
Nightingale, seeing the distress of his friend, at last relieved him, and
engaged the old woman in another pursuit.

While Jones and his mask were walking together about the room, to rid
themselves of the teazer, he observed his lady speak to several masks,
with the same freedom of acquaintance as if they had been barefaced. He
could not help expressing his surprize at this; saying, “Sure,
madam, you must have infinite discernment, to know people in all
disguises.” To which the lady answered, “You cannot conceive
anything more insipid and childish than a masquerade to the people of
fashion, who in general know one another as well here as when they meet in
an assembly or a drawing-room; nor will any woman of condition converse
with a person with whom she is not acquainted. In short, the generality of
persons whom you see here may more properly be said to kill time in this
place than in any other; and generally retire from hence more tired than
from the longest sermon. To say the truth, I begin to be in that situation
myself; and if I have any faculty at guessing, you are not much better
pleased. I protest it would be almost charity in me to go home for your
sake.” “I know but one charity equal to it,” cries
Jones, “and that is to suffer me to wait on you home.” “Sure,”
answered the lady, “you have a strange opinion of me, to imagine,
that upon such an acquaintance, I would let you into my doors at this time
of night. I fancy you impute the friendship I have shown my cousin to some
other motive. Confess honestly; don’t you consider this contrived
interview as little better than a downright assignation? Are you used, Mr
Jones, to make these sudden conquests?” “I am not used, madam,”
said Jones, “to submit to such sudden conquests; but as you have
taken my heart by surprize, the rest of my body hath a right to follow; so
you must pardon me if I resolve to attend you wherever you go.” He
accompanied these words with some proper actions; upon which the lady,
after a gentle rebuke, and saying their familiarity would be observed,
told him, “She was going to sup with an acquaintance, whither she
hoped he would not follow her; for if you should,” said she, “I
shall be thought an unaccountable creature, though my friend indeed is not
censorious: yet I hope you won’t follow me; I protest I shall not know
what to say if you do.”

The lady presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones,
notwithstanding the severe prohibition he had received, presumed to attend
her. He was now reduced to the same dilemma we have mentioned before,
namely, the want of a shilling, and could not relieve it by borrowing as
before. He therefore walked boldly on after the chair in which his lady
rode, pursued by a grand huzza, from all the chairmen present, who wisely
take the best care they can to discountenance all walking afoot by their
betters. Luckily, however, the gentry who attend at the Opera-house were
too busy to quit their stations, and as the lateness of the hour prevented
him from meeting many of their brethren in the street, he proceeded
without molestation, in a dress, which, at another season, would have
certainly raised a mob at his heels.

The lady was set down in a street not far from Hanover-square, where the
door being presently opened, she was carried in, and the gentleman,
without any ceremony, walked in after her.

Jones and his companion were now together in a very well-furnished and
well-warmed room; when the female, still speaking in her masquerade voice,
said she was surprized at her friend, who must absolutely have forgot her
appointment; at which, after venting much resentment, she suddenly exprest
some apprehension from Jones, and asked him what the world would think of
their having been alone together in a house at that time of night? But
instead of a direct answer to so important a question, Jones began to be
very importunate with the lady to unmask; and at length having prevailed,
there appeared not Mrs Fitzpatrick, but the Lady Bellaston herself.

It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which consisted
of very common and ordinary occurrences, and which lasted from two till
six o’clock in the morning. It is sufficient to mention all of it that is
anywise material to this history. And this was a promise that the lady
would endeavour to find out Sophia, and in a few days bring him to an
interview with her, on condition that he would then take his leave of her.
When this was thoroughly settled, and a second meeting in the evening
appointed at the same place, they separated; the lady returned to her
house, and Jones to his lodgings.

Chapter viii. — Containing a scene of distress, which will appear
very extraordinary to most of our readers.

Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours’ sleep, summoned Partridge
to his presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty pounds, ordered
him to go and change it. Partridge received this with sparkling eyes,
though, when he came to reflect farther, it raised in him some suspicions
not very advantageous to the honour of his master: to these the dreadful
idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in which his master had gone
out and returned, and his having been abroad all night, contributed. In
plain language, the only way he could possibly find to account for the
possession of this note, was by robbery: and, to confess the truth, the
reader, unless he should suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady
Bellaston, can hardly imagine any other.

To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do justice to the
liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from her, who,
though she did not give much into the hackney charities of the age, such
as building hospitals, &c., was not, however, entirely void of that
Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think) that a young fellow
of merit, without a shilling in the world, was no improper object of this
virtue.

Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with Mrs
Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young gentlemen, with
the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they waited from three till
almost five before the good woman appeared. She had been out of town to
visit a relation, of whom, at her return, she gave the following account.

“I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if
you knew the occasion—I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six
miles off, who now lies in.—It should be a warning to all persons
(says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly. There is
no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how shall I
describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor cousin? she
hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this dreadful weather, in a
cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and not a bushel of coals in
her house to supply her with fire; her second son, that sweet little
fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed with his mother; for there is
no other bed in the house. Poor little Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will
never see your favourite any more; for he is really very ill. The rest of
the children are in pretty good health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do
herself an injury: she is but thirteen years old, Mr Nightingale, and yet,
in my life, I never saw a better nurse: she tends both her mother and her
brother; and, what is wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the
chearfulness in the world to her mother; and yet I saw her—I saw the
poor child, Mr Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the tears from
her eyes.” Here Mrs Miller was prevented, by her own tears, from
going on, and there was not, I believe, a person present who did not
accompany her in them; at length she a little recovered herself, and
proceeded thus: “In all this distress the mother supports her
spirits in a surprizing manner. The danger of her son sits heaviest upon
her, and yet she endeavours as much as possible to conceal even this
concern, on her husband’s account. Her grief, however, sometimes gets the
better of all her endeavours; for she was always extravagantly fond of
this boy, and a most sensible, sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I
was never more affected in my life than when I heard the little wretch,
who is hardly yet seven years old, while his mother was wetting him with
her tears, beg her to be comforted. `Indeed, mamma,’ cried the child, `I
shan’t die; God Almighty, I’m sure, won’t take Tommy away; let heaven be
ever so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve with you and my
papa than go to it.’ Pardon me, gentlemen, I can’t help it” (says
she, wiping her eyes), “such sensibility and affection in a child.—And
yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a day or two will, most
probably, place him beyond the reach of all human evils. The father is,
indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor man, his countenance is the very
picture of horror, and he looks like one rather dead than alive. Oh
heavens! what a scene did I behold at my first coming into the room! The
good creature was lying behind the bolster, supporting at once both his
child and his wife. He had nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat
was spread over the bed, to supply the want of blankets.—When he
rose up at my entrance, I scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr Jones,
within this fortnight, as you ever beheld; Mr Nightingale hath seen him.
His eyes sunk, his face pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with
cold, and worn with hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail
upon him to eat.—He told me himself in a whisper—he told me—I
can’t repeat it—he said he could not bear to eat the bread his
children wanted. And yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this
misery his wife has as good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the
greatest affluence; I tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.—The
means of procuring her this, he said, he believed was sent him by an angel
from heaven. I know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask
a single question.

“This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to torment each other?”
“Indeed, mamma,” cries Nancy, “I have always looked on
my cousin Anderson” (for that was her name) “as one of the
happiest of women.” “I am sure,” says Mrs Miller,
“the case at present is much otherwise; for any one might have
discerned that the tender consideration of each other’s sufferings makes
the most intolerable part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife.
Compared to which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons only,
are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is not two
years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a most loving
family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be the happiest
people in the world.” “I never saw the least sign of misery at
her house,” replied Nancy; “I am sure my heart bleeds for what
you now tell me.”—“O child,” answered the mother,
“she hath always endeavoured to make the best of everything. They
have always been in great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath
been brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain
his brother; and about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their
goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a letter to
me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never delivered.—What
must he think of my suffering a week to pass before he heard of me?”

It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it was
ended he took Mrs Miller apart with him into another room, and, delivering
her his purse, in which was the sum of £50, desired her to send as much of
it as she thought proper to these poor people. The look which Mrs Miller
gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy to be described. She burst into
a kind of agony of transport, and cryed out—“Good heavens! is
there such a man in the world?”—But recollecting herself, she
said, “Indeed I know one such; but can there be another?”
“I hope, madam,” cries Jones, “there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distresses in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more.” Mrs Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, “She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;”
adding, “that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found them.”

They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed much
concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom indeed he knew;
for he had seen them more than once at Mrs Miller’s. He inveighed against
the folly of making oneself liable for the debts of others; vented many
bitter execrations against the brother; and concluded with wishing
something could be done for the unfortunate family. “Suppose, madam,”
said he, “you should recommend them to Mr Allworthy? Or what think
you of a collection? I will give them a guinea with all my heart.”

Mrs Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had whispered the
generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion; though, if either of
them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely without reason. For the
liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was not an example which he had
any obligation to follow; and there are thousands who would not have
contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed he did not in effect, for he
made no tender of anything; and therefore, as the others thought proper to
make no demand, he kept his money in his pocket.

I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better opportunity than
at present to communicate my observation, that the world are in general
divided into two opinions concerning charity, which are the very reverse
of each other. One party seems to hold, that all acts of this kind are to
be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and, however little you give (if indeed no
more than your good wishes), you acquire a great degree of merit in so
doing. Others, on the contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded, that
beneficence is a positive duty, and that whenever the rich fall greatly
short of their ability in relieving the distresses of the poor, their
pitiful largesses are so far from being meritorious, that they have only
performed their duty by halves, and are in some sense more contemptible
than those who have entirely neglected it.

To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall only
add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and the
receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.

Chapter ix. — Which treats of matters of a very different kind from
those in the preceding chapter.

In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation again
ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same ordinary
occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars, which we
despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is one whose
devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to their saints, wants
to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am so far from desiring to
exhibit such pictures to the public, that I would wish to draw a curtain
over those that have been lately set forth in certain French novels; very
bungling copies of which have been presented us here under the name of
translations.

Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding, after
repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of obtaining this
by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to treat even the
mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he resolved to try some
other method. He made no doubt but that Lady Bellaston knew where his
angel was, so he thought it most likely that some of her servants should
be acquainted with the same secret. Partridge therefore was employed to
get acquainted with those servants, in order to fish this secret out of
them.

Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his poor
master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he met with in
discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having disobliged her, and
the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston of the resolution which
Sophia had taken against him, and of her having purposely concealed
herself from him, which he had sufficient reason to believe might be true;
he had still a difficulty to combat which it was not in the power of his
mistress to remove, however kind her inclination might have been. This was
the exposing of her to be disinherited of all her father’s estate, the
almost inevitable consequence of their coming together without a consent,
which he had no hopes of ever obtaining.

Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose violent
fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so that by her
means he was now become one of the best-dressed men about town; and was
not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses we have before
mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of affluence beyond what he
had ever known.

Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to their
consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a woman, without
making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the proprietor of which doth
not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I believe, more irksome than to
support love with gratitude only; especially where inclination pulls the
heart a contrary way. Such was the unhappy case of Jones; for though the
virtuous love he bore to Sophia, and which left very little affection for
any other woman, had been entirely out of the question, he could never
have been able to have made any adequate return to the generous passion of
this lady, who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now
entered at least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety
of youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to
maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out of
season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with which
Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She had, besides,
a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers, though very beautiful
to the eye, very improper to be placed in a wilderness of sweets, and what
above all others is most disagreeable to the breath of love.

Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he felt his
obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly discern
the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded, the extreme
violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew the lady would think
him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have thought himself so. He
knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours were conferred;
and as his necessity obliged him to accept them, so his honour, he
concluded, forced him to pay the price. This therefore he resolved to do,
whatever misery it cost him, and to devote himself to her, from that great
principle of justice, by which the laws of some countries oblige a debtor,
who is no otherwise capable of discharging his debt, to become the slave
of his creditor.

While he was meditating on these matters, he received the following note
from the lady:—

This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very great;
but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an hour
afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which
contained as follows:—

To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last epistle than
he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it from complying with
the earnest entreaties of Mr Nightingale, with whom he had now contracted
much intimacy and friendship. These entreaties were to go with that young
gentleman and his company to a new play, which was to be acted that
evening, and which a very large party had agreed to damn, from some
dislike they had taken to the author, who was a friend to one of Mr
Nightingale’s acquaintance. And this sort of fun, our heroe, we are
ashamed to confess, would willingly have preferred to the above kind
appointment; but his honour got the better of his inclination.

Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we think
proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader may possibly
be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady Bellaston, in bringing
her lover to the very house where her rival was lodged.

First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had hitherto
met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that lady, was now
become a methodist, and had that very morning waited upon her ladyship,
and after rebuking her very severely for her past life, had positively
declared that she would, on no account, be instrumental in carrying on any
of her affairs for the future.

The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady made her
despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones that
evening; but as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness at the
disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it came into
her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was immediately
consented to, and a proper lady provided for her companion. Mrs Honour was
likewise despatched with Mrs Etoff on the same errand of pleasure; and
thus her own house was left free for the safe reception of Mr Jones, with
whom she promised herself two or three hours of uninterrupted conversation
after her return from the place where she dined, which was at a friend’s
house in a pretty distant part of the town, near her old place of
assignation, where she had engaged herself before she was well apprized of
the revolution that had happened in the mind and morals of her late
confidante.

Chapter x. — A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some
eyes.

Mr Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs Miller
rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired his
company below-stairs, to drink tea in the parlour.

Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person to him,
saying, “This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly beholden
to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his sincerest thanks.”

The man had scarce entered upon that speech which Mrs Miller had so kindly
prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each other, showed
at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of the latter began
instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his speech, he sunk down
into a chair, crying, “It is so, I am convinced it is so!”

“Bless me! what’s the meaning of this?” cries Mrs Miller;
“you are not ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a dram this instant.”

“Be not frighted, madam,” cries Jones, “I have almost as
much need of a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprized at this
unexpected meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs Miller.”

“An acquaintance!” cries the man.—“Oh, heaven!”

“Ay, an acquaintance,” repeated Jones, “and an honoured
acquaintance too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture
everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction, may
I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!”

“Oh, you are an excellent young man,” cries Mrs Miller:—“Yes,
indeed, poor creature! he hath ventured everything.—If he had not
had one of the best of constitutions, it must have killed him.”

“Cousin,” cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered
himself, “this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to
whom, before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was to
whose generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured for
her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest, bravest, noblest; of all
human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of such a
nature!”

“Mention nothing of obligations,” cries Jones eagerly; “not
a word, I insist upon it, not a word” (meaning, I suppose, that he
would not have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person).
“If, by the trifle you have received from me, I have preserved a
whole family, sure pleasure was never bought so cheap.”

“Oh, sir!” cries the man, “I wish you could this instant
see my house. If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention,
I am convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you with
the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly removed, and
chiefly by your goodness.——My children have now a bed to lie
on——and they have——they have——eternal
blessings reward you for it!——they have bread to eat. My
little boy is recovered; my wife is out of danger, and I am happy. All,
all owing to you, sir, and to my cousin here, one of the best of women.
Indeed, sir, I must see you at my house.—Indeed my wife must see
you, and thank you.—My children too must express their gratitude.——Indeed,
sir, they are not without a sense of their obligation; but what is my
feeling when I reflect to whom I owe that they are now capable of
expressing their gratitude.——Oh, sir, the little hearts which
you have warmed had now been cold as ice without your assistance.”

Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but indeed
the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped his words.
And now Mrs Miller likewise began to pour forth thanksgivings, as well in
her own name, as in that of her cousin, and concluded with saying, “She
doubted not but such goodness would meet a glorious reward.”

Jones answered, “He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your
cousin’s account, madam,” said he, “hath given me a sensation
more pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved
at hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of
having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot
feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them, as
they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater honour, a
higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure than the ambitious, the
avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain.”

The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a hasty
leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the hand, and
desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that he would
himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own house. He
then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady Bellaston’s, greatly
exulting in the happiness which he had procured to this poor family; nor
could he forbear reflecting, without horror, on the dreadful consequences
which must have attended them, had he listened rather to the voice of
strict justice than to that of mercy, when he was attacked on the high
road.

Mrs Miller sung forth the praises of Jones during the whole evening, in
which Mr Anderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied her, that
he was often on the very point of mentioning the circumstance of the
robbery. However, he luckily recollected himself, and avoided an
indiscretion which would have been so much the greater, as he knew Mrs
Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her principles. He was likewise
well apprized of the loquacity of this lady; and yet such was his
gratitude, that it had almost got the better both of discretion and shame,
and made him publish that which would have defamed his own character,
rather than omit any circumstances which might do the fullest honour to
his benefactor.

Chapter xi. — In which the reader will be surprized.

Mr Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier than the
lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of the place
where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very vexatious to one
in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown into the drawing-room,
where he had not been many minutes before the door opened, and in came——no
other than Sophia herself, who had left the play before the end of the
first act; for this, as we have already said, being, a new play, at which
two large parties met, the one to damn, and the other to applaud, a
violent uproar, and an engagement between the two parties, had so
terrified our heroine, that she was glad to put herself under the
protection of a young gentleman who safely conveyed her to her chair.

As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at home till
late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came hastily in, and
went directly to a glass which almost fronted her, without once looking
towards the upper end of the room, where the statue of Jones now stood
motionless.—-In this glass it was, after contemplating her own
lovely face, that she first discovered the said statue; when, instantly
turning about, she perceived the reality of the vision: upon which she
gave a violent scream, and scarce preserved herself from fainting, till
Jones was able to move to her, and support her in his arms.

To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is beyond my
power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may be judged to
have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be supposed that I
should be able to express them: and the misfortune is, that few of my
readers have been enough in love to feel by their own hearts what past at
this time in theirs.

After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said—“I
see, madam, you are surprized.”—“Surprized!”
answered she; “Oh heavens! Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt
whether you are the person you seem.”—“Indeed,”
cries he, “my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for this once calling you
so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune, after so many
disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you. Oh! my Sophia,
did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in this long, fruitless
pursuit.”—“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a little
recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved air.—“Can you be
so cruel to ask that question?” cries Jones; “Need I say, of
you?” “Of me!” answered Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones,
then, any such important business with me?”—“To some,
madam,” cries Jones, “this might seem an important business”
(giving her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, you will find it of
the same value as when it was lost.” Sophia took the pocket-book,
and was going to speak, when he interrupted her thus:—“Let us
not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments which fortune hath
so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of a much superior kind.
Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon.”—“My pardon!”
cries she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect, after
what I have heard.”—“I scarce know what I say,”
answered Jones. “By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O
my Sophia! henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am.
If any remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment’s uneasiness
to that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance of
what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind.”

Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than snow, and
her heart was throbbing through her stays. But, at the mention of Upton, a
blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which before she had scarce
lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a glance of disdain. He understood
this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: “O my Sophia! my only
love! you cannot hate or despise me more for what happened there than I do
myself; but yet do me the justice to think that my heart was never
unfaithful to you. That had no share in the folly I was guilty of; it was
even then unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay,
almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still on your charming idea, and
could seriously love no other woman. But if my heart had not been engaged,
she, into whose company I accidently fell at that cursed place, was not an
object of serious love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen her from
that day to this; and never intend or desire to see her again.”
Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this; but forcing into her
face an air of more coldness than she had yet assumed, “Why,”
said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the trouble to make a defence where
you are not accused? If I thought it worth while to accuse you, I have a
charge of unpardonable nature indeed.”—“What is it, for
heaven’s sake?” answered Jones, trembling and pale, expecting to
hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. “Oh,” said she, “how
is it possible! can everything noble and everything base be lodged
together in the same bosom?” Lady Bellaston, and the ignominious
circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his mind, and stopt his
mouth from any reply. “Could I have expected,” proceeded
Sophia, “such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any
man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the
meanest vulgar! to have any little favours that my unguarded heart may
have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of there! nay, even to hear
that you had been forced to fly from my love!”

Nothing could equal Jones’s surprize at these words of Sophia; but yet,
not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend himself than
if she had touched that tender string at which his conscience had been
alarmed. By some examination he presently found, that her supposing him
guilty of so shocking an outrage against his love, and her reputation, was
entirely owing to Partridge’s talk at the inns before landlords and
servants; for Sophia confessed to him it was from them that she received
her intelligence. He had no very great difficulty to make her believe that
he was entirely innocent of an offence so foreign to his character; but
she had a great deal to hinder him from going instantly home, and putting
Partridge to death, which he more than once swore he would do. This point
being cleared up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each
other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with
conjuring her to give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to
have given ear to a petition of a very different nature; for before they
were aware they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that
sounded like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, “That,
did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow her own inclinations,
ruin with him would be more welcome to her than the most affluent fortune
with another man.” At the mention of the word ruin, he started, let
drop her hand, which he had held for some time, and striking his breast
with his own, cried out, “Oh, Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No; by
heavens, no! I never will act so base a part. Dearest Sophia, whatever it
costs me, I will renounce you; I will give you up; I will tear all such
hopes from my heart as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I
will ever retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall be at a distance
from you; it shall be in some foreign land; from whence no voice, no sigh
of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb your ears. And when I am dead”—He
would have gone on, but was stopt by a flood of tears which Sophia let
fall in his bosom, upon which she leaned, without being able to speak one
word. He kissed them off, which, for some moments, she allowed him to do
without any resistance; but then recollecting herself, gently withdrew out
of his arms; and, to turn the discourse from a subject too tender, and
which she found she could not support, bethought herself to ask him a
question she never had time to put to him before, “How he came into
that room?” He began to stammer, and would, in all probability, have
raised her suspicions by the answer he was going to give, when, at once,
the door opened, and in came Lady Bellaston.

Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together, she
suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting herself
with admirable presence of mind, she said—though with sufficient
indications of surprize both in voice and countenance—“I
thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?”

Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what means he had
discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion of the real truth,
or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted, so she was very little
confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in all their conversations on
the subject, entirely taken her side against her father. With very little
hesitation, therefore, she went through the whole story of what had
happened at the play-house, and the cause of her hasty return.

The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of
rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as the
behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed her, she
put on an air of good humour, and said, “I should not have broke in
so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had company.”

Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these words. To
which that poor young lady, having her face overspread with blushes and
confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, “I am sure, madam, I
shall always think the honour of your ladyship’s company——”
“I hope, at least,” cries Lady Bellaston, “I interrupt
no business.”—“No, madam,” answered Sophia,
“our business was at an end. Your ladyship may be pleased to
remember I have often mentioned the loss of my pocket-book, which this
gentleman, having very luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with
the bill in it.”

Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink
with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers, and looking
more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby squire, when he is
first introduced into a polite assembly. He began, however, now to recover
himself; and taking a hint from the behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he
saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance with him, he resolved as
entirely to affect the stranger on his part. He said, “Ever since he
had the pocket-book in his possession, he had used great diligence in
enquiring out the lady whose name was writ in it; but never till that day
could be so fortunate to discover her.”

Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady Bellaston;
but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once hinted to her that
it was in his possession, she believed not one syllable of what Sophia now
said, and wonderfully admired the extreme quickness of the young lady in
inventing such an excuse. The reason of Sophia’s leaving the playhouse met
with no better credit; and though she could not account for the meeting
between these two lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.

With an affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss Western,
you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not only as it fell
into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he happened to discover to
whom it belonged. I think you would not consent to have it advertised.—It
was great good fortune, sir, that you found out to whom the note belonged.”

“Oh, madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a
pocket-book, in which the young lady’s name was written.”

“That was very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady:—“And
it was no less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is
very little known.”

Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he conceived
he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia as to the question she had
asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he proceeded thus: “Why,
madam,” answered he, “it was by the luckiest chance imaginable
I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had found, and the name of
the owner, the other night to a lady at the masquerade, who told me she
believed she knew where I might see Miss Western; and if I would come to
her house the next morning she would inform me, I went according to her
appointment, but she was not at home; nor could I ever meet with her till
this morning, when she directed me to your ladyship’s house. I came
accordingly, and did myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon
my saying that I had very particular business, a servant showed me into
this room; where I had not been long before the young lady returned from
the play.”

Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady
Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was
visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a little
alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the agitation of
Sophia’s mind, resolved to take the only method of relieving her, which
was by retiring; but, before he did this, he said, “I believe,
madam, it is customary to give some reward on these occasions;—I
must insist on a very high one for my honesty;—it is, madam, no less
than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit here.”

“Sir,” replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a
gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of fashion.”

Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own
satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed lest
Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too well.

Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, who,
notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred to
behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky
circumstance, as he communicated to her the house where he lodged, with
which Sophia was unacquainted.

Chapter xii. — In which the thirteenth book is concluded.

The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much truth:
by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie is not
only excusable but commendable.

And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a right to
this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in the affair of
love; for which they may plead precept, education, and above all, the
sanction, nay, I may say the necessity of custom, by which they are
restrained, not from submitting to the honest impulses of nature (for that
would be a foolish prohibition), but from owning them.

We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now pursued the
dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable philosopher. As she was
perfectly satisfied then, that Lady Bellaston was ignorant of the person
of Jones, so she determined to keep her in that ignorance, though at the
expense of a little fibbing.

Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, “Upon my
word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don’t remember
ever to have seen his face before.”

“Nor I neither, madam,” cries Sophia. “I must say he
behaved very handsomely in relation to my note.”

“Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow,” said the lady:
“don’t you think so?”

“I did not take much notice of him,” answered Sophia, “but
I thought he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise.”

“You are extremely right,” cries Lady Bellaston: “you
may see, by his manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay,
notwithstanding his returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost
question whether he is a gentleman.——I have always observed
there is a something in persons well born, which others can never acquire.——I
think I will give orders not to be at home to him.”

“Nay, sure, madam,” answered Sophia, “one can’t suspect
after what he hath done;—besides, if your ladyship observed him,
there was an elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of
expression that, that——”

“I confess,” said Lady Bellaston, “the fellow hath words——And
indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.”

“I forgive your ladyship!” said Sophia.

“Yes, indeed you must,” answered she, laughing; “for I
had a horrible suspicion when I first came into the room——I
vow you must forgive it; but I suspected it was Mr Jones himself.”

“Did your ladyship, indeed?” cries Sophia, blushing, and
affecting a laugh.

“Yes, I vow I did,” answered she. “I can’t imagine what
put it into my head: for, give the fellow his due, he was genteely drest;
which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your friend.”

“This raillery,” cries Sophia, “is a little cruel, Lady
Bellaston, after my promise to your ladyship.”

“Not at all, child,” said the lady;——“It
would have been cruel before; but after you have promised me never to
marry without your father’s consent, in which you know is implied your
giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little raillery on a passion which
was pardonable enough in a young girl in the country, and of which you
tell me you have so entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear
Sophy, if you cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall
begin to fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether
you have dealt ingenuously with me.”

“Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship mistakes
me, if you imagine I had any concern on his account.”

“On his account!” answered the lady: “You must have
mistaken me; I went no farther than his dress;——for I would
not injure your taste by any other comparison—I don’t imagine, my
dear Sophy, if your Mr Jones had been such a fellow as this—”

“I thought,” says Sophia, “your ladyship had allowed him
to be handsome”——

“Whom, pray?” cried the lady hastily.

“Mr Jones,” answered Sophia;—and immediately
recollecting herself, “Mr Jones!—no, no; I ask your pardon;—I
mean the gentleman who was just now here.”

“O Sophy! Sophy!” cries the lady; “this Mr Jones, I am
afraid, still runs in your head.”

“Then, upon my honour, madam,” said Sophia, “Mr Jones is
as entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us.”

“Upon my honour,” said Lady Bellaston, “I believe it.
Forgive me, therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I
will never mention his name any more.”

And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight of Sophia
than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her rival a
little longer, had not business of more importance called her away. As for
Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy under this first practice of
deceit; upon which, when she retired to her chamber, she reflected with
the highest uneasiness and conscious shame. Nor could the peculiar
hardship of her situation, and the necessity of the case, at all reconcile
her mind to her conduct; for the frame of her mind was too delicate to
bear the thought of having been guilty of a falsehood, however qualified
by circumstances. Nor did this thought once suffer her to close her eyes
during the whole succeeding night.

BOOK XIV. — CONTAINING TWO DAYS.

Chapter i. — An essay to prove that an author will write the better
for having some knowledge of the subject on which he writes.

As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of genius
only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps, without being
well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the republic of
letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert, that
all kind of learning is entirely useless to a writer; and, indeed, no
other than a kind of fetters on the natural sprightliness and activity of
the imagination, which is thus weighed down, and prevented from soaring to
those high flights which otherwise it would be able to reach.

This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far: for why
should writing differ so much from all other arts? The nimbleness of a
dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move; nor doth
any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools the worse by having learnt to
use them. For my own part, I cannot conceive that Homer or Virgil would
have writ with more fire, if instead of being masters of all the learning
of their times, they had been as ignorant as most of the authors of the
present age. Nor do I believe that all the imagination, fire, and judgment
of Pitt, could have produced those orations that have made the senate of
England, in these our times, a rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if
he had not been so well read in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as
to have transferred their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with their
spirit, their knowledge too.

I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of learning in
any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to the composition
of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is, I conceive,
necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least of all to the
politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe’s Art of Poetry, and a few of
our modern poets, may suffice; for the second, a moderate heap of plays;
and, for the last, an indifferent collection of political journals.

To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some
little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the old
maxim of law, Quam quisque nôrit artem in eâ se exerceat. With this
alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed, without this,
all the other learning in the world will stand him in little stead.

For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and Cicero,
Thucydides and Livy, could have met all together, and have clubbed their
several talents to have composed a treatise on the art of dancing: I
believe it will be readily agreed they could not have equalled the
excellent treatise which Mr Essex hath given us on that subject, entitled,
The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And, indeed, should the excellent Mr
Broughton be prevailed on to set fist to paper, and to complete the
above-said rudiments, by delivering down the true principles of athletics,
I question whether the world will have any cause to lament, that none of
the great writers, either antient or modern, have ever treated about that
noble and useful art.

To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to come at
once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why many English
writers have totally failed in describing the manners of upper life, may
possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of it.

This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to arrive
at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will the stage a
much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the former will almost
always turn out a pedant, and he who forms himself upon the latter, a
coxcomb.

Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported. Vanbrugh
and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as unlike the
present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a rout or a drum in the
dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short, imitation here will not do the
business. The picture must be after Nature herself. A true knowledge of
the world is gained only by conversation, and the manners of every rank
must be seen in order to be known.

Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be seen, like
all the rest of the human species, for nothing, in the streets, shops, and
coffee-houses; nor are they shown, like the upper rank of animals, for so
much a-piece. In short, this is a sight to which no persons are admitted
without one or other of these qualifications, viz., either birth or
fortune, or, what is equivalent to both, the honourable profession of a
gamester. And, very unluckily for the world, persons so qualified very
seldom care to take upon themselves the bad trade of writing; which is
generally entered upon by the lower and poorer sort, as it is a trade
which many think requires no kind of stock to set up with.

Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and
brocades, with vast wigs and hoops; which, under the name of lords and
ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attorneys and their
clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the
galleries; and which are no more to be found in real life than the
centaur, the chimera, or any other creature of mere fiction. But to let my
reader into a secret, this knowledge of upper life, though very necessary
for preventing mistakes, is no very great resource to a writer whose
province is comedy, or that kind of novels which, like this I am writing,
is of the comic class.

What Mr Pope says of women is very applicable to most in this station, who
are, indeed, so entirely made up of form and affectation, that they have
no character at all, at least none which appears. I will venture to say
the highest life is much the dullest, and affords very little humour or
entertainment. The various callings in lower spheres produce the great
variety of humorous characters; whereas here, except among the few who are
engaged in the pursuit of ambition, and the fewer still who have a relish
for pleasure, all is vanity and servile imitation. Dressing and cards,
eating and drinking, bowing and courtesying, make up the business of their
lives.

Some there are, however, of this rank upon whom passion exercises its
tyranny, and hurries them far beyond the bounds which decorum prescribes;
of these the ladies are as much distinguished by their noble intrepidity,
and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from the frail ones of
meaner degree, as a virtuous woman of quality is by the elegance and
delicacy of her sentiments from the honest wife of a yeoman and
shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character; but let not my
country readers conclude from her, that this is the general conduct of
women of fashion, or that we mean to represent them as such. They might as
well suppose that every clergyman was represented by Thwackum, or every
soldier by ensign Northerton.

There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally prevails
among the vulgar, who, borrowing their opinion from some ignorant
satirists, have affixed the character of lewdness to these times. On the
contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love intrigue carried on
among persons of condition than now. Our present women have been taught by
their mothers to fix their thoughts only on ambition and vanity, and to
despise the pleasures of love as unworthy their regard; and being
afterwards, by the care of such mothers, married without having husbands,
they seem pretty well confirmed in the justness of those sentiments;
whence they content themselves, for the dull remainder of life, with the
pursuit of more innocent, but I am afraid more childish amusements, the
bare mention of which would ill suit with the dignity of this history. In
my humble opinion, the true characteristic of the present beau monde is
rather folly than vice, and the only epithet which it deserves is that of
frivolous.

Chapter ii. — Containing letters and other matters which attend
amours.

Jones had not been long at home before he received the following letter:—

Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter, before a
second was brought him from the same hand; and this, likewise, we shall
set down in the precise words.

To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the angry or the
tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to Jones. Certain it is, he had
no violent inclination to pay any more visits that evening, unless to one
single person. However, he thought his honour engaged, and had not this
been motive sufficient, he would not have ventured to blow the temper of
Lady Bellaston into that flame of which he had reason to think it
susceptible, and of which he feared the consequence might be a discovery
to Sophia, which he dreaded. After some discontented walks therefore about
the room, he was preparing to depart, when the lady kindly prevented him,
not by another letter, but by her own presence. She entered the room very
disordered in her dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and threw
herself into a chair, where, having recovered her breath, she said—“You
see, sir, when women have gone one length too far, they will stop at none.
If any person would have sworn this to me a week ago, I would not have
believed it of myself.” “I hope, madam,” said Jones,
“my charming Lady Bellaston will be as difficult to believe anything
against one who is so sensible of the many obligations she hath conferred
upon him.” “Indeed!” says she, “sensible of
obligations! Did I expect to hear such cold language from Mr Jones?”
“Pardon me, my dear angel,” said he, “if, after the
letters I have received, the terrors of your anger, though I know not how
I have deserved it.”—“And have I then,” says she,
with a smile, “so angry a countenance?—Have I really brought a
chiding face with me?”—“If there be honour in man,”
said he, “I have done nothing to merit your anger.—You
remember the appointment you sent me; I went in pursuance.”—“I
beseech you,” cried she, “do not run through the odious
recital.—Answer me but one question, and I shall be easy. Have you
not betrayed my honour to her?”—Jones fell upon his knees, and
began to utter the most violent protestations, when Partridge came dancing
and capering into the room, like one drunk with joy, crying out, “She’s
found! she’s found!—Here, sir, here, she’s here—Mrs Honour is
upon the stairs.” “Stop her a moment,” cries Jones—“Here,
madam, step behind the bed, I have no other room nor closet, nor place on
earth to hide you in; sure never was so damned an accident.”—“D—n’d
indeed!” said the lady, as she went to her place of concealment; and
presently afterwards in came Mrs Honour. “Hey-day!” says she,
“Mr Jones, what’s the matter?—That impudent rascal your
servant would scarce let me come upstairs. I hope he hath not the same
reason to keep me from you as he had at Upton.—I suppose you hardly
expected to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my lady. Poor dear
young lady! To be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if she was my own
sister. Lord have mercy upon you, if you don’t make her a good husband!
and to be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad enough for you.”
Jones begged her only to whisper, for that there was a lady dying in the
next room. “A lady!” cries she; “ay, I suppose one of
your ladies.—O Mr Jones, there are too many of them in the world; I
believe we are got into the house of one, for my Lady Bellaston I darst to
say is no better than she should be.”—“Hush! hush!”
cries Jones, “every word is overheard in the next room.”
“I don’t care a farthing,” cries Honour, “I speaks no
scandal of any one; but to be sure the servants make no scruple of saying
as how her ladyship meets men at another place—where the house goes
under the name of a poor gentlewoman; but her ladyship pays the rent, and
many’s the good thing besides, they say, she hath of her.”—Here
Jones, after expressing the utmost uneasiness, offered to stop her mouth:—“Hey-day!
why sure, Mr Jones, you will let me speak; I speaks no scandal, for I only
says what I heard from others—and thinks I to myself, much good may
it do the gentlewoman with her riches, if she comes by it in such a wicked
manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest.” “The
servants are villains,” cries Jones, “and abuse their lady
unjustly.”—“Ay, to be sure, servants are always
villains, and so my lady says, and won’t hear a word of it.”—“No,
I am convinced,” says Jones, “my Sophia is above listening to
such base scandal.” “Nay, I believe it is no scandal, neither,”
cries Honour, “for why should she meet men at another house?—It
can never be for any good: for if she had a lawful design of being
courted, as to be sure any lady may lawfully give her company to men upon
that account: why, where can be the sense?”—“I protest,”
cries Jones, “I can’t hear all this of a lady of such honour, and a
relation of Sophia; besides, you will distract the poor lady in the next
room.—Let me entreat you to walk with me down stairs.”—“Nay,
sir, if you won’t let me speak, I have done.—Here, sir, is a letter
from my young lady—what would some men give to have this? But, Mr
Jones, I think you are not over and above generous, and yet I have heard
some servants say——but I am sure you will do me the justice to
own I never saw the colour of your money.” Here Jones hastily took
the letter, and presently after slipped five pieces into her hand. He then
returned a thousand thanks to his dear Sophia in a whisper, and begged her
to leave him to read her letter: she presently departed, not without
expressing much grateful sense of his generosity.

Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I describe her
rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of utterance; but streams of fire
darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might, for her heart was all in
a flame. And now as soon as her voice found way, instead of expressing any
indignation against Honour or her own servants, she began to attack poor
Jones. “You see,” said she, “what I have sacrificed to
you; my reputation, my honour—gone for ever! And what return have I
found? Neglected, slighted for a country girl, for an idiot.”—“What
neglect, madam, or what slight,” cries Jones, “have I been
guilty of?”—“Mr Jones,” said she, “it is in
vain to dissemble; if you will make me easy, you must entirely give her
up; and as a proof of your intention, show me the letter.”—“What
letter, madam?” said Jones. “Nay, surely,” said she,
“you cannot have the confidence to deny your having received a
letter by the hands of that trollop.”—“And can your
ladyship,” cries he, “ask of me what I must part with my
honour before I grant? Have I acted in such a manner by your ladyship?
Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent girl to you, what
security could you have that I should not act the same part by yourself? A
moment’s reflection will, I am sure, convince you that a man with whom the
secrets of a lady are not safe must be the most contemptible of wretches.”—“Very
well,” said she—“I need not insist on your becoming this
contemptible wretch in your own opinion; for the inside of the letter
could inform me of nothing more than I know already. I see the footing you
are upon.”—Here ensued a long conversation, which the reader,
who is not too curious, will thank me for not inserting at length. It
shall suffice, therefore, to inform him, that Lady Bellaston grew more and
more pacified, and at length believed, or affected to believe, his
protestations, that his meeting with Sophia that evening was merely
accidental, and every other matter which the reader already knows, and
which, as Jones set before her in the strongest light, it is plain that
she had in reality no reason to be angry with him.

She was not, however, in her heart perfectly satisfied with his refusal to
show her the letter; so deaf are we to the clearest reason, when it argues
against our prevailing passions. She was, indeed, well convinced that
Sophia possessed the first place in Jones’s affections; and yet, haughty
and amorous as this lady was, she submitted at last to bear the second
place; or, to express it more properly in a legal phrase, was contented
with the possession of that of which another woman had the reversion.

It was at length agreed that Jones should for the future visit at the
house: for that Sophia, her maid, and all the servants, would place these
visits to the account of Sophia; and that she herself would be considered
as the person imposed upon.

This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished by Jones, who
was indeed glad to have a prospect of seeing his Sophia at any rate; and
the lady herself was not a little pleased with the imposition on Sophia,
which Jones, she thought, could not possibly discover to her for his own
sake.

The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after proper
ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned home.

Chapter iii. — Containing various matters.

Jones was no sooner alone than he eagerly broke open his letter, and read
as follows:—

This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor Jones, which
Job formerly received from his friends. Besides disappointing all the
hopes which he promised to himself from seeing Sophia, he was reduced to
an unhappy dilemma, with regard to Lady Bellaston; for there are some
certain engagements, which, as he well knew, do very difficultly admit of
any excuse for the failure; and to go, after the strict prohibition from
Sophia, he was not to be forced by any human power. At length, after much
deliberation, which during that night supplied the place of sleep, he
determined to feign himself sick: for this suggested itself as the only
means of failing the appointed visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston,
which he had more than one reason of desiring to avoid.

The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, to write an
answer to Sophia, which he inclosed in one to Honour. He then despatched
another to Lady Bellaston, containing the above-mentioned excuse; and to
this he soon received the following answer:—

Mr Jones now received a visit from Mrs Miller, who, after some formal
introduction, began the following speech:—“I am very sorry,
sir, to wait upon you on such an occasion; but I hope you will consider
the ill consequence which it must be to the reputation of my poor girls,
if my house should once be talked of as a house of ill-fame. I hope you
won’t think me, therefore, guilty of impertinence, if I beg you not to
bring any more ladies in at that time of night. The clock had struck two
before one of them went away.”—“I do assure you, madam,”
said Jones, “the lady who was here last night, and who staid the
latest (for the other only brought me a letter), is a woman of very great
fashion, and my near relation.”—“I don’t know what
fashion she is of,” answered Mrs Miller; “but I am sure no
woman of virtue, unless a very near relation indeed, would visit a young
gentleman at ten at night, and stay four hours in his room with him alone;
besides, sir, the behaviour of her chairmen shows what she was; for they
did nothing but make jests all the evening in the entry, and asked Mr
Partridge, in the hearing of my own maid, if madam intended to stay with
his master all night; with a great deal of stuff not proper to be
repeated. I have really a great respect for you, Mr Jones, upon your own
account; nay, I have a very high obligation to you for your generosity to
my cousin. Indeed, I did not know how very good you had been till lately.
Little did I imagine to what dreadful courses the poor man’s distress had
driven him. Little did I think, when you gave me the ten guineas, that you
had given them to a highwayman! O heavens! what goodness have you shown!
How have you preserved this family!—The character which Mr Allworthy
hath formerly given me of you was, I find, strictly true.—And
indeed, if I had no obligation to you, my obligations to him are such,
that, on his account, I should shew you the utmost respect in my power.—Nay,
believe me, dear Mr Jones, if my daughters’ and my own reputation were out
of the case, I should, for your own sake, be sorry that so pretty a young
gentleman should converse with these women; but if you are resolved to do
it, I must beg you to take another lodging; for I do not myself like to
have such things carried on under my roof; but more especially upon the
account of my girls, who have little, heaven knows, besides their
characters, to recommend them.” Jones started and changed colour at
the name of Allworthy. “Indeed, Mrs Miller,” answered he, a
little warmly, “I do not take this at all kind. I will never bring
any slander on your house; but I must insist on seeing what company I
please in my own room; and if that gives you any offence, I shall, as soon
as I am able, look for another lodging.”—“I am sorry we
must part then, sir,” said she; “but I am convinced Mr
Allworthy himself would never come within my doors, if he had the least
suspicion of my keeping an ill house.”—“Very well,
madam,” said Jones.—“I hope, sir,” said she,
“you are not angry; for I would not for the world offend any of Mr
Allworthy’s family. I have not slept a wink all night about this matter.”—“I
am sorry I have disturbed your rest, madam,” said Jones, “but
I beg you will send Partridge up to me immediately;” which she
promised to do, and then with a very low courtesy retired.

As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most outrageous
manner. “How often,” said he, “am I to suffer for your
folly, or rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours
resolved upon my destruction?” “What have I done, sir?”
answered affrighted Partridge. “Who was it gave you authority to
mention the story of the robbery, or that the man you saw here was the
person?” “I, sir?” cries Partridge. “Now don’t be
guilty of a falsehood in denying it,” said Jones. “If I did
mention such a matter,” answers Partridge, “I am sure I
thought no harm; for I should not have opened my lips, if it had not been
to his own friends and relations, who, I imagined, would have let it go no
farther.” “But I have a much heavier charge against you,”
cries Jones, “than this. How durst you, after all the precautions I
gave you, mention the name of Mr Allworthy in this house?” Partridge
denied that he ever had, with many oaths. “How else,” said
Jones, “should Mrs Miller be acquainted that there was any connexion
between him and me? And it is but this moment she told me she respected me
on his account.” “O Lord, sir,” said Partridge, “I
desire only to be heard out; and to be sure, never was anything so
unfortunate: hear me but out, and you will own how wrongfully you have
accused me. When Mrs Honour came downstairs last night she met me in the
entry, and asked me when my master had heard from Mr Allworthy; and to be
sure Mrs Miller heard the very words; and the moment Madam Honour was
gone, she called me into the parlour to her. `Mr Partridge,’ says she,
`what Mr Allworthy is it that the gentlewoman mentioned? is it the great
Mr Allworthy of Somersetshire?’ `Upon my word, madam,’ says I, `I know
nothing of the matter.’ `Sure,’ says she, `your master is not the Mr Jones
I have heard Mr Allworthy talk of?’ `Upon my word, madam,’ says I, `I know
nothing of the matter.’ `Then,’ says she, turning to her daughter Nancy,
says she, `as sure as tenpence this is the very young gentleman, and he
agrees exactly with the squire’s description.’ The Lord above knows who it
was told her: for I am the arrantest villain that ever walked upon two
legs if ever it came out of my mouth. I promise you, sir, I can keep a
secret when I am desired. Nay, sir, so far was I from telling her anything
about Mr Allworthy, that I told her the very direct contrary; for, though
I did not contradict it at that moment, yet, as second thoughts, they say,
are best, so when I came to consider that somebody must have informed her,
thinks I to myself, I will put an end to the story; and so I went back
again into the parlour some time afterwards, and says I, upon my word,
says I, whoever, says I, told you that this gentleman was Mr Jones; that
is, says I, that this Mr Jones was that Mr Jones, told you a confounded
lie: and I beg, says I, you will never mention any such matter, says I;
for my master, says I, will think I must have told you so; and I defy
anybody in the house ever to say I mentioned any such word. To be certain,
sir, it is a wonderful thing, and I have been thinking with myself ever
since, how it was she came to know it; not but I saw an old woman here
t’other day a begging at the door, who looked as like her we saw in
Warwickshire, that caused all that mischief to us. To be sure it is never
good to pass by an old woman without giving her something, especially if
she looks at you; for all the world shall never persuade me but that they
have a great power to do mischief, and to be sure I shall never see an old
woman again, but I shall think to myself, Infandum, regina, jubes
renovare dolorem.”

The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final end to
his anger, which had indeed seldom any long duration in his mind; and,
instead of commenting on his defence, he told him he intended presently to
leave those lodgings, and ordered him to go and endeavour to get him
others.

Chapter iv. — Which we hope will be very attentively perused by
young people of both sexes.

Partridge had no sooner left Mr Jones than Mr Nightingale, with whom he
had now contracted a great intimacy, came to him, and, after a short
salutation, said, “So, Tom, I hear you had company very late last
night. Upon my soul you are a happy fellow, who have not been in town
above a fortnight, and can keep chairs waiting at your door till two in
the morning.” He then ran on with much commonplace raillery of the
same kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying, “I suppose
you have received all this information from Mrs Miller, who hath been up
here a little while ago to give me warning. The good woman is afraid, it
seems, of the reputation of her daughters.” “Oh! she is
wonderfully nice,” says Nightingale, “upon that account; if
you remember, she would not let Nancy go with us to the masquerade.”
“Nay, upon my honour, I think she’s in the right of it,” says
Jones: “however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent
Partridge to look for another lodging.” “If you will,”
says Nightingale, “we may, I believe, be again together; for, to
tell you a secret, which I desire you won’t mention in the family, I
intend to quit the house to-day.” “What, hath Mrs Miller given
you warning too, my friend?” cries Jones. “No,” answered
the other; “but the rooms are not convenient enough. Besides, I am
grown weary of this part of the town. I want to be nearer the places of
diversion; so I am going to Pall-mall.” “And do you intend to
make a secret of your going away?” said Jones. “I promise you,”
answered Nightingale, “I don’t intend to bilk my lodgings; but I
have a private reason for not taking a formal leave.” “Not so
private,” answered Jones; “I promise you, I have seen it ever
since the second day of my coming to the house. Here will be some wet eyes
on your departure. Poor Nancy, I pity her, faith! Indeed, Jack, you have
played the fool with that girl. You have given her a longing, which I am
afraid nothing will ever cure her of.” Nightingale answered, “What
the devil would you have me do? would you have me marry her to cure her?”
“No,” answered Jones, “I would not have had you make
love to her, as you have often done in my presence. I have been astonished
at the blindness of her mother in never seeing it.” “Pugh, see
it!” cries Nightingale. “What, the devil should she see?”
“Why, see,” said Jones, “that you have made her daughter
distractedly in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal it a moment;
her eyes are never off from you, and she always colours every time you
come into the room. Indeed, I pity her heartily; for she seems to be one
of the best-natured and honestest of human creatures.” “And
so,” answered Nightingale, “according to your doctrine, one
must not amuse oneself by any common gallantries with women, for fear they
should fall in love with us.” “Indeed, Jack,” said
Jones, “you wilfully misunderstand me; I do not fancy women are so
apt to fall in love; but you have gone far beyond common gallantries.”
“What, do you suppose,” says Nightingale, “that we have
been a-bed together?” “No, upon my honour,” answered
Jones, very seriously, “I do not suppose so ill of you; nay, I will
go farther, I do not imagine you have laid a regular premeditated scheme
for the destruction of the quiet of a poor little creature, or have even
foreseen the consequence: for I am sure thou art a very good-natured
fellow; and such a one can never be guilty of a cruelty of that kind; but
at the same time you have pleased your own vanity, without considering
that this poor girl was made a sacrifice to it; and while you have had no
design but of amusing an idle hour, you have actually given her reason to
flatter herself that you had the most serious designs in her favour.
Prithee, Jack, answer me honestly; to what have tended all those elegant
and luscious descriptions of happiness arising from violent and mutual
fondness? all those warm professions of tenderness, and generous
disinterested love? Did you imagine she would not apply them? or, speak
ingenuously, did not you intend she should?” “Upon my soul,
Tom,” cries Nightingale, “I did not think this was in thee.
Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So I suppose you would not go to bed
to Nancy now, if she would let you?” “No,” cries Jones,
“may I be d—n’d if I would.” “Tom, Tom,”
answered Nightingale, “last night; remember last night——

“Lookee, Mr Nightingale,” said Jones, “I am no canting
hypocrite, nor do I pretend to the gift of chastity, more than my
neighbours. I have been guilty with women, I own it; but am not conscious
that I have ever injured any.—Nor would I, to procure pleasure to
myself, be knowingly the cause of misery to any human being.”

“Well, well,” said Nightingale, “I believe you, and I am
convinced you acquit me of any such thing.”

“I do, from my heart,” answered Jones, “of having
debauched the girl, but not from having gained her affections.”

“If I have,” said Nightingale, “I am sorry for it; but
time and absence will soon wear off such impressions. It is a receipt I
must take myself; for, to confess the truth to you—I never liked any
girl half so much in my whole life; but I must let you into the whole
secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match for me with a woman I never
saw; and she is now coming to town, in order for me to make my addresses
to her.”

At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when Nightingale
cried—“Nay, prithee, don’t turn me into ridicule. The devil
take me if I am not half mad about this matter! my poor Nancy! Oh! Jones,
Jones, I wish I had a fortune in my own possession.”

“I heartily wish you had,” cries Jones; “for, if this be
the case, I sincerely pity you both; but surely you don’t intend to go
away without taking your leave of her?”

“I would not,” answered Nightingale, “undergo the pain
of taking leave, for ten thousand pounds; besides, I am convinced, instead
of answering any good purpose, it would only serve to inflame my poor
Nancy the more. I beg, therefore, you would not mention a word of it
to-day, and in the evening, or to-morrow morning, I intend to depart.”

Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he thought, as he
had determined and was obliged to leave her, he took the most prudent
method. He then told Nightingale he should be very glad to lodge in the
same house with him; and it was accordingly agreed between them, that
Nightingale should procure him either the ground floor, or the two pair of
stairs; for the young gentleman himself was to occupy that which was
between them.

This Nightingale, of whom we shall be presently obliged to say a little
more, was in the ordinary transactions of life a man of strict honour,
and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the town, one of strict
honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was somewhat loose in his morals;
not that he was even here as void of principle as gentlemen sometimes are,
and oftener affect to be; but it is certain he had been guilty of some
indefensible treachery to women, and had, in a certain mystery, called
making love, practised many deceits, which, if he had used in trade, he
would have been counted the greatest villain upon earth.

But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this
treachery in a better light, he was so far from being ashamed of his
iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often boast of
his skill in gaining of women, and his triumphs over their hearts, for
which he had before this time received some rebukes from Jones, who always
exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to the fair part of the
species, who, if considered, he said, as they ought to be, in the light of
the dearest friends, were to be cultivated, honoured, and caressed with
the utmost love and tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a
conquest of which a man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself
upon it.

Chapter v. — A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.

Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to say,
the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon he received an
invitation from Mrs Miller to drink tea; for that good woman, having
learnt, either by means of Partridge, or by some other means natural or
supernatural, that he had a connexion with Mr Allworthy, could not endure
the thoughts of parting with him in an angry manner.

Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the tea-kettle removed,
and the girls sent out of the room, than the widow, without much preface,
began as follows: “Well, there are very surprizing things happen in
this world; but certainly it is a wonderful business that I should have a
relation of Mr Allworthy in my house, and never know anything of the
matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine what a friend that best of gentlemen
hath been to me and mine. Yes, sir, I am not ashamed to own it; it is
owing to his goodness that I did not long since perish for want, and leave
my poor little wretches, two destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to
the care, or rather to the cruelty, of the world.

“You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by
letting lodgings, I was born and bred a gentlewoman. My father was an
officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he lived up to
his pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his death, became
beggars. We were three sisters. One of us had the good luck to die soon
after of the small-pox; a lady was so kind as to take the second out of
charity, as she said, to wait upon her. The mother of this lady had been a
servant to my grand-mother; and, having inherited a vast fortune from her
father, which he had got by pawnbroking, was married to a gentleman of
great estate and fashion. She used my sister so barbarously, often
upbraiding her with her birth and poverty, calling her in derision a
gentlewoman, that I believe she at length broke the heart of the poor
girl. In short, she likewise died within a twelvemonth after my father.
Fortune thought proper to provide better for me, and within a month from
his decease I was married to a clergyman, who had been my lover a long
time before, and who had been very ill used by my father on that account:
for though my poor father could not give any of us a shilling, yet he bred
us up as delicately, considered us, and would have had us consider
ourselves, as highly as if we had been the richest heiresses. But my dear
husband forgot all this usage, and the moment we were become fatherless he
immediately renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that I, who always
liked, and now more than ever esteemed him, soon complied. Five years did
I live in a state of perfect happiness with that best of men, till at last—Oh!
cruel! cruel fortune, that ever separated us, that deprived me of the
kindest of husbands and my poor girls of the tenderest parent.—O my
poor girls! you never knew the blessing which ye lost.—I am ashamed,
Mr Jones, of this womanish weakness; but I shall never mention him without
tears.” “I ought rather, madam,” said Jones, “to
be ashamed that I do not accompany you.” “Well, sir,”
continued she, “I was now left a second time in a much worse
condition than before; besides the terrible affliction I was to encounter,
I had now two children to provide for; and was, if possible, more
pennyless than ever; when that great, that good, that glorious man, Mr
Allworthy, who had some little acquaintance with my husband, accidentally
heard of my distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir,
here it is; I put it into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter,
sir; I must and will read it to you.

“This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the
irreparable loss I have mentioned; and within a fortnight afterwards, Mr
Allworthy—the blessed Mr Allworthy, came to pay me a visit, when he
placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me a large sum of money
to furnish it, and settled an annuity of £50 a-year upon me, which I have
constantly received ever since. Judge, then, Mr Jones, in what regard I
must hold a benefactor, to whom I owe the preservation of my life, and of
those dear children, for whose sake alone my life is valuable. Do not,
therefore, think me impertinent, Mr Jones (since I must esteem one for
whom I know Mr Allworthy hath so much value), if I beg you not to converse
with these wicked women. You are a young gentleman, and do not know half
their artful wiles. Do not be angry with me, sir, for what I said upon
account of my house; you must be sensible it would be the ruin of my poor
dear girls. Besides, sir, you cannot but be acquainted that Mr Allworthy
himself would never forgive my conniving at such matters, and particularly
with you.”

“Upon my word, madam,” said Jones, “you need make no
farther apology; nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said;
but give me leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr
Allworthy, to deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would not be
altogether for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of his.”

“Alas! sir,” answered she, “I know you are not, I know
very well who you are; for Mr Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure
you, had you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more
regard for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need not
be ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person will esteem
you the less on that account. No, Mr Jones, the words `dishonourable
birth’ are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to say, unless the word
`dishonourable’ be applied to the parents; for the children can derive no
real dishonour from an act of which they are intirely innocent.”

Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, “Since I perceive,
madam, you really do know me, and Mr Allworthy hath thought proper to
mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as to
your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more circumstances
concerning myself.” And these Mrs Miller having expressed great
desire and curiosity to hear, he began and related to her his whole
history, without once mentioning the name of Sophia.

There is a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they give
an easy credit to each other. Mrs Miller believed all which Jones told her
to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for him. She was beginning
to comment on the story, but Jones interrupted her; for, as the hour of
assignation now drew nigh, he began to stipulate for a second interview
with the lady that evening, which he promised should be the last at her
house; swearing, at the same time, that she was one of great distinction,
and that nothing but what was intirely innocent was to pass between them;
and I do firmly believe he intended to keep his word.

Mrs Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his chamber,
where he sat alone till twelve o’clock, but no Lady Bellaston appeared.

As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones, and as it
must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may perhaps wonder
at the first failure of her appointment, as she apprehended him to be
confined by sickness, a season when friendship seems most to require such
visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the lady, may, by some, be condemned
as unnatural; but that is not our fault; for our business is only to
record truth.

Chapter vi. — Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all
our readers.

Mr Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the night; not
owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being disappointed by Lady
Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of his waking hours were
justly to be charged to her account, the present cause of dispelling his
slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the best-natured fellows alive,
and had all that weakness which is called compassion, and which
distinguishes this imperfect character from that noble firmness of mind,
which rolls a man, as it were, within himself, and like a polished bowl,
enables him to run through the world without being once stopped by the
calamities which happen to others. He could not help, therefore,
compassionating the situation of poor Nancy, whose love for Mr Nightingale
seemed to him so apparent, that he was astonished at the blindness of her
mother, who had more than once, the preceding evening, remarked to him the
great change in the temper of her daughter, “who from being,”
she said, “one of the liveliest, merriest girls in the world, was,
on a sudden, become all gloom and melancholy.”

Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and now, as if
he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and an offended one
too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.—To speak simply,
and without any metaphor, Mr Jones slept till eleven the next morning, and
would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet situation much longer,
had not a violent uproar awakened him.

Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,
answered, “That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that
Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother, were
both crying and lamenting over her.” Jones expressed much concern at
this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by saying, with a
smile, “he fancied the young lady was in no danger of death; for
that Susan” (which was the name of the maid) “had given him to
understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In short,”
said he, “Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her mother;
that’s all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat down to dinner
before grace was said; and so there is a child coming for the Foundling
Hospital.”——“Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting,”
cries Jones. “Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of
mirth? Go immediately to Mrs Miller, and tell her I beg leave—Stay,
you will make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to
breakfast with her.” He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he
could; and while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many severe
rebukes, could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of brutality,
commonly called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no sooner dressed than
he walked downstairs, and knocking at the door, was presently admitted by
the maid, into the outward parlour, which was as empty of company as it
was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs Miller was in the inner room with her
daughter, whence the maid presently brought a message to Mr Jones, “That
her mistress hoped he would excuse the disappointment, but an accident had
happened, which made it impossible for her to have the pleasure of his
company at breakfast that day; and begged his pardon for not sending him
up notice sooner.” Jones desired, “She would give herself no
trouble about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he was
heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any service to
her, she might command him.”

He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs Miller, who heard them all,
suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood of tears,
said, “O Mr Jones! you are certainly one of the best young men
alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of your service;
but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my poor girl.—O
my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined for ever!” “I
hope, madam,” said Jones, “no villain”——“O
Mr Jones!” said she, “that villain who yesterday left my
lodgings, hath betrayed my poor girl; hath destroyed her.—I know you
are a man of honour. You have a good—a noble heart, Mr Jones. The
actions to which I have been myself a witness, could proceed from no
other. I will tell you all: nay, indeed, it is impossible, after what hath
happened, to keep it a secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain,
hath undone my daughter. She is—she is—oh! Mr Jones, my girl
is with child by him; and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here!
here, sir, is his cruel letter: read it, Mr Jones, and tell me if such
another monster lives.”

The letter was as follows:

When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a minute,
looking at each other; at last he began thus: “I cannot express,
madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let me beg you, in
one particular, to take the writer’s advice. Consider the reputation of
your daughter.”——“It is gone, it is lost, Mr
Jones,” cryed she, “as well as her innocence. She received the
letter in a room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon
opening it, the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of
her reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she
hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath been
hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I myself
outlive any accident of that nature.—What then will become of my
little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little wretch will, I
believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she sees her sister
and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the cause. O ’tis the most
sensible, and best-natured little thing! The barbarous, cruel——hath
destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this the reward of all my cares?
Is this the fruit of all my prospects? Have I so chearfully undergone all
the labours and duties of a mother? Have I been so tender of their
infancy, so careful of their education? Have I been toiling so many years,
denying myself even the conveniences of life, to provide some little
sustenance for them, to lose one or both in such a manner?” “Indeed,
madam,” said Jones, with tears in his eyes, “I pity you from
my soul.”—“O! Mr Jones,” answered she, “even
you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can have no idea of what I
feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful of children! O my poor
Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my eyes! the pride of my
heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those foolish, ambitious hopes,
arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin. Alas! I saw with pleasure the
liking which this young man had for her. I thought it an honourable
affection; and flattered my foolish vanity with the thoughts of seeing her
married to one so much her superior. And a thousand times in my presence,
nay, often in yours, he hath endeavoured to soothe and encourage these
hopes by the most generous expressions of disinterested love, which he
hath always directed to my poor girl, and which I, as well as she,
believed to be real. Could I have believed that these were only snares
laid to betray the innocence of my child, and for the ruin of us all?”—At
these words little Betsy came running into the room, crying, “Dear
mamma, for heaven’s sake come to my sister; for she is in another fit, and
my cousin can’t hold her.” Mrs Miller immediately obeyed the
summons; but first ordered Betsy to stay with Mr Jones, and begged him to
entertain her a few minutes, saying, in the most pathetic voice, “Good
heaven! let me preserve one of my children at least.”

Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to comfort the
little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very highly affected with
Mrs Miller’s story. He told her “Her sister would be soon very well
again; that by taking on in that manner she would not only make her sister
worse, but make her mother ill too.” “Indeed, sir,” says
she, “I would not do anything to hurt them for the world. I would
burst my heart rather than they should see me cry.—But my poor
sister can’t see me cry.—I am afraid she will never be able to see
me cry any more. Indeed, I can’t part with her; indeed, I can’t.—And
then poor mamma too, what will become of her?—She says she will die
too, and leave me: but I am resolved I won’t be left behind.”
“And are you not afraid to die, my little Betsy?” said Jones.
“Yes,” answered she, “I was always afraid to die;
because I must have left my mamma, and my sister; but I am not afraid of
going anywhere with those I love.”

Jones was so pleased with this answer, that he eagerly kissed the child;
and soon after Mrs Miller returned, saying, “She thanked heaven
Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy,” says she, “you
may go in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you.” She
then turned to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having
disappointed him of his breakfast.

“I hope, madam,” said Jones, “I shall have a more
exquisite repast than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure
you, will be the case, if I can do any service to this little family of
love. But whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to
attempt it. I am very much deceived in Mr Nightingale, if, notwithstanding
what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the bottom, as
well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this be the case, I
think the picture which I shall lay before him will affect him. Endeavour,
madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy, as well as you can. I will go
instantly in quest of Mr Nightingale; and I hope to bring you good news.”

Mrs Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of heaven
upon Mr Jones; to which she afterwards added the most passionate
expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr Nightingale, and the
good woman returned to comfort her daughter, who was somewhat cheared at
what her mother told her; and both joined in resounding the praises of Mr
Jones.

Chapter vii. — The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.

The good or evil we confer on others very often, I believe, recoils on
ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own acts of
beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there are scarce
any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of doing injuries,
without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin which they bring on
their fellow-creatures.

Mr Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary, Jones
found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire, and
silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed poor
Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear than he arose hastily to meet
him; and after much congratulation said, “Nothing could be more
opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more in the spleen in my
life.”

“I am sorry,” answered Jones, “that I bring news very
unlikely to relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other,
shock you the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without
further preface, then, I come to you, Mr Nightingale, from a worthy
family, which you have involved in misery and ruin.” Mr Nightingale
changed colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded,
in the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the reader
was acquainted in the last chapter.

Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he discovered
violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was concluded, after
fetching a deep sigh, he said, “What you tell me, my friend, affects
me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so cursed an accident as
the poor girl’s betraying my letter. Her reputation might otherwise have
been safe, and the affair might have remained a profound secret; and then
the girl might have gone off never the worse; for many such things happen
in this town: and if the husband should suspect a little, when it is too
late, it will be his wiser conduct to conceal his suspicion both from his
wife and the world.”

“Indeed, my friend,” answered Jones, “this could not
have been the case with your poor Nancy. You have so entirely gained her
affections, that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which
afflicts her, and will end in the destruction of her and her family.”
“Nay, for that matter, I promise you,” cries Nightingale,
“she hath my affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is
to be, will have very little share in them.” “And is it
possible then,” said Jones, “you can think of deserting her?”
“Why, what can I do?” answered the other. “Ask Miss
Nancy,” replied Jones warmly. “In the condition to which you
have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought to determine what reparation
you shall make her. Her interest alone, and not yours, ought to be your
sole consideration. But if you ask me what you shall do, what can you do
less,” cries Jones, “than fulfil the expectations of her
family, and her own? Nay, I sincerely tell you, they were mine too, ever
since I first saw you together. You will pardon me if I presume on the
friendship you have favoured me with, moved as I am with compassion for
those poor creatures. But your own heart will best suggest to you, whether
you have never intended, by your conduct, to persuade the mother, as well
as the daughter, into an opinion, that you designed honourably: and if so,
though there may have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I
will leave to your own good understanding, how far you are bound to
proceed.”

“Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted,” said
Nightingale; “but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I
have given.” “And can you, after owning that,” said
Jones, “hesitate a moment?” “Consider, my friend,”
answered the other; “I know you are a man of honour, and would
advise no one to act contrary to its rules; if there were no other
objection, can I, after this publication of her disgrace, think of such an
alliance with honour?” “Undoubtedly,” replied Jones,
“and the very best and truest honour, which is goodness, requires it
of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind, you will give me leave to
examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of having under false pretences
deceived a young woman and her family, and of having by these means
treacherously robbed her of her innocence? Can you, with honour, be the
knowing, the wilful occasion, nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a
human being? Can you, with honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay,
probably, both the life and soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the
thought, that this creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless, young
woman? A young woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies for you; who
hath placed the utmost confidence in your promises; and to that confidence
hath sacrificed everything which is dear to her? Can honour support such
contemplations as these a moment?”

“Common sense, indeed,” said Nightingale, “warrants all
you say; but yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to
it, that, was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of
ever showing my face again.”

“Fie upon it, Mr Nightingale!” said Jones, “do not call
her by so ungenerous a name: when you promised to marry her she became
your wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And what
is this world which you would be ashamed to face but the vile, the
foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a shame must proceed
from false modesty, which always attends false honour as its shadow.—But
I am well assured there is not a man of real sense and goodness in the
world who would not honour and applaud the action. But, admit no other
would, would not your own heart, my friend, applaud it? And do not the
warm, rapturous sensations, which we feel from the consciousness of an
honest, noble, generous, benevolent action, convey more delight to the
mind than the undeserved praise of millions? Set the alternative fairly
before your eyes. On the one side, see this poor, unhappy, tender,
believing girl, in the arms of her wretched mother, breathing her last.
Hear her breaking heart in agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting,
rather than accusing, the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction.
Paint to your imagination the circumstances of her fond despairing parent,
driven to madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely
daughter. View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind hath
dwelt a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause of all
the ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On the other
side, consider yourself as relieving them from their temporary sufferings.
Think with what joy, with what transports that lovely creature will fly to
your arms. See her blood returning to her pale cheeks, her fire to her
languid eyes, and raptures to her tortured breast. Consider the
exultations of her mother, the happiness of all. Think of this little
family made by one act of yours completely happy. Think of this
alternative, and sure I am mistaken in my friend if it requires any long
deliberation whether he will sink these wretches down for ever, or, by one
generous, noble resolution, raise them all from the brink of misery and
despair to the highest pitch of human happiness. Add to this but one
consideration more; the consideration that it is your duty so to do—That
the misery from which you will relieve these poor people is the misery
which you yourself have wilfully brought upon them.”

“O, my dear friend!” cries Nightingale, “I wanted not
your eloquence to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would
willingly give anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed
between us. Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion before I
could prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which hath caused
all the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no inclinations to consult
but my own, I would marry her to-morrow morning: I would, by heaven! but
you will easily imagine how impossible it would be to prevail on my father
to consent to such a match; besides, he hath provided another for me; and
to-morrow, by his express command, I am to wait on the lady.”

“I have not the honour to know your father,” said Jones;
“but, suppose he could be persuaded, would you yourself consent to
the only means of preserving these poor people?” “As eagerly
as I would pursue my happiness,” answered Nightingale: “for I
never shall find it in any other woman.—O, my dear friend! could you
imagine what I have felt within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am
convinced she would not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to
her; and, if I had any foolish scruples of honour, you have fully
satisfied them: could my father be induced to comply with my desires,
nothing would be wanting to compleat my own happiness or that of my Nancy.”

“Then I am resolved to undertake it,” said Jones. “You
must not be angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set
this affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid
from him: for things of this nature make a quick progress when once they
get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any fatal
accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless immediately
prevented, the public would ring of your name in a manner which, if your
father hath common humanity, must offend him. If you will therefore tell
me where I may find the old gentleman, I will not lose a moment in the
business; which, while I pursue, you cannot do a more generous action than
by paying a visit to the poor girl. You will find I have not exaggerated
in the account I have given of the wretchedness of the family.”

Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having
acquainted Jones with his father’s lodging, and the coffee-house where he
would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said,
“My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you
knew my father you would never think of obtaining his consent.——Stay,
there is one way—suppose you told him I was already married, it
might be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon
my honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my Nancy
so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be the
consequence.”

Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They then
separated, Nightingale to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of the old
gentleman.

Chapter viii. — What passed between Jones and old Mr Nightingale;
with the arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history.

Notwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies the
divinity of fortune, and the opinion of Seneca to the same purpose;
Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man than either of them, expressly
holds the contrary; and certain it is, there are some incidents in life so
very strange and unaccountable, that it seems to require more than human
skill and foresight in producing them.

Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr Nightingale the
elder in so critical a minute, that Fortune, if she was really worthy all
the worship she received at Rome, could not have contrived such another.
In short, the old gentleman, and the father of the young lady whom he
intended for his son, had been hard at it for many hours; and the latter
was just now gone, and had left the former delighted with the thoughts
that he had succeeded in a long contention, which had been between the two
fathers of the future bride and bridegroom; in which both endeavoured to
overreach the other, and, as it not rarely happens in such cases, both had
retreated fully satisfied of having obtained the victory.

This gentleman, whom Mr Jones now visited, was what they call a man of the
world; that is to say, a man who directs his conduct in this world as one
who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved to make the most
of this. In his early years he had been bred to trade; but, having
acquired a very good fortune, he had lately declined his business; or, to
speak more properly, had changed it from dealing in goods, to dealing only
in money, of which he had always a plentiful fund at command, and of which
he knew very well how to make a very plentiful advantage, sometimes of the
necessities of private men, and sometimes of those of the public. He had
indeed conversed so entirely with money, that it may be almost doubted
whether he imagined there was any other thing really existing in the
world; this at least may be certainly averred, that he firmly believed
nothing else to have any real value.

The reader will, I fancy, allow that Fortune could not have culled out a
more improper person for Mr Jones to attack with any probability of
success; nor could the whimsical lady have directed this attack at a more
unseasonable time.

As money then was always uppermost in this gentleman’s thoughts, so the
moment he saw a stranger within his doors it immediately occurred to his
imagination, that such stranger was either come to bring him money, or to
fetch it from him. And according as one or other of these thoughts
prevailed, he conceived a favourable or unfavourable idea of the person
who approached him.

Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at present; for
as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with a bill from his
son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first sight of Jones, that he
was come on such another errand. Jones therefore had no sooner told him
that he was come on his son’s account than the old gentleman, being
confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an exclamation, “That
he would lose his labour.” “Is it then possible, sir,”
answered Jones, “that you can guess my business?” “If I
do guess it,” replied the other, “I repeat again to you, you
will lose your labour. What, I suppose you are one of those sparks who
lead my son into all those scenes of riot and debauchery, which will be
his destruction? but I shall pay no more of his bills, I promise you. I
expect he will quit all such company for the future. If I had imagined
otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him; for I would be
instrumental in the ruin of nobody.” “How, sir,” said
Jones, “and was this lady of your providing?” “Pray,
sir,” answered the old gentleman, “how comes it to be any
concern of yours?”—“Nay, dear sir,” replied Jones,
“be not offended that I interest myself in what regards your son’s
happiness, for whom I have so great an honour and value. It was upon that
very account I came to wait upon you. I can’t express the satisfaction you
have given me by what you say; for I do assure you your son is a person
for whom I have the highest honour.—Nay, sir, it is not easy to
express the esteem I have for you; who could be so generous, so good, so
kind, so indulgent to provide such a match for your son; a woman, who, I
dare swear, will make him one of the happiest men upon earth.”

There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good
liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance; when
once those apprehensions begin to vanish we soon forget the fears which
they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our present ease to
those very persons who at first raised our fears.

Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no
demand on him, as he suspected, than he began to be pleased with his
presence. “Pray, good sir,” said he, “be pleased to sit
down. I do not remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you
before; but if you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say
concerning this young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her making
him happy, it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have discharged my
duty, in taking care of the main article. She will bring him a fortune
capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man, happy.”
“Undoubtedly,” cries Jones, “for she is in herself a
fortune; so beautiful, so genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so
well-educated; she is indeed a most accomplished young lady; sings
admirably well, and hath a most delicate hand at the harpsichord.”
“I did not know any of these matters,” answered the old
gentleman, “for I never saw the lady: but I do not like her the
worse for what you tell me; and I am the better pleased with her father
for not laying any stress on these qualifications in our bargain. I shall
always think it a proof of his understanding. A silly fellow would have
brought in these articles as an addition to her fortune; but, to give him
his due, he never mentioned any such matter; though to be sure they are no
disparagements to a woman.” “I do assure you, sir,”
cries Jones, “she hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my
part, I own I was afraid you might have been a little backward, a little
less inclined to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the
lady; therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to conjure you,
as you value the happiness of your son, not to be averse to his match with
a woman who hath not only all the good qualities I have mentioned, but
many more.”—“If that was your business, sir,” said
the old gentleman, “we are both obliged to you; and you may be
perfectly easy; for I give you my word I was very well satisfied with her
fortune.” “Sir,” answered Jones, “I honour you
every moment more and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on
that account, is a proof of the soundness of your understanding, as well
as the nobleness of your mind.”——“Not so very
moderate, young gentleman, not so very moderate,” answered the
father.—“Still more and more noble,” replied Jones;
“and give me leave to add, sensible: for sure it is little less than
madness to consider money as the sole foundation of happiness. Such a
woman as this with her little, her nothing of a fortune”—“I
find,” cries the old gentleman, “you have a pretty just
opinion of money, my friend, or else you are better acquainted with the
person of the lady than with her circumstances. Why, pray, what fortune do
you imagine this lady to have?” “What fortune?” cries
Jones, “why, too contemptible a one to be named for your son.”—“Well,
well, well,” said the other, “perhaps he might have done
better.”—“That I deny,” said Jones, “for she
is one of the best of women.”—“Ay, ay, but in point of
fortune I mean,” answered the other. “And yet, as to that now,
how much do you imagine your friend is to have?”—“How
much?” cries Jones, “how much? Why, at the utmost, perhaps
£200.” “Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman?” said
the father, a little angry. “No, upon my soul,” answered
Jones, “I am in earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the utmost
farthing. If I do the lady an injury, I ask her pardon.” “Indeed
you do,” cries the father; “I am certain she hath fifty times
that sum, and she shall produce fifty to that before I consent that she
shall marry my son.” “Nay,” said Jones, “it is too
late to talk of consent now; if she had not fifty farthings your son is
married.”—“My son married!” answered the old
gentleman, with surprize. “Nay,” said Jones, “I thought
you was unacquainted with it.” “My son married to Miss Harris!”
answered he again. “To Miss Harris!” said Jones; “no,
sir; to Miss Nancy Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house he
lodged; a young lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let lodgings—“—“Are
you bantering, or are you in earnest?” cries the father, with a most
solemn voice. “Indeed, sir,” answered Jones, “I scorn
the character of a banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest,
imagining, as I find true, that your son had never dared acquaint you with
a match so much inferior to him in point of fortune, though the reputation
of the lady will suffer it no longer to remain a secret.”

While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a
gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the name of brother.

But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they were in
their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The brother who now
arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he no sooner saw himself
worth £6000 than he purchased a small estate with the greatest part of it,
and retired into the country; where he married the daughter of an
unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who, though she had neither beauty
nor fortune, had recommended herself to his choice entirely by her good
humour, of which she possessed a very large share.

With this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life more
resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the golden age, than
any of those patterns which are furnished by the present times. By her he
had four children, but none of them arrived at maturity, except only one
daughter, whom, in vulgar language, he and his wife had spoiled; that is,
had educated with the utmost tenderness and fondness, which she returned
to such a degree, that she had actually refused a very extraordinary match
with a gentleman a little turned of forty, because she could not bring
herself to part with her parents.

The young lady whom Mr Nightingale had intended for his son was a near
neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece; and in reality
it was upon the account of his projected match that he was now come to
town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother from a purpose
which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew; for he foresaw no
other event from a union with Miss Harris, notwithstanding the largeness
of her fortune, as neither her person nor mind seemed to him to promise
any kind of matrimonial felicity: for she was very tall, very thin, very
ugly, very affected, very silly, and very ill-natured.

His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his nephew
with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost satisfaction; and when the
father had very bitterly reviled his son, and pronounced sentence of
beggary upon him, the uncle began in the following manner:

“If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you
love your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I suppose,
and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is his
happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him.

“Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always
appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this, very tyrannical.
It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless, an error. And if
this be absurd in other things, it is mostly so in the affair of marriage,
the happiness of which depends entirely on the affection which subsists
between the parties.

“I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to
desire to chuse for their children on this occasion; since to force
affection is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor force,
that I know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable perverseness
in our natures, it may not be even impatient of persuasion.

“It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think,
wisely prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion; and, in
strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew,
therefore, I own, in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been
guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you not a little
promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on this subject
given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where there was any
deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your present anger arise
solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed in his duty here, did
you not as much exceed that authority when you absolutely bargained with
him for a woman, without his knowledge, whom you yourself never saw, and
whom, if you had seen and known as well as I, it must have been madness in
you to have ever thought of bringing her into your family?

“Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an
unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a matter
in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in which his
interest is principally concerned; you yourself must and will acknowledge
that you consulted his interest only, and if he unfortunately differed
from you, and hath been mistaken in his notion of happiness, will you,
brother, if you love your son, carry him still wider from the point? Will
you increase the ill consequences of his simple choice? Will you endeavour
to make an event certain misery to him, which may accidentally prove so?
In a word, brother, because he hath put it out of your power to make his
circumstances as affluent as you would, will you distress them as much as
you can?”

By the force of the true Catholic faith St Anthony won upon the fishes.
Orpheus and Amphion went a little farther, and by the charms of music
enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but neither history
nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance of any one, who, by
force of argument and reason, hath triumphed over habitual avarice.

Mr Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his brother,
contented himself with only observing, that they had always differed in
their sentiments concerning the education of their children. “I
wish,” said he, “brother, you would have confined your care to
your own daughter, and never have troubled yourself with my son, who hath,
I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by your example.”
For young Nightingale was his uncle’s godson, and had lived more with him
than with his father. So that the uncle had often declared he loved his
nephew almost equally with his own child.

Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after much
persuasion, they found the father grew still more and more irritated,
instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his nephew at the house
of Mrs Miller.

Chapter ix. — Containing strange matters.

At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of affairs
greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure. The mother,
the two daughters, and young Mr Nightingale, were now sat down to supper
together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, introduced without any
ceremony into the company, to all of whom he was well known; for he had
several times visited his nephew at that house.

The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and wished
her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other sister; and lastly,
he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with the same good humour
and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his equal or superior in
fortune, with all the previous requisites first performed.

Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked rather
foolish than otherwise upon the occasion; but Mrs Miller took the first
opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones into the
dining-room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most passionate flood
of tears, called him her good angel, the preserver of her poor little
family, with many other respectful and endearing appellations, and made
him every acknowledgment which the highest benefit can extract from the
most grateful heart.

After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she declared,
if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded to inform Mr
Jones that all matters were settled between Mr Nightingale and her
daughter, and that they were to be married the next morning; at which Mr
Jones having expressed much pleasure, the poor woman fell again into a fit
of joy and thanksgiving, which he at length with difficulty silenced, and
prevailed on her to return with him back to the company, whom they found
in the same good humour in which they had left them.

This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours together,
in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his bottle, had so well
plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not drunk, began to be somewhat
flustered; and now Mr Nightingale, taking the old gentleman with him
upstairs into the apartment he had lately occupied, unbosomed himself as
follows:—

“As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and
as you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this match,
which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I should never
forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in anything.” He then
confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.

“How, Jack?” said the old gentleman, “and are you really
then not married to this young woman?” “No, upon my honour,”
answered Nightingale, “I have told you the simple truth.”
“My dear boy,” cries the uncle, kissing him, “I am
heartily glad to hear it. I never was better pleased in my life. If you
had been married I should have assisted you as much as was in my power to
have made the best of a bad matter; but there is a great difference
between considering a thing which is already done and irrecoverable, and
that which is yet to do. Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you
will see this match in so foolish and preposterous a light, that there
will be no need of any dissuasive arguments.” “How, sir?”
replies young Nightingale, “is there this difference between having
already done an act, and being in honour engaged to do it?” “Pugh!”
said the uncle, “honour is a creature of the world’s making, and the
world hath the power of a creator over it, and may govern and direct it as
they please. Now you well know how trivial these breaches of contract are
thought; even the grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a day.
Is there a man who afterwards will be more backward in giving you his
sister, or daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who would be more
backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in these engagements.”
“Pardon me, dear sir,” cries Nightingale, “I can never
think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity, are concerned.
I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint the young creature, her
death would be the consequence, and I should look upon myself as her
murderer; nay, as her murderer by the cruellest of all methods, by
breaking her heart.” “Break her heart, indeed! no, no, Jack,”
cries the uncle, “the hearts of women are not so soon broke; they
are tough, boy, they are tough.” “But, sir,” answered
Nightingale, “my own affections are engaged, and I never could be
happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say, that children
should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and that you would let
my cousin Harriet do so?” “Why, ay,” replied the old
gentleman, “so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse
wisely.—Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl.”——“Indeed,
uncle,” cries the other, “I must and will have her.”
“You will, young gentleman;” said the uncle; “I did not
expect such a word from you. I should not wonder if you had used such
language to your father, who hath always treated you like a dog, and kept
you at the distance which a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who
have lived with you upon an equal footing, might surely expect better
usage: but I know how to account for it all: it is all owing to your
preposterous education, in which I have had too little share. There is my
daughter, now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything
without my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her.”
“You have never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind,”
said Nightingale; “for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she
would be very ready to obey even your most positive commands in abandoning
her inclinations.” “Don’t abuse my girl,” answered the
old gentleman with some emotion; “don’t abuse my Harriet. I have
brought her up to have no inclinations contrary to my own. By suffering
her to do whatever she pleases, I have enured her to a habit of being
pleased to do whatever I like.” “Pardon, me, sir,” said
Nightingale, “I have not the least design to reflect on my cousin,
for whom I have the greatest esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will
never put her to so severe a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her as
you would do on me.—But, dear sir, let us return to the company; for
they will begin to be uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one favour of
my dear uncle, which is that he would not say anything to shock the poor
girl or her mother.” “Oh! you need not fear me,”
answered he, “I understand myself too well to affront women; so I
will readily grant you that favour; and in return I must expect another of
you.” “There are but few of your commands, sir,” said
Nightingale, “which I shall not very chearfully obey.” “Nay,
sir, I ask nothing,” said the uncle, “but the honour of your
company home to my lodging, that I may reason the case a little more fully
with you; for I would, if possible, have the satisfaction of preserving my
family, notwithstanding the headstrong folly of my brother, who, in his
own opinion, is the wisest man in the world.”

Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his father,
submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back into the
room, where the old gentleman promised to carry himself with the same
decorum which he had before maintained.

Chapter x. — A short chapter, which concludes the book.

The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some disquiet in
the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as, during
the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than once elevated his voice,
so as to be heard downstairs; which, though they could not distinguish
what he said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and her mother,
and, indeed, even in Jones himself.

When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a visible
alteration in all their faces; and the good-humour which, at their last
meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance, was now changed
into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change, indeed, common enough
to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to clouds, from June to
December.

This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present; for as
they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts, and to act a
part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene to be spectators of
it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any symptoms of suspicion in the
mother or daughter; nor did the mother or daughter remark the overacted
complacence of the old man, nor the counterfeit satisfaction which grinned
in the features of the young one.

Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the whole
attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is to act,
in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the arts
practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow no
improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.

From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater loser;
as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in payment.

Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried off his
nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a whisper,
that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all his
engagements.

Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He did
indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great alteration
in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and his
overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom from
his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a proceeding that it
could be accounted for only by imagining that young Nightingale had
revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness of his temper, and
his being flustered with liquor, made too probable.

While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint these poor
people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed him that a
gentlewoman desired to speak with him.——He went immediately
out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his visitant upstairs,
who, in the person of Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such dreadful news
concerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all consideration for
every other person; and his whole stock of compassion was entirely
swallowed up in reflections on his own misery, and on that of his
unfortunate angel.

What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we have
first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and those will
be the subject of the following book.

BOOK XV. — IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.

Chapter i. — Too short to need a preface.

There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach that
virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in this
world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we have but
one objection, namely, that it is not true.

Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those cardinal
virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind only the
business of their own family, I shall very readily concede the point; for
so surely do all these contribute and lead to happiness, that I could
almost wish, in violation of all the antient and modern sages, to call
them rather by the name of wisdom, than by that of virtue; for, with
regard to this life, no system, I conceive, was ever wiser than that of
the antient Epicureans, who held this wisdom to constitute the chief good;
nor foolisher than that of their opposites, those modern epicures, who
place all felicity in the abundant gratification of every sensual
appetite.

But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain relative
quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and seems as much
interested in pursuing the good of others as its own; I cannot so easily
agree that this is the surest way to human happiness; because I am afraid
we must then include poverty and contempt, with all the mischiefs which
backbiting, envy, and ingratitude, can bring on mankind, in our idea of
happiness; nay, sometimes perhaps we shall be obliged to wait upon the
said happiness to a jail; since many by the above virtue have brought
themselves thither.

I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of speculation, as
here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe off a doctrine that lay
in my way; since, while Mr Jones was acting the most virtuous part
imaginable in labouring to preserve his fellow-creatures from destruction,
the devil, or some other evil spirit, one perhaps cloathed in human flesh,
was hard at work to make him completely miserable in the ruin of his
Sophia.

This therefore would seem an exception to the above rule, if indeed it was
a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen so many other
exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on which it is founded,
which we don’t apprehend to be Christian, which we are convinced is not
true, and which is indeed destructive of one of the noblest arguments that
reason alone can furnish for the belief of immortality.

But as the reader’s curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and
hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.

Chapter ii. — In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.

I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, “When children are
doing nothing, they are doing mischief.” I will not enlarge this
quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general; but
so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female jealousy do not
appear openly in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may suspect
that mischievous passion to be at work privately, and attempting to
undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.

This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under all the
smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much indignation
against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young lady stood between
her and the full indulgence of her desires, she resolved to get rid of her
by some means or other; nor was it long before a very favourable
opportunity of accomplishing this presented itself to her.

The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown into
that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a set of
young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed him, that she
had put herself under the protection of a young nobleman, who had very
safely conducted her to her chair.

This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more than once
seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had conceived a very
great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never looks more amiable than
in distress, Sophia had in this fright so encreased, that he might now,
without any great impropriety, be said to be actually in love with her.

It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an
occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as now
offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have
prompted him to pay her a visit.

The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia, with
the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no harm from her
last night’s adventure.

As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into a
flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now flew
away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in company with
the lady, before it entered into his head that he had made too long a
visit. Though this circumstance alone would have alarmed Sophia, who was
somewhat more a mistress of computation at present; she had indeed much
more pregnant evidence from the eyes of her lover of what past within his
bosom; nay, though he did not make any open declaration of his passion,
yet many of his expressions were rather too warm, and too tender, to have
been imputed to complacence, even in the age when such complacence was in
fashion; the very reverse of which is well known to be the reigning mode
at present.

Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship’s visit at his first
arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that things went as
she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the second time she saw this
young couple together. This business, she rightly I think concluded, that
she should by no means forward by mixing in the company while they were
together; she therefore ordered her servants, that when my lord was going,
they should tell him she desired to speak with him; and employed the
intermediate time in meditating how best to accomplish a scheme, which she
made no doubt but his lordship would very readily embrace the execution
of.

Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no
sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the following
strain: “Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my servants
had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to see you about an
affair of some importance.”——“Indeed, Lady
Bellaston,” said he, “I don’t wonder you are astonished at the
length of my visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think
I had staid above half-a-one.”——“What am I to
conclude from thence, my lord?” said she. “The company must be
very agreeable which can make time slide away so very deceitfully.”——“Upon
my honour,” said he, “the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell
me, Lady Bellaston, who is this blazing star which you have produced among
us all of a sudden?”——“What blazing star, my lord?”
said she, affecting a surprize. “I mean,” said he, “the
lady I saw here the other day, whom I had last night in my arms at the
playhouse, and to whom I have been making that unreasonable visit.”——“O,
my cousin Western!” said she; “why, that blazing star, my
lord, is the daughter of a country booby squire, and hath been in town
about a fortnight, for the first time.”——“Upon my
soul,” said he, “I should swear she had been bred up in a
court; for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so genteel, so
sensible, so polite.”——“O brave!” cries the
lady, “my cousin hath you, I find.”——“Upon
my honour,” answered he, “I wish she had; for I am in love
with her to distraction.”——“Nay, my lord,”
said she, “it is not wishing yourself very ill neither, for she is a
very great fortune: I assure you she is an only child, and her father’s
estate is a good £3000 a-year.” “Then I can assure you, madam,”
answered the lord, “I think her the best match in England.”
“Indeed, my lord,” replied she, “if you like her, I
heartily wish you had her.” “If you think so kindly of me,
madam,” said he, “as she is a relation of yours, will you do
me the honour to propose it to her father?” “And are you
really then in earnest?” cries the lady, with an affected gravity.
“I hope, madam,” answered he, “you have a better opinion
of me, than to imagine I would jest with your ladyship in an affair of
this kind.” “Indeed, then,” said the lady, “I will
most readily propose your lordship to her father; and I can, I believe,
assure you of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a bar,
which I am almost ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you will never be
able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who, though I
blush to name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever be able to
conquer.” “Upon my word, Lady Bellaston,” cries he,
“you have struck a damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me
of being.” “Fie, my lord,” said she, “I should
rather hope I had struck fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your
heart! I rather imagined you would have asked your rival’s name, that you
might have immediately entered the lists with him.” “I promise
you, madam,” answered he, “there are very few things I would
not undertake for your charming cousin; but pray, who is this happy man?”—“Why,
he is,” said she, “what I am sorry to say most happy men with
us are, one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is a beggar, a bastard,
a foundling, a fellow in meaner circumstances than one of your lordship’s
footmen.” “And is it possible,” cried he, “that a
young creature with such perfections should think of bestowing herself so
unworthily?” “Alas! my lord,” answered she, “consider
the country—the bane of all young women is the country. There they
learn a set of romantic notions of love, and I know not what folly, which
this town and good company can scarce eradicate in a whole winter.”
“Indeed, madam,” replied my lord, “your cousin is of too
immense a value to be thrown away; such ruin as this must be prevented.”
“Alas!” cries she, “my lord, how can it be prevented?
The family have already done all in their power; but the girl is, I think,
intoxicated, and nothing less than ruin will content her. And to deal more
openly with you, I expect every day to hear she is run away with him.”
“What you tell me, Lady Bellaston,” answered his lordship,
“affects me most tenderly, and only raises my compassion, instead of
lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means must be found to
preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath your ladyship endeavoured to reason
with her?” Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, “My dear
lord, sure you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman out
of her inclinations? These inestimable jewels are as deaf as the jewels
they wear: time, my lord, time is the only medicine to cure their folly;
but this is a medicine which I am certain she will not take; nay, I live
in hourly horrors on her account. In short, nothing but violent methods
will do.” “What is to be done?” cries my lord; “what
methods are to be taken?—Is there any method upon earth?—Oh!
Lady Bellaston! there is nothing which I would not undertake for such a
reward.”——“I really know not,” answered the
lady, after a pause; and then pausing again, she cried out—“Upon
my soul, I am at my wit’s end on this girl’s account.—If she can be
preserved, something must be done immediately; and, as I say, nothing but
violent methods will do.——If your lordship hath really this
attachment to my cousin (and to do her justice, except in this silly
inclination, of which she will soon see her folly, she is every way
deserving), I think there may be one way, indeed, it is a very
disagreeable one, and what I am almost afraid to think of.—It
requires a great spirit, I promise you.” “I am not conscious,
madam,” said he, “of any defect there; nor am I, I hope,
suspected of any such. It must be an egregious defect indeed, which could
make me backward on this occasion.” “Nay, my lord,”
answered she, “I am so far from doubting you, I am much more
inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must run a monstrous risque. In
short, I must place such a confidence in your honour as a wise woman will
scarce ever place in a man on any consideration.” In this point
likewise my lord very well satisfied her; for his reputation was extremely
clear, and common fame did him no more than justice, in speaking well of
him. “Well, then,” said she, “my lord,—I—I
vow, I can’t bear the apprehension of it.—No, it must not be.——At
least every other method shall be tried. Can you get rid of your
engagements, and dine here to-day? Your lordship will have an opportunity
of seeing a little more of Miss Western.—I promise you we have no
time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady Betty, and Miss Eagle, and
Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they will all go soon—and I shall
be at home to nobody. Then your lordship may be a little more explicit.
Nay, I will contrive some method to convince you of her attachment to this
fellow.” My lord made proper compliments, accepted the invitation,
and then they parted to dress, it being now past three in the morning, or
to reckon by the old style, in the afternoon.

Chapter iii. — A further explanation of the foregoing design.

Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a
member (and no inconsiderable one) of the great world; she was in reality
a very considerable member of the little world; by which appellation was
distinguished a very worthy and honourable society which not long since
flourished in this kingdom.

Among other good principles upon which this society was founded, there was
one very remarkable; for, as it was a rule of an honourable club of
heroes, who assembled at the close of the late war, that all the members
should every day fight once at least; so ’twas in this, that every member
should, within the twenty-four hours, tell at least one merry fib, which
was to be propagated by all the brethren and sisterhood.

Many idle stories were told about this society, which from a certain
quality may be, perhaps not unjustly, supposed to have come from the
society themselves. As, that the devil was the president; and that he sat
in person in an elbow-chair at the upper end of the table; but, upon very
strict enquiry, I find there is not the least truth in any of those tales,
and that the assembly consisted in reality of a set of very good sort of
people, and the fibs which they propagated were of a harmless kind, and
tended only to produce mirth and good humour.

Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him therefore
Lady Bellaston applied as a proper instrument for her purpose, and
furnished him with a fib, which he was to vent whenever the lady gave him
her cue; and this was not to be till the evening, when all the company but
Lord Fellamar and himself were gone, and while they were engaged in a
rubber at whist.

To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening, we
will convey our reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss Western,
and Tom, being engaged at whist, and in the last game of their rubbers,
Tom received his cue from Lady Bellaston, which was, “I protest,
Tom, you are grown intolerable lately; you used to tell us all the news of
the town, and now you know no more of the world than if you lived out of
it.”

Mr Edwards then began as follows: “The fault is not mine, madam: it
lies in the dulness of the age, that doth nothing worth talking of.——O
la! though now I think on’t there hath a terrible accident befallen poor
Colonel Wilcox.——Poor Ned.——You know him, my lord,
everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned for him.”

“What is it, pray?” says Lady Bellaston.

“Why, he hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that’s all.”

His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he had
killed? To which Edwards answered, “A young fellow we none of us
know; a Somersetshire lad just came to town, one Jones his name is; a near
relation of one Mr Allworthy, of whom your lordship I believe hath heard.
I saw the lad lie dead in a coffee-house.—Upon my soul, he is one of
the finest corpses I ever saw in my life!”

Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man was
killed, stopt her hand, and listened with attention (for all stories of
that kind affected her), but no sooner had he arrived at the latter part
of the story than she began to deal again; and having dealt three cards to
one, and seven to another, and ten to a third, at last dropt the rest from
her hand, and fell back in her chair.

The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual disturbance
ensued, the usual assistance was summoned, and Sophia at last, as it is
usual, returned again to life, and was soon after, at her earnest desire,
led to her own apartment; where, at my lord’s request, Lady Bellaston
acquainted her with the truth, attempted to carry it off as a jest of her
own, and comforted her with repeated assurances, that neither his lordship
nor Tom, though she had taught him the story, were in the true secret of
the affair.

There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar how
justly the case had been represented to him by Lady Bellaston; and now, at
her return into the room, a scheme was laid between these two noble
persons, which, though it appeared in no very heinous light to his
lordship (as he faithfully promised, and faithfully resolved too, to make
the lady all the subsequent amends in his power by marriage), yet many of
our readers, we doubt not, will see with just detestation.

The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose, when Lady
Bellaston undertook that Sophia should be alone, and his lordship should
be introduced to her. The whole family were to be regulated for the
purpose, most of the servants despatched out of the house; and for Mrs
Honour, who, to prevent suspicion, was to be left with her mistress till
his lordship’s arrival, Lady Bellaston herself was to engage her in an
apartment as distant as possible from the scene of the intended mischief,
and out of the hearing of Sophia.

Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her
ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with a project, of which she had
no reason to doubt the success, and which promised so effectually to
remove Sophia from being any further obstruction to her amour with Jones,
by a means of which she should never appear to be guilty, even if the fact
appeared to the world; but this she made no doubt of preventing by
huddling up a marriage, to which she thought the ravished Sophia would
easily be brought to consent, and at which all the rest of her family
would rejoice.

But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the other
conspirator; his mind was tost in all the distracting anxiety so nobly
described by Shakespear—

Though the violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace the first
hint of this design, especially as it came from a relation of the lady,
yet when that friend to reflection, a pillow, had placed the action itself
in all its natural black colours before his eyes, with all the
consequences which must, and those which might probably attend it, his
resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to go over to the other side;
and after a long conflict, which lasted a whole night, between honour and
appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he determined to wait on
Lady Bellaston, and to relinquish the design.

Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and Sophia
sitting by her bed-side, when the servant acquainted her that Lord
Fellamar was below in the parlour; upon which her ladyship desired him to
stay, and that she would see him presently; but the servant was no sooner
departed than poor Sophia began to intreat her cousin not to encourage the
visits of that odious lord (so she called him, though a little unjustly)
upon her account. “I see his design,” said she; “for he
made downright love to me yesterday morning; but as I am resolved never to
admit it, I beg your ladyship not to leave us alone together any more, and
to order the servants that, if he enquires for me, I may be always denied
to him.”

“La! child,” says Lady Bellaston, “you country girls
have nothing but sweethearts in your head; you fancy every man who is
civil to you is making love. He is one of the most gallant young fellows
about town, and I am convinced means no more than a little gallantry. Make
love to you indeed! I wish with all my heart he would, and you must be an
arrant mad woman to refuse him.”

“But as I shall certainly be that mad woman,” cries Sophia,
“I hope his visits shall not be intruded upon me.”

“O child!” said Lady Bellaston, “you need not be so
fearful; if you resolve to run away with that Jones, I know no person who
can hinder you.”

“Upon my honour, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship
injures me. I will never run away with any man; nor will I ever marry
contrary to my father’s inclinations.”

“Well, Miss Western,” said the lady, “if you are not in
a humour to see company this morning, you may retire to your own
apartment; for I am not frightened at his lordship, and must send for him
up into my dressing-room.”

Sophia thanked her ladyship, and withdrew; and presently afterwards
Fellamar was admitted upstairs.

Chapter iv. — By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a
lady is when she applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.

When Lady Bellaston heard the young lord’s scruples, she treated them with
the same disdain with which one of those sages of the law, called Newgate
solicitors, treats the qualms of conscience in a young witness. “My
dear lord,” said she, “you certainly want a cordial. I must
send to Lady Edgely for one of her best drams. Fie upon it! have more
resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape? Or are you apprehensive——?
Well! if the story of Helen was modern, I should think it unnatural. I
mean the behaviour of Paris, not the fondness of the lady; for all women
love a man of spirit. There is another story of the Sabine ladies—and
that too, I thank heaven, is very antient. Your lordship, perhaps, will
admire my reading; but I think Mr Hook tells us, they made tolerable good
wives afterwards. I fancy few of my married acquaintance were ravished by
their husbands.” “Nay, dear Lady Bellaston,” cried he,
“don’t ridicule me in this manner.” “Why, my good lord,”
answered she, “do you think any woman in England would not laugh at
you in her heart, whatever prudery she might wear in her countenance?——You
force me to use a strange kind of language, and to betray my sex most
abominably; but I am contented with knowing my intentions are good, and
that I am endeavouring to serve my cousin; for I think you will make her a
husband notwithstanding this; or, upon my soul, I would not even persuade
her to fling herself away upon an empty title. She should not upbraid me
hereafter with having lost a man of spirit; for that his enemies allow
this poor young fellow to be.”

Let those who have had the satisfaction of hearing reflections of this
kind from a wife or a mistress, declare whether they are at all sweetened
by coming from a female tongue. Certain it is, they sunk deeper into his
lordship than anything which Demosthenes or Cicero could have said on the
occasion.

Lady Bellaston, perceiving she had fired the young lord’s pride, began
now, like a true orator, to rouse other passions to its assistance.
“My lord,” says she, in a graver voice, “you will be
pleased to remember, you mentioned this matter to me first; for I would
not appear to you in the light of one who is endeavouring to put off my
cousin upon you. Fourscore thousand pounds do not stand in need of an
advocate to recommend them.” “Nor doth Miss Western,”
said he, “require any recommendation from her fortune; for, in my
opinion, no woman ever had half her charms.” “Yes, yes, my
lord,” replied the lady, looking in the glass, “there have
been women with more than half her charms, I assure you; not that I need
lessen her on that account: she is a most delicious girl, that’s certain;
and within these few hours she will be in the arms of one, who surely doth
not deserve her, though I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a
man of spirit.”

“I hope so, madam,” said my lord; “though I must own he
doth not deserve her; for, unless heaven or your ladyship disappoint me,
she shall within that time be in mine.”

“Well spoken, my lord,” answered the lady; “I promise
you no disappointment shall happen from my side; and within this week I am
convinced I shall call your lordship my cousin in public.”

The remainder of this scene consisted entirely of raptures, excuses, and
compliments, very pleasant to have heard from the parties; but rather dull
when related at second hand. Here, therefore, we shall put an end to this
dialogue, and hasten to the fatal hour when everything was prepared for
the destruction of poor Sophia.

But this being the most tragical matter in our whole history, we shall
treat it in a chapter by itself.

Chapter v. — Containing some matters which may affect, and others
which may surprize, the reader.

The clock had now struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and melancholy, sat
reading a tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and she was now come to that
part where the poor distrest Isabella disposes of her wedding-ring.

Here the book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears ran down into her
bosom. In this situation she had continued a minute, when the door opened,
and in came Lord Fellamar. Sophia started from her chair at his entrance;
and his lordship advancing forwards, and making a low bow, said, “I
am afraid, Miss Western, I break in upon you abruptly.” “Indeed,
my lord,” says she, “I must own myself a little surprized at
this unexpected visit.” “If this visit be unexpected, madam,”
answered Lord Fellamar, “my eyes must have been very faithless
interpreters of my heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you; for
surely you could not otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in your
possession, without receiving a visit from its owner.” Sophia,
confused as she was, answered this bombast (and very properly I think)
with a look of inconceivable disdain. My lord then made another and a
longer speech of the same sort. Upon which Sophia, trembling, said,
“Am I really to conceive your lordship to be out of your senses?
Sure, my lord, there is no other excuse for such behaviour.” “I
am, indeed, madam, in the situation you suppose,” cries his
lordship; “and sure you will pardon the effects of a frenzy which
you yourself have occasioned; for love hath so totally deprived me of
reason, that I am scarce accountable for any of my actions.” “Upon
my word, my lord,” said Sophia, “I neither understand your
words nor your behaviour.” “Suffer me then, madam,”
cries he, “at your feet to explain both, by laying open my soul to
you, and declaring that I doat on you to the highest degree of
distraction. O most adorable, most divine creature! what language can
express the sentiments of my heart?” “I do assure you, my
lord,” said Sophia, “I shall not stay to hear any more of
this.” “Do not,” cries he, “think of leaving me
thus cruelly; could you know half the torments which I feel, that tender
bosom must pity what those eyes have caused.” Then fetching a deep
sigh, and laying hold of her hand, he ran on for some minutes in a strain
which would be little more pleasing to the reader than it was to the lady;
and at last concluded with a declaration, “That if he was master of
the world, he would lay it at her feet.” Sophia then, forcibly
pulling away her hand from his, answered with much spirit, “I
promise you, sir, your world and its master I should spurn from me with
equal contempt.” She then offered to go; and Lord Fellamar, again
laying hold of her hand, said, “Pardon me, my beloved angel,
freedoms which nothing but despair could have tempted me to take.——Believe
me, could I have had any hope that my title and fortune, neither of them
inconsiderable, unless when compared with your worth, would have been
accepted, I had, in the humblest manner, presented them to your
acceptance.——But I cannot lose you.—By heaven, I will
sooner part with my soul!—You are, you must, you shall be only mine.”
“My lord,” says she, “I intreat you to desist from a
vain pursuit; for, upon my honour, I will never hear you on this subject.
Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from you this moment; nor
will I ever see you more.” “Then, madam,” cries his
lordship, “I must make the best use of this moment; for I cannot
live, nor will I live without you.”——“What do you
mean, my lord?” said Sophia; “I will raise the family.”
“I have no fear, madam,” answered he, “but of losing
you, and that I am resolved to prevent, the only way which despair points
to me.”—He then caught her in his arms: upon which she
screamed so loud, that she must have alarmed some one to her assistance,
had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove all ears.

But a more lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; another noise now
broke forth, which almost drowned her cries; for now the whole house rang
with, “Where is she? D—n me, I’ll unkennel her this instant.
Show me her chamber, I say. Where is my daughter? I know she’s in the
house, and I’ll see her if she’s above-ground. Show me where she is.”—At
which last words the door flew open, and in came Squire Western, with his
parson and a set of myrmidons at his heels.

How miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, when the
enraged voice of her father was welcome to her ears! Welcome indeed it
was, and luckily did he come; for it was the only accident upon earth
which could have preserved the peace of her mind from being for ever
destroyed.

Sophia, notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father’s voice; and
his lordship, notwithstanding his passion, knew the voice of reason, which
peremptorily assured him, it was not now a time for the perpetration of
his villany. Hearing, therefore, the voice approach, and hearing likewise
whose it was (for as the squire more than once roared forth the word
daughter, so Sophia, in the midst of her struggling, cried out upon her
father), he thought proper to relinquish his prey, having only disordered
her handkerchief, and with his rude lips committed violence on her lovely
neck.

If the reader’s imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be able to
describe the situation of these two persons when Western came into the
room. Sophia tottered into a chair, where she sat disordered, pale,
breathless, bursting with indignation at Lord Fellamar; affrighted, and
yet more rejoiced, at the arrival of her father.

His lordship sat down near her, with the bag of his wig hanging over one
of his shoulders, the rest of his dress being somewhat disordered, and
rather a greater proportion of linen than is usual appearing at his bosom.
As to the rest, he was amazed, affrighted, vexed, and ashamed.

As to Squire Western, he happened at this time to be overtaken by an
enemy, which very frequently pursues, and seldom fails to overtake, most
of the country gentlemen in this kingdom. He was, literally speaking,
drunk; which circumstance, together with his natural impetuosity, could
produce no other effect than his running immediately up to his daughter,
upon whom he fell foul with his tongue in the most inveterate manner; nay,
he had probably committed violence with his hands, had not the parson
interposed, saying, “For heaven’s sake, sir, animadvert that you are
in the house of a great lady. Let me beg you to mitigate your wrath; it
should minister a fulness of satisfaction that you have found your
daughter; for as to revenge, it belongeth not unto us. I discern great
contrition in the countenance of the young lady. I stand assured, if you
will forgive her, she will repent her of all past offences, and return
unto her duty.”

The strength of the parson’s arms had at first been of more service than
the strength of his rhetoric. However, his last words wrought some effect,
and the squire answered, “I’ll forgee her if she wull ha un. If wot
ha un, Sophy, I’ll forgee thee all. Why dost unt speak? Shat ha un! d—n
me, shat ha un! Why dost unt answer? Was ever such a stubborn tuoad?”

“Let me intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate,” said
the parson; “you frighten the young lady so, that you deprive her of
all power of utterance.”

“Power of mine a—,” answered the squire. “You take
her part then, you do? A pretty parson, truly, to side with an undutiful
child! Yes, yes, I will gee you a living with a pox. I’ll gee un to the
devil sooner.”

“I humbly crave your pardon,” said the parson; “I assure
your worship I meant no such matter.”

My Lady Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to the squire, who no
sooner saw her, than, resolving to follow the instructions of his sister,
he made her a very civil bow, in the rural manner, and paid her some of
his best compliments. He then immediately proceeded to his complaints, and
said, “There, my lady cousin; there stands the most undutiful child
in the world; she hankers after a beggarly rascal, and won’t marry one of
the greatest matches in all England, that we have provided for her.”

“Indeed, cousin Western,” answered the lady, “I am
persuaded you wrong my cousin. I am sure she hath a better understanding.
I am convinced she will not refuse what she must be sensible is so much to
her advantage.”

This was a wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well knew whom Mr
Western meant; though perhaps she thought he would easily be reconciled to
his lordship’s proposals.

“Do you hear there,” quoth the squire, “what her
ladyship says? All your family are for the match. Come, Sophy, be a good
girl, and be dutiful, and make your father happy.”

“If my death will make you happy, sir,” answered Sophia,
“you will shortly be so.”

“It’s a lye, Sophy; it’s a d—n’d lye, and you know it,”
said the squire.

“Indeed, Miss Western,” said Lady Bellaston, “you injure
your father; he hath nothing in view but your interest in this match; and
I and all your friends must acknowledge the highest honour done to your
family in the proposal.”

“Ay, all of us,” quoth the squire; “nay, it was no
proposal of mine. She knows it was her aunt proposed it to me first.—Come,
Sophy, once more let me beg you to be a good girl, and gee me your consent
before your cousin.”

“Let me give him your hand, cousin,” said the lady. “It
is the fashion now-a-days to dispense with time and long courtships.”

“Pugh!” said the squire, “what signifies time; won’t
they have time enough to court afterwards? People may court very well
after they have been a-bed together.”

As Lord Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady
Bellaston, so, never having heard nor suspected a word of Blifil, he made
no doubt of his being meant by the father. Coming up, therefore, to the
squire, he said, “Though I have not the honour, sir, of being
personally known to you, yet, as I find I have the happiness to have my
proposals accepted, let me intercede, sir, in behalf of the young lady,
that she may not be more solicited at this time.”

“You intercede, sir!” said the squire; “why, who the
devil are you?”

“Sir, I am Lord Fellamar,” answered he, “and am the
happy man whom I hope you have done the honour of accepting for a
son-in-law.”

“You are a son of a b——,” replied the squire,
“for all your laced coat. You my son-in-law, and be d—n’d to
you!”

“I shall take more from you, sir, than from any man,” answered
the lord; “but I must inform you that I am not used to hear such
language without resentment.”

“Resent my a—,” quoth the squire. “Don’t think I
am afraid of such a fellow as thee art! because hast got a spit there
dangling at thy side. Lay by your spit, and I’ll give thee enough of
meddling with what doth not belong to thee. I’ll teach you to
father-in-law me. I’ll lick thy jacket.”

“It’s very well, sir,” said my lord, “I shall make no
disturbance before the ladies. I am very well satisfied. Your humble
servant, sir; Lady Bellaston, your most obedient.”

His lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, coming up to Mr
Western, said, “Bless me, sir, what have you done? You know not whom
you have affronted; he is a nobleman of the first rank and fortune, and
yesterday made proposals to your daughter; and such as I am sure you must
accept with the highest pleasure.”

“Answer for yourself, lady cousin,” said the squire, “I
will have nothing to do with any of your lords. My daughter shall have an
honest country gentleman; I have pitched upon one for her—and she
shall ha’ un.—I am sorry for the trouble she hath given your
ladyship with all my heart.” Lady Bellaston made a civil speech upon
the word trouble; to which the squire answered—“Why, that’s
kind—and I would do as much for your ladyship. To be sure relations
should do for one another. So I wish your ladyship a good night.—Come,
madam, you must go along with me by fair means, or I’ll have you carried
down to the coach.”

Sophia said she would attend him without force; but begged to go in a
chair, for she said she should not be able to ride any other way.

“Prithee,” cries the squire, “wout unt persuade me canst
not ride in a coach, wouldst? That’s a pretty thing surely! No, no, I’ll
never let thee out of my sight any more till art married, that I promise
thee.” Sophia told him, she saw he was resolved to break her heart.
“O break thy heart and be d—n’d,” quoth he, “if a
good husband will break it. I don’t value a brass varden, not a halfpenny,
of any undutiful b— upon earth.” He then took violent hold of
her hand; upon which the parson once more interfered, begging him to use
gentle methods. At that the squire thundered out a curse, and bid the
parson hold his tongue, saying, “At’nt in pulpit now? when art a got
up there I never mind what dost say; but I won’t be priest-ridden, nor
taught how to behave myself by thee. I wish your ladyship a good-night.
Come along, Sophy; be a good girl, and all shall be well. Shat ha’ un, d—n
me, shat ha’ un!”

Mrs Honour appeared below-stairs, and with a low curtesy to the squire
offered to attend her mistress; but he pushed her away, saying, “Hold,
madam, hold, you come no more near my house.” “And will you
take my maid away from me?” said Sophia. “Yes, indeed, madam,
will I,” cries the squire: “you need not fear being without a
servant; I will get you another maid, and a better maid than this, who,
I’d lay five pounds to a crown, is no more a maid than my grannum. No, no,
Sophy, she shall contrive no more escapes, I promise you.” He then
packed up his daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which
he mounted himself, and ordered it to drive to his lodgings. In the way
thither he suffered Sophia to be quiet, and entertained himself with
reading a lecture to the parson on good manners, and a proper behaviour to
his betters.

It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his daughter from
Lady Bellaston, had that good lady desired to have detained her; but, in
reality, she was not a little pleased with the confinement into which
Sophia was going; and as her project with Lord Fellamar had failed of
success, she was well contented that other violent methods were now going
to be used in favour of another man.

Chapter vi. — By what means the squire came to discover his
daughter.

Though the reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest much more
unaccountable appearances than this of Mr Western, without any
satisfaction at all; yet, as we dearly love to oblige him whenever it is
in our power, we shall now proceed to shew by what method the squire
discovered where his daughter was.

In the third chapter, then, of the preceding book, we gave a hint (for it
is not our custom to unfold at any time more than is necessary for the
occasion) that Mrs Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of reconciling her
uncle and aunt Western, thought she had a probable opportunity, by the
service of preserving Sophia from committing the same crime which had
drawn on herself the anger of her family. After much deliberation,
therefore, she resolved to inform her aunt Western where her cousin was,
and accordingly she writ the following letter, which we shall give the
reader at length, for more reasons than one.

Mrs Western was now at her brother’s house, where she had resided ever
since the flight of Sophia, in order to administer comfort to the poor
squire in his affliction. Of this comfort, which she doled out to him in
daily portions, we have formerly given a specimen.

She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of snuff
in her hand, was dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort to the
squire, while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received the above
letter; which she had no sooner read than she delivered it to him, saying,
“There, sir, there is an account of your lost sheep. Fortune hath
again restored her to you, and if you will be governed by my advice, it is
possible you may yet preserve her.”

The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his chair,
threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for joy. He then
summoned his servants, called for his boots, and ordered the Chevalier and
several other horses to be saddled, and that parson Supple should be
immediately sent for. Having done this, he turned to his sister, caught
her in his arms, and gave her a close embrace, saying, “Zounds! you
don’t seem pleased; one would imagine you was sorry I have found the girl.”

“Brother,” answered she, “the deepest politicians, who
see to the bottom, discover often a very different aspect of affairs, from
what swims on the surface. It is true, indeed, things do look rather less
desperate than they did formerly in Holland, when Lewis the Fourteenth was
at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a delicacy required in this
matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you want. There is
a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, such as Lady Bellaston,
brother, which requires a knowledge of the world, superior, I am afraid,
to yours.”

“Sister,” cries the squire, “I know you have no opinion
of my parts; but I’ll shew you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge,
quotha! I have not been in the country so long without having some
knowledge of warrants and the law of the land. I know I may take my own
wherever I can find it. Shew me my own daughter, and if I don’t know how
to come at her, I’ll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I live. There
be justices of peace in London, as well as in other places.”

“I protest,” cries she, “you make me tremble for the
event of this matter, which, if you will proceed by my advice, you may
bring to so good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that the house
of a woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of
the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. As soon as you arrive in
town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for indeed, brother, you
have none at present fit to appear in), you must send your compliments to
Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her. When you are admitted to
her presence, as you certainly will be, and have told her your story, and
have made proper use of my name (for I think you just know one another
only by sight, though you are relations), I am confident she will withdraw
her protection from my niece, who hath certainly imposed upon her. This is
the only method.—Justices of peace, indeed! do you imagine any such
event can arrive to a woman of figure in a civilised nation?”

“D—n their figures,” cries the squire; “a pretty
civilised nation, truly, where women are above the law. And what must I
stand sending a parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps
away a daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not
so ignorant as you think me——I know you would have women above
the law, but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no
one is above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.”

“Mr Western,” said she, “I think you daily improve in
ignorance.——I protest you are grown an arrant bear.”

“No more a bear than yourself, sister Western,” said the
squire.—“Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am
sure you never shew any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither,
though I know somebody, that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I
will show you I have got more good manners than some folks.”

“Mr Western,” answered the lady, “you may say what you
please, je vous mesprise de tout mon coeur. I shall not therefore
be angry.——Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name,
justly says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my
family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I have
resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed, indeed,
brother, you are not a fit minister to be employed at a polite court.—Greenland—Greenland
should always be the scene of the tramontane negociation.”

“I thank Heaven,” cries the squire, “I don’t understand
you now. You are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I’ll shew you I
scorn to be behind-hand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for
what I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed I have
always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they do now and
then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take; for my part, I
never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go up to London; for
I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not stay above a
fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can’t be expected to know much of
the streets and the folks in that time. I never denied that you know’d all
these matters better than I. For me to dispute that would be all as one as
for you to dispute the management of a pack of dogs, or the finding a hare
sitting, with me.”—“Which I promise you,” says
she, “I never will.”—“Well, and I promise you,”
returned he, “that I never will dispute the t’other.”

Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady) between
the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the horses being
ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to follow her
advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.

But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road, they both
agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be dispensed with;
and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded in the manner we have
already seen.

Chapter vii. — In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.

Affairs were in the aforesaid situation when Mrs Honour arrived at Mrs
Miller’s, and called Jones out from the company, as we have before seen,
with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as follows:—

“O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are
undone, sir, and my poor lady’s undone, and I am undone.” “Hath
anything happened to Sophia?” cries Jones, staring like a madman.
“All that is bad,” cries Honour: “Oh, I shall never get
such another lady! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!” At
these words Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but
Honour went on—“O! Mr Jones, I have lost my lady for ever.”
“How? what! for Heaven’s sake, tell me. O, my dear Sophia!”
“You may well call her so,” said Honour; “she was the
dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another place.”——“D—n
your place!” cries Jones; “where is—what—what is
become of my Sophia?” “Ay, to be sure,” cries she,
“servants may be d—n’d. It signifies nothing what becomes of
them, though they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure
they are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it
signifies nothing what becomes of them.” “If you have any
pity, any compassion,” cries Jones, “I beg you will instantly
tell me what hath happened to Sophia?” “To be sure, I have
more pity for you than you have for me,” answered Honour; “I
don’t d—n you because you have lost the sweetest lady in the world.
To be sure you are worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too:
for, to be sure, if ever there was a good mistress——”
“What hath happened?” cries Jones, in almost a raving fit.
“What?—What?” said Honour: “Why, the worst that
could have happened both for you and for me.—Her father is come to
town, and hath carried her away from us both.” Here Jones fell on
his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse. “No worse!”
repeated Honour; “what could be worse for either of us? He carried
her off, swearing she should marry Mr Blifil; that’s for your comfort;
and, for poor me, I am turned out of doors.” “Indeed, Mrs
Honour,” answered Jones, “you frightened me out of my wits. I
imagined some most dreadful sudden accident had happened to Sophia;
something, compared to which, even seeing her married to Blifil would be a
trifle; but while there is life there are hopes, my dear Honour. Women in
this land of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal force.”
“To be sure, sir,” said she, “that’s true. There may be
some hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are there for poor me? And
to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer all this upon your account.
All the quarrel the squire hath to me is for taking your part, as I have
done, against Mr Blifil.” “Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered
he, “I am sensible of my obligations to you, and will leave nothing
in my power undone to make you amends.” “Alas! sir,”
said she, “what can make a servant amends for the loss of one place
but the getting another altogether as good?” “Do not despair,
Mrs Honour,” said Jones, “I hope to reinstate you again in the
same.” “Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “how can I
flatter myself with such hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for
the squire is so set against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady,
as to be sure I now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous,
good-natured gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she
loves you as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it;
because as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my lady,
must see it; for, poor dear lady, she can’t dissemble: and if two people
who loves one another a’n’t happy, why who should be so? Happiness don’t
always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady has enough for both.
To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would be all the pity in the
world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay, I am convinced, for my part,
you will meet together at last; for, if it is to be, there is no
preventing it. If a marriage is made in heaven, all the justices of peace
upon earth can’t break it off. To be sure I wishes that parson Supple had
but a little more spirit, to tell the squire of his wickedness in
endeavouring to force his daughter contrary to her liking; but then his
whole dependance is on the squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is
a very religious good sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings
behind the squire’s back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his
face. To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard
the squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be
melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are
sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never will be
brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed I am terribly afeared
the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for he is a prodigious
passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor lady will be brought
to break her heart, for she is as tender-hearted as a chicken. It is pity,
methinks, she had not a little of my courage. If I was in love with a
young man, and my father offered to lock me up, I’d tear his eyes out but
I’d come at him; but then there’s a great fortune in the case, which it is
in her father’s power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may
make some difference.”

Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue, or
whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot
determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once stop
till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him that the great
lady was upon the stairs.

Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. Honour
knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and Lady
Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world to whom he
would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he took (as is
common enough) the worst course, and, instead of exposing her to the lady,
which would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose the lady
to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had but just time to
convey behind the bed, and to draw the curtains.

The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of his poor
landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs Honour, and the
confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden arrival of Lady
Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out of his head; so that
it never once occurred to his memory to act the part of a sick man; which,
indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness of his
countenance, would have at all supported.

He received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her desires than to
her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster in his
countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the least
disorder.

Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself down
on the bed: “So, my dear Jones,” said she, “you find
nothing can detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you,
that I have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive your
distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I suppose you have
not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a fine lady to see company
after a lying-in; but, however, don’t think I intend to scold you; for I
never will give you an excuse for the cold behaviour of a husband, by
putting on the ill-humour of a wife.”

“Nay, Lady Bellaston,” said Jones, “I am sure your
ladyship will not upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for
orders. Who, my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an
appointment last night, and left an unhappy man to expect, and wish, and
sigh, and languish?”

“Do not mention it, my dear Mr Jones,” cried she. “If
you knew the occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to
conceive what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the
impertinence of fools, in order to keep up the farce of the world. I am
glad, however, all your languishing and wishing have done you no harm; for
you never looked better in your life. Upon my faith! Jones, you might at
this instant sit for the picture of Adonis.”

There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold can
properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there may be
some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now the compliment
which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this kind, especially
as it was attended with a look, in which the lady conveyed more soft ideas
than it was possible to express with her tongue.

Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most disagreeable and
distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on the comparison we made
use of before, though the provocation was given by the lady, Jones could
not receive satisfaction, nor so much as offer to ask it, in the presence
of a third person; seconds in this kind of duels not being according to
the law of arms. As this objection did not occur to Lady Bellaston, who
was ignorant of any other woman being there but herself, she waited some
time in great astonishment for an answer from Jones, who, conscious of the
ridiculous figure he made, stood at a distance, and, not daring to give
the proper answer, gave none at all. Nothing can be imagined more comic,
nor yet more tragical, than this scene would have been if it had lasted
much longer. The lady had already changed colour two or three times; had
got up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones was wishing the ground
to sink under him, or the house to fall on his head, when an odd accident
freed him from an embarrassment out of which neither the eloquence of a
Cicero, nor the politics of a Machiavel, could have delivered him, without
utter disgrace.

This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk; or
rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use of their
reason without depriving them of the use of their limbs.

Mrs Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was smoaking his
pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr Jones’s chamber-door
without any interruption. This he burst open, and was entering without any
ceremony, when Jones started from his seat and ran to oppose him, which he
did so effectually, that Nightingale never came far enough within the door
to see who was sitting on the bed.

Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones’s apartment for that in which
himself had lodged; he therefore strongly insisted on coming in, often
swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones, however,
prevailed over him, and delivered him into the hands of Partridge, whom
the noise on the stairs soon summoned to his master’s assistance.

And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own apartment,
where at the very instant of his entrance he heard Lady Bellaston venting
an exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at the same time saw her
flinging herself into a chair in a vast agitation, which in a lady of a
tender constitution would have been an hysteric fit.

In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two men, of
which she did not know what would be the issue, as she heard Nightingale
swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted to retire to her
known place of hiding, which to her great confusion she found already
occupied by another.

“Is this usage to be borne, Mr Jones?” cries the lady.—“Basest
of men?——What wretch is this to whom you have exposed me?”
“Wretch!” cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her
place of concealment—“Marry come up!——Wretch
forsooth?——as poor a wretch as I am, I am honest; this is more
than some folks who are richer can say.”

Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge of Mrs
Honour’s resentment, as a more experienced gallant would have done, fell
to cursing his stars, and lamenting himself as the most unfortunate man in
the world; and presently after, addressing himself to Lady Bellaston, he
fell to some very absurd protestations of innocence. By this time the
lady, having recovered the use of her reason, which she had as ready as
any woman in the world, especially on such occasions, calmly replied:
“Sir, you need make no apologies, I see now who the person is; I did
not at first know Mrs Honour: but now I do, I can suspect nothing wrong
between her and you; and I am sure she is a woman of too good sense to put
any wrong constructions upon my visit to you; I have been always her
friend, and it may be in my power to be much more hereafter.”

Mrs Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate. Hearing,
therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the soft tone, she likewise softened
hers.——“I’m sure, madam,” says she, “I have
been always ready to acknowledge your ladyship’s friendships to me; sure I
never had so good a friend as your ladyship——and to be sure,
now I see it is your ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my
tongue off for very mad.—I constructions upon your ladyship—to
be sure it doth not become a servant as I am to think about such a great
lady—I mean I was a servant: for indeed I am nobody’s servant now,
the more miserable wretch is me.—I have lost the best mistress——”
Here Honour thought fit to produce a shower of tears.—“Don’t
cry, child,” says the good lady; “ways perhaps may be found to
make you amends. Come to me to-morrow morning.” She then took up her
fan which lay on the ground, and without even looking at Jones walked very
majestically out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the
impudence of women of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to
attain to in circumstances of this nature.

Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which she
absolutely refused him, and got into her chair without taking any notice
of him as he stood bowing before her.

At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs Honour,
while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had undergone.
The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady; on which she
enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found means to reconcile
her, and not only so, but to obtain a promise of most inviolable secrecy,
and that she would the next morning endeavour to find out Sophia, and
bring him a further account of the proceedings of the squire.

Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of Mrs
Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will perhaps acknowledge from
experience) is often a very valuable possession: and that not only to
those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to such as whisper it about
till it come to the ears of every one except the ignorant person who pays
for the supposed concealing of what is publickly known.

Chapter viii. — Short and sweet.

Notwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs
Miller could not forbear in the morning some gentle remonstrances for the
hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber. These
were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed truly, to
aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr Jones himself, that he, far
from being offended, thankfully received the admonition of the good woman,
expressed much concern for what had past, excused it as well as he could,
and promised never more to bring the same disturbances into the house.

But though Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in
private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned
downstairs that morning was of a much more agreeable kind, being indeed to
perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give her in wedlock
to Mr Nightingale, who was now ready drest, and full as sober as many of
my readers will think a man ought to be who receives a wife in so
imprudent a manner.

And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which this
young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his appearance in the
condition in which we have seen him the night before.

Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew, partly to
indulge his own inclinations (for he dearly loved his bottle), and partly
to disqualify his nephew from the immediate execution of his purpose, he
ordered wine to be set on the table; with which he so briskly plyed the
young gentleman, that this latter, who, though not much used to drinking,
did not detest it so as to be guilty of disobedience or want of
complacence by refusing, was soon completely finished.

Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed for
his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so entirely
disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all consideration
for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken up with his own
concerns.

This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter had
taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence, and had
gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom, though her father
could have had but one objection, namely, that he was worth nothing, yet
she had never thought proper to communicate her amour even to that father;
and so artfully had she managed, that it had never been once suspected by
any, till now that it was consummated.

Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the utmost
confusion he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready, and, having
recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he directly left the
house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he went.

The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the nephew to
bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made him sensible
that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the kind offices
tendered him, insisted on a chair being called; with this the servant, who
had received no strict orders to the contrary, readily complied; and, thus
being conducted back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had staggered up to Mr
Jones’s chamber, as hath been before recounted.

This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale knew not
as yet in what manner), and all parties being quickly ready, the mother,
Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, and his love, stept into a hackney-coach, which
conveyed them to Doctors’ Commons; where Miss Nancy was, in vulgar
language, soon made an honest woman, and the poor mother became, in the
purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of all human beings.

And now Mr Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman and her
family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself to his own
concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should censure his folly for
thus troubling himself with the affairs of others, and lest some few
should think he acted more disinterestedly than indeed he did, we think
proper to assure our reader, that he was so far from being unconcerned in
this matter, that he had indeed a very considerable interest in bringing
it to that final consummation.

To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could truly say
with him in Terence, Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto. He
was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or happiness of any one;
and he felt either the one or the other in great proportion as he himself
contributed to either. He could not, therefore, be the instrument of
raising a whole family from the lowest state of wretchedness to the
highest pitch of joy without conveying great felicity to himself; more
perhaps than worldly men often purchase to themselves by undergoing the
most severe labour, and often by wading through the deepest iniquity.

Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will perhaps think
this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others may probably
wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared as impertinent to
the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to bring Mr Jones to the
gallows, or, if possible, to a more deplorable catastrophe.

Chapter ix. — Containing love-letters of several sorts.

Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying on his
table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.

Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Nightingale came into
the room. “Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady
Bellaston, after last night’s adventure?” (for it was now no secret
to any one in that house who the lady was). “The Lady Bellaston?”
answered Jones very gravely.——“Nay, dear Tom,”
cries Nightingale, “don’t be so reserved to your friends. Though I
was too drunk to see her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you
think I am ignorant who the queen of the fairies is?” “And did
you really then know the lady at the masquerade?” said Jones.
“Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said Nightingale, “and have
given you twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender on
that point, that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your
extreme nicety in this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the
character of the lady as with her person. Don’t be angry, Tom, but upon my
honour, you are not the first young fellow she hath debauched. Her
reputation is in no danger, believe me.”

Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the vestal
kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant of the town,
and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no knowledge of that
character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that is to say, a woman who
intrigues with every man she likes, under the name and appearance of
virtue; and who, though some over-nice ladies will not be seen with her,
is visited (as they term it) by the whole town, in short, whom everybody
knows to be what nobody calls her.

When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with
his intrigue, and began to suspect that so scrupulous a delicacy as he had
hitherto observed was not quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a
latitude to his friend’s tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he
knew, or had ever heard of the lady.

Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate in
his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to tittle-tattle. He had
no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of speaking from Jones, than
he entered upon a long narrative concerning the lady; which, as it
contained many particulars highly to her dishonour, we have too great a
tenderness for all women of condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid
giving an opportunity to the future commentators on our works, of making
any malicious application and of forcing us to be, against our will, the
author of scandal, which never entered into our head.

Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say,
fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, “Heyday!
why, thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my stories would have
affected you, I promise you should never have heard them.” “O
my dear friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with this
woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no, my
friend, but I am under obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you
know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps,
solely to her, that I have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How
can I possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be
guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely better of
me than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom I have a passion which
few can have an idea of. I am half distracted with doubts how to act.”
“And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries
Nightingale. “Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath
ever yet durst sully her reputation. The sweetest air is not purer, the
limpid stream not clearer, than her honour. She is all over, both in mind
and body, consummate perfection. She is the most beautiful creature in the
universe: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities, that,
though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty
but when I see it.”—“And can you, my good friend,”
cries Nightingale, “with such an engagement as this upon your hands,
hesitate a moment about quitting such a—” “Hold,”
said Jones, “no more abuse of her: I detest the thought of
ingratitude.” “Pooh!” answered the other, “you are
not the first upon whom she hath conferred obligations of this kind. She
is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her
favours are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise a man’s
vanity than his gratitude.” In short, Nightingale proceeded so far
on this head, and told his friend so many stories of the lady, which he
swore to the truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from
the breast of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. Indeed,
he began to look on all the favours he had received rather as wages than
benefits, which depreciated not only her, but himself too in his own
conceit, and put him quite out of humour with both. From this disgust, his
mind, by a natural transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue, her
purity, her love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all his
thoughts, and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still more
odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning himself out of her
service, in which light he now saw his affair with her, would be the loss
of his bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he could but find a
handsome pretence: which being communicated to his friend, Nightingale
considered a little, and then said, “I have it, my boy! I have found
out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I would venture hanging
upon the success.” “Marriage?” cries Jones. “Ay,
propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she will declare
off in a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made
the offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains.”

Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. “Perhaps,”
said he, “she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than
from another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then?
caught, in my own trap, and undone for ever.” “No;”
answered Nightingale, “not if I can give you an expedient by which
you may at any time get out of the trap.”——“What
expedient can that be?” replied Jones. “This,” answered
Nightingale. “The young fellow I mentioned, who is one of the most
intimate acquaintances I have in the world, is so angry with her for some
ill offices she hath since done him, that I am sure he would, without any
difficulty, give you a sight of her letters; upon which you may decently
break with her; and declare off before the knot is tyed, if she should
really be willing to tie it, which I am convinced she will not.”

After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance,
consented; but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to propose the matter
to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale dictated:—

To this she presently returned the following answer:

Jones, by the advice of his privy-council, replied:

The lady answered as follows:

Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom which
those who have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to be none of
the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his mind. There was
in this scheme too much of fallacy to satisfy one who utterly detested
every species of falshood or dishonesty: nor would he, indeed, have
submitted to put it in practice, had he not been involved in a distressful
situation, where he was obliged to be guilty of some dishonour, either to
the one lady or the other; and surely the reader will allow, that every
good principle, as well as love, pleaded strongly in favour of Sophia.

Nightingale highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon which he
received many thanks and much applause from his friend. He answered,
“Dear Tom, we have conferred very different obligations on each
other. To me you owe the regaining your liberty; to you I owe the loss of
mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in the other, I
promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England.”

The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs Miller, who
performed herself the office of cook, had exerted her best talents to
celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful circumstance she
ascribed principally to the friendly behaviour of Jones, her whole soul
was fired with gratitude towards him, and all her looks, words, and
actions, were so busied in expressing it, that her daughter, and even her
new son-in-law, were very little objects of her consideration.

Dinner was just ended when Mrs Miller received a letter; but as we have
had letters enow in this chapter, we shall communicate its contents in our
next.

Chapter x. — Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations
upon them.

The letter then which arrived at the end of the preceding chapter was from
Mr Allworthy, and the purport of it was, his intention to come immediately
to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a desire to be accommodated with his
usual lodgings, which were the first floor for himself, and the second for
his nephew.

The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the countenance of
the poor woman was a little clouded on this occasion. This news did indeed
a good deal disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a match with her
daughter, by presently turning her new son-in-law out of doors, appeared
to her very unjustifiable on the one hand; and on the other, she could
scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr Allworthy, after all
the obligations received from him, for depriving him of lodgings which
were indeed strictly his due; for that gentleman, in conferring all his
numberless benefits on others, acted by a rule diametrically opposite to
what is practised by most generous people. He contrived, on all occasions,
to hide his beneficence, not only from the world, but even from the object
of it. He constantly used the words Lend and Pay, instead of Give; and by
every other method he could invent, always lessened with his tongue the
favours he conferred, while he was heaping them with both his hands. When
he settled the annuity of £50 a year therefore on Mrs Miller, he told her,
“it was in consideration of always having her first-floor when he
was in town (which he scarce ever intended to be), but that she might let
it at any other time, for that he would always send her a month’s warning.”
He was now, however, hurried to town so suddenly, that he had no
opportunity of giving such notice; and this hurry probably prevented him,
when he wrote for his lodgings, adding, if they were then empty; for he
would most certainly have been well satisfied to have relinquished them,
on a less sufficient excuse than what Mrs Miller could now have made.

But there are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well remarks,
direct their conduct by something

To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would
acquit them at the Old Bailey, that they are not even contented, though
conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge them. Nothing
short of the fair and honourable will satisfy the delicacy of their minds;
and if any of their actions fall short of this mark, they mope and pine,
are as uneasy and restless as a murderer, who is afraid of a ghost, or of
the hangman.

Mrs Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness at this
letter; with the contents of which she had no sooner acquainted the
company, and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her good angel,
presently relieved her anxiety. “As for myself, madam,” said
he, “my lodging is at your service at a moment’s warning; and Mr
Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to receive
his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging, whither Mrs
Nightingale will certainly consent to go.” With which proposal both
husband and wife instantly agreed.

The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs Miller began again
to glow with additional gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may be more
difficult to persuade him, that Mr Jones having in his last speech called
her daughter Mrs Nightingale (it being the first time that agreeable sound
had ever reached her ears), gave the fond mother more satisfaction, and
warmed her heart more towards Jones, than his having dissipated her
present anxiety.

The next day was then appointed for the removal of the new-married couple,
and of Mr Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the same house
with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was again restored,
and they past the day in the utmost chearfulness, all except Jones, who,
though he outwardly accompanied the rest in their mirth, felt many a
bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which were not a little
heightened by the news of Mr Blifil’s coming to town (for he clearly saw
the intention of his journey); and what greatly aggravated his concern
was, that Mrs Honour, who had promised to inquire after Sophia, and to
make her report to him early the next evening, had disappointed him.

In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time, there were
scarce any grounds for him to hope that he should hear any good news; yet
he was as impatient to see Mrs Honour as if he had expected she would
bring him a letter with an assignation in it from Sophia, and bore the
disappointment as ill. Whether this impatience arose from that natural
weakness of the human mind, which makes it desirous to know the worst, and
renders uncertainty the most intolerable of pains; or whether he still
flattered himself with some secret hopes, we will not determine. But that
it might be the last, whoever has loved cannot but know. For of all the
powers exercised by this passion over our minds, one of the most wonderful
is that of supporting hope in the midst of despair. Difficulties,
improbabilities, nay, impossibilities, are quite overlooked by it; so that
to any man extremely in love, may be applied what Addison says of Caesar,

Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make
mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope; but
these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which temper Jones
was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact information
about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours in expectation,
when, being unable any longer to conceal his uneasiness, he retired to his
room; where his anxiety had almost made him frantick, when the following
letter was brought him from Mrs Honour, with which we shall present the
reader verbatim et literatim.

Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of Lady
Bellaston; who, in reality, had little farther design than to secure
within her own house the repository of a secret, which she chose should
make no farther progress than it had made already; but mostly, she desired
to keep it from the ears of Sophia; for though that young lady was almost
the only one who would never have repeated it again, her ladyship could
not persuade herself of this; since, as she now hated poor Sophia with
most implacable hatred, she conceived a reciprocal hatred to herself to be
lodged in the tender breast of our heroine, where no such passion had ever
yet found an entrance.

While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a thousand
dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he imagined to be
at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune, who hitherto seems to
have been an utter enemy to his match with Sophia, tried a new method to
put a final end to it, by throwing a temptation in his way, which in his
present desperate situation it seemed unlikely he should be able to
resist.

Chapter xi. — Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.

There was a lady, one Mrs Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the house
where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women there, and
indeed a very great friend to Mrs Miller. Her age was about thirty, for
she owned six-and-twenty; her face and person very good, only inclining a
little too much to be fat. She had been married young by her relations to
an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a great fortune, had left off
trade. With him she lived without reproach, but not without pain, in a
state of great self-denial, for about twelve years; and her virtue was
rewarded by his dying and leaving her very rich. The first year of her
widowhood was just at an end, and she had past it in a good deal of
retirement, seeing only a few particular friends, and dividing her time
between her devotions and novels, of which she was always extremely fond.
Very good health, a very warm constitution, and a good deal of religion,
made it absolutely necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to
please herself in her second husband, as she had done her friends in the
first. From her the following billet was brought to Jones:—

At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His fortune
was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopt from which hitherto he
had been supplied. Of all he had received from Lady Bellaston, not above
five guineas remained; and that very morning he had been dunned by a
tradesman for twice that sum. His honourable mistress was in the hands of
her father, and he had scarce any hopes ever to get her out of them again.
To be subsisted at her expense, from that little fortune she had
independent of her father, went much against the delicacy both of his
pride and his love. This lady’s fortune would have been exceeding
convenient to him, and he could have no objection to her in any respect.
On the contrary, he liked her as well as he did any woman except Sophia.
But to abandon Sophia, and marry another, that was impossible; he could
not think of it upon any account, Yet why should he not, since it was
plain she could not be his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to
continue her longer engaged in a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to
do so in friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he had
almost determined to be false to her from a high point of honour: but that
refinement was not able to stand very long against the voice of nature,
which cried in his heart that such friendship was treason to love. At last
he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ as follows to Mrs Hunt:—

When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his scrutore,
took out Miss Western’s muff, kissed it several times, and then strutted
some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of mind than ever any
Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty thousand pounds.

Chapter xii. — A discovery made by Partridge.

While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity, Partridge
came capering into the room, as was his custom when he brought, or fancied
he brought, any good tidings. He had been despatched that morning by his
master, with orders to endeavour, by the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by
any other means, to discover whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now
returned, and with a joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found
the lost bird. “I have seen, sir,” says he, “Black
George, the gamekeeper, who is one of the servants whom the squire hath
brought with him to town. I knew him presently, though I have not seen him
these several years; but you know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or,
to use a purer phrase, he hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and
blackest I ever saw. It was some time, however, before Black George could
recollect me.” “Well, but what is your good news?” cries
Jones; “what do you know of my Sophia?” “You shall know
presently, sir,” answered Partridge, “I am coming to it as
fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you would come at the infinitive
mood before you can get to the imperative. As I was saying, sir, it was
some time before he recollected my face.”—“Confound your
face!” cries Jones, “what of my Sophia?” “Nay,
sir,” answered Partridge, “I know nothing more of Madam Sophia
than what I am going to tell you; and I should have told you all before
this if you had not interrupted me; but if you look so angry at me you
will frighten all of it out of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out of
my memory. I never saw you look so angry since the day we left Upton,
which I shall remember if I was to live a thousand years.”—“Well,
pray go on your own way,” said Jones: “you are resolved to
make me mad I find.” “Not for the world,” answered
Partridge, “I have suffered enough for that already; which, as I
said, I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live.”
“Well, but Black George?” cries Jones. “Well, sir, as I
was saying, it was a long time before he could recollect me; for, indeed,
I am very much altered since I saw him. Non sum qualis eram. I have
had troubles in the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I
have heard it will change the colour of a man’s hair in a night. However,
at last, know me he did, that’s sure enough; for we are both of an age,
and were at the same charity school. George was a great dunce, but no
matter for that; all men do not thrive in the world according to their
learning. I am sure I have reason to say so; but it will be all one a
thousand years hence. Well, sir, where was I?—O—well, we no
sooner knew each other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we
agreed to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer was
some of the best I have met with since I have been in town. Now, sir, I am
coming to the point; for no sooner did I name you, and told him that you
and I came to town together, and had lived together ever since, than he
called for another pot, and swore he would drink to your health; and
indeed he drank your health so heartily that I was overjoyed to see there
was so much gratitude left in the world; and after we had emptied that pot
I said I would buy my pot too, and so we drank another to your health; and
then I made haste home to tell you the news.”

“What news?” cries Jones, “you have not mentioned a word
of my Sophia!” “Bless me! I had like to have forgot that.
Indeed, we mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George
told me all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in order to be married to
her. He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will have her before
he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr Seagrim, it is a thousand pities
somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her above all the
women in the world. I would have both you and she know, that it is not for
her fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of that,
there is another lady, one of much greater quality and fortune than she
can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody that she comes after him day
and night.”

Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he said,
betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned no name:
“Besides, sir,” said he, “I can assure you George is
sincerely your friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the devil more than once;
nay, he said he would do anything in his power upon earth to serve you;
and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I question whether
you have a better friend than George upon earth, except myself, or one
that would go farther to serve you.”

“Well,” says Jones, a little pacified, “you say this
fellow, who, I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives
in the same house with Sophia?”

“In the same house!” answered Partridge; “why, sir, he
is one of the servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he
is; if it was not for his black beard you would hardly know him.”

“One service then at least he may do me,” says Jones: “sure
he can certainly convey a letter to my Sophia.”

“You have hit the nail ad unguem” cries Partridge;
“how came I not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon
the very first mentioning.”

“Well, then,” said Jones, “do you leave me at present,
and I will write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow
morning; for I suppose you know where to find him.”

“O yes, sir,” answered Partridge, “I shall certainly
find him again; there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him
to stay away long. I make no doubt but he will be there every day he stays
in town.”

“So you don’t know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?”
cries Jones.

“Indeed, sir, I do,” says Partridge.

“What is the name of the street?” cries Jones.

“The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge,
“not above a street or two off. I don’t, indeed, know the very name;
for, as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put some
suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am too
cunning for that, I promise you.”

“Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones;
“however, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be
cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the alehouse.”

And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr Jones sat himself
down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a time. And here
we put an end to the fifteenth book.

BOOK XVI.

CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.

Chapter i. — Of prologues.

I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather write a
play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less pains write
one of the books of this history than the prefatory chapter to each of
them.

To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on the
head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing to his
play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and which at
first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years hath had usually
so little connexion with the drama before which it stands, that the
prologue to one play might as well serve for any other. Those indeed of
more modern date, seem all to be written on the same three topics, viz.,
an abuse of the taste of the town, a condemnation of all contemporary
authors, and an eulogium on the performance just about to be represented.
The sentiments in all these are very little varied, nor is it possible
they should; and indeed I have often wondered at the great invention of
authors, who have been capable of finding such various phrases to express
the same thing.

In like manner I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall do me
the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching his pate,
bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first established these
several initial chapters; most of which, like modern prologues, may as
properly be prefixed to any other book in this history as to that which
they introduce, or indeed to any other history as to this.

But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the reader
will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath long found
in the other.

First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an
opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his cat-call to the
best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical instruments so
well prepared, that they have been able to play in full concert at the
first rising of the curtain.

The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the critic
will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as a
whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more hungry
appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his sagacity must
make it needless to observe how artfully these chapters are calculated for
that excellent purpose; for in these we have always taken care to
intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid kind, in order to sharpen and
stimulate the said spirit of criticism.

Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great advantage
from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to see the one or
read the others, and both the play and the book are thus protracted, by
the former they have a quarter of an hour longer allowed them to sit at
dinner, and by the latter they have the advantage of beginning to read at
the fourth or fifth page instead of the first, a matter by no means of
trivial consequence to persons who read books with no other view than to
say they have read them, a more general motive to reading than is commonly
imagined; and from which not only law books, and good books, but the pages
of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.

Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but they are
for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present stay to
enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the principal merit
of both the prologue and the preface is that they be short.

Chapter ii. — A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the
distressed situation of Sophia.

We must now convey the reader to Mr Western’s lodgings, which were in
Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the landlord at
the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was the
first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed his horses, and in those
lodgings, which were the first he heard of, he deposited himself.

Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her from
the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the apartment
provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed, and whither he
attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant
to relate minutely, then passed between them, in which he pressed her
vehemently to give her consent to the marriage with Blifil, who, as he
acquainted her, was to be in town in a few days; but, instead of
complying, she gave a more peremptory and resolute refusal than she had
ever done before. This so incensed her father, that after many bitter
vows, that he would force her to have him whether she would or no, he
departed from her with many hard words and curses, locked the door, and
put the key into his pocket.

While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the closest
state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down to regale
himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the landlord of the
Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would make an excellent third
man, and could inform them of the news of the town, and how affairs went;
for to be sure, says he, he knows a great deal, since the horses of many
of the quality stand at his house.

In this agreeable society Mr Western past that evening and great part of
the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of sufficient
consequence to find a place in this history. All this time Sophia past by
herself; for her father swore she should never come out of her chamber
alive, unless she first consented to marry Blifil; nor did he ever suffer
the door to be unlocked, unless to convey her food, on which occasions he
always attended himself.

The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were at
breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a
gentleman was below to wait on him.

“A gentleman!” quoth the squire, “who the devil can he
be? Do, doctor, go down and see who ’tis. Mr Blifil can hardly be come to
town yet.—Go down, do, and know what his business is.”

The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest man, and
by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the army; that he
said he had some particular business, which he could deliver to none but
Mr Western himself.

“An officer!” cries the squire; “what can any such
fellow have to do with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am
no justice of peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.—Let un come up
then, if he must speak to me.”

A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his compliments
to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone with him, delivered
himself as follows:—

“Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar;
but with a very different message from what I suppose you expect, after
what past the other night.”

“My lord who?” cries the squire; “I never heard the name
o’un.”

“His lordship,” said the gentleman, “is willing to
impute everything to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling
acknowledgment of that kind will set everything right; for as he hath the
most violent attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person
upon earth from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you
both that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as to be
able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any imputation on
his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will before me make
some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be sufficient; and he
intends this afternoon to pay his respects to you, in order to obtain your
leave of visiting the young lady on the footing of a lover.”

“I don’t understand much of what you say, sir,” said the
squire; “but I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that
this is the lord which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and
said something about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be
the case—you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the
girl is disposed of already.”

“Perhaps, sir,” said the gentleman, “you are not
sufficiently apprized of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a
person, title, and fortune would be nowhere refused.”

“Lookee, sir,” answered the squire; “to be very plain,
my daughter is bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her
to a lord upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of
courtiers and Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them.”

“Well, sir,” said the gentleman, “if that is your
resolution, the message I am to deliver to you is that my lord desires the
favour of your company this morning in Hyde Park.”

“You may tell my lord,” answered the squire, “that I am
busy and cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can’t stir
abroad on any account.”

“I am sure, sir,” quoth the other, “you are too much a
gentleman to send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it
said of you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him
satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great regard
to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way; but unless he
is to look on you as a father, his honour will not suffer his putting up
such an indignity as you must be sensible you offered him.”

“I offered him!” cries the squire; “it is a d—n’d
lie! I never offered him anything.”

Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal rebuke, and
this he accompanied at the same time with some manual remonstrances, which
no sooner reached the ears of Mr Western, than that worthy squire began to
caper very briskly about the room, bellowing at the same time with all his
might, as if desirous to summon a greater number of spectators to behold
his agility.

The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was not
retired far; he immediately attended therefore on the squire’s
vociferation, crying, “Bless me! sir, what’s the matter?”—“Matter!”
quoth the squire, “here’s a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob
and murder me—for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in
his hand, when I wish I may be d—n’d if I gid un the least
provocation.”

“How, sir,” said the captain, “did you not tell me I
lyed?”

“No, as I hope to be saved,” answered the squire, “—I
believe I might say, ‘Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord—but
I never said the word, `you lie.’—I understand myself better, and
you might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man.
If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I’d have
knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this minute,
and I’ll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken head, that I
will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a belly-full. At unt
half a man, at unt, I’m sure.”

The captain, with some indignation, replied, “I see, sir, you are
below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his. I am
sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you.” At which words he
withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping him,
in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some efforts
for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on success. However,
when the captain was departed, the squire sent many curses and some
menaces after him; but as these did not set out from his lips till the
officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and grew louder and louder as he
was more and more remote, they did not reach his ears, or at least did not
retard his departure.

Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father’s outcries
from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot, and
afterwards to scream as loudly as the old gentleman himself had done
before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon silenced the
squire, and turned all his consideration towards his daughter, whom he
loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of any harm happening to
her, threw him presently into agonies; for, except in that single instance
in which the whole future happiness of her life was concerned, she was
sovereign mistress of his inclinations.

Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would take the
law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia, whom, as soon as he
had unlocked and opened the door, he found all pale and breathless. The
moment, however, that she saw her father, she collected all her spirits,
and, catching him hold by the hand, she cryed passionately, “O my
dear sir, I am almost frightened to death! I hope to heaven no harm hath
happened to you.” “No, no,” cries the squire, “no
great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me if I don’t ha the
la o’ un.” “Pray, dear sir,” says she, “tell me
what’s the matter; who is it that hath insulted you?” “I don’t
know the name o’ un,” answered Western; “some officer fellow,
I suppose, that we are to pay for beating us; but I’ll make him pay this
bout, if the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath not. For
thof he was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of
land in the world.” “But, dear sir,” cries she, “what
was the occasion of your quarrel?” “What should it be, Sophy,”
answered the squire, “but about you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are
about you; you will be the death of your poor father at last. Here’s a
varlet of a lord, the Lord knows who, forsooth! who hath a taan a liking
to you, and because I would not gi un my consent, he sent me a kallenge.
Come, do be a good girl, Sophy, and put an end to all your father’s
troubles; come, do consent to ha un; he will be in town within this day or
two; do but promise me to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will make
me the happiest man in the world, and I will make you the happiest woman;
you shall have the finest cloaths in London, and the finest jewels, and a
coach and six at your command. I promised Allworthy already to give up
half my estate—od rabbet it! I should hardly stick at giving up the
whole.” “Will my papa be so kind,” says she, “as
to hear me speak?”—“Why wout ask, Sophy?” cries
he, “when dost know I had rather hear thy voice than the musick of
the best pack of dogs in England.—Hear thee, my dear little girl! I
hope I shall hear thee as long as I live; for if I was ever to lose that
pleasure, I would not gee a brass varden to live a moment longer. Indeed,
Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed you don’t, or you never
could have run away and left your poor father, who hath no other joy, no
other comfort upon earth, but his little Sophy.” At these words the
tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with the tears streaming from hers)
answered, “Indeed, my dear papa, I know you have loved me tenderly,
and heaven is my witness how sincerely I have returned your affection; nor
could anything but an apprehension of being forced into the arms of this
man have driven me to run from a father whom I love so passionately, that
I would, with pleasure, sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have
endeavoured to reason myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a
resolution to endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your
inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force my
mind; nor can I ever.” Here the squire began to look wild, and the
foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia, observing, begged to be heard
out, and then proceeded: “If my father’s life, his health, or any
real happiness of his was at stake, here stands your resolved daughter;
may heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not suffer to preserve
you!—No, that most detested, most loathsome of all lots would I
embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your sake.”—“I
tell thee, it will preserve me,” answers the father; “it will
give me health, happiness, life, everything.—Upon my soul I shall
die if dost refuse me; I shall break my heart, I shall, upon my soul.”—“Is
it possible,” says she, “you can have such a desire to make me
miserable?”—“I tell thee noa,” answered he loudly,
“d—n me if there is a thing upon earth I would not do to see
thee happy.”—“And will not my dear papa allow me to have
the least knowledge of what will make me so? If it be true that happiness
consists in opinion, what must be my condition, when I shall think myself
the most miserable of all the wretches upon earth?” “Better
think yourself so,” said he, “than know it by being married to
a poor bastardly vagabond.” “If it will content you, sir,”
said Sophia, “I will give you the most solemn promise never to marry
him, nor any other, while my papa lives, without his consent. Let me
dedicate my whole life to your service; let me be again your poor Sophy,
and my whole business and pleasure be, as it hath been, to please and
divert you.” “Lookee, Sophy,” answered the squire,
“I am not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt Western would then
have reason to think me the fool she doth. No, no, Sophy, I’d have you to
know I have a got more wisdom, and know more of the world, than to take
the word of a woman in a matter where a man is concerned.” “How,
sir, have I deserved this want of confidence?” said she; “have
I ever broke a single promise to you? or have I ever been found guilty of
a falsehood from my cradle?” “Lookee, Sophy,” cries he;
“that’s neither here nor there. I am determined upon this match, and
have him you shall, d—n me if shat unt. D—n me if shat unt,
though dost hang thyself the next morning.” At repeating which words
he clinched his fist, knit his brows, bit his lips, and thundered so loud,
that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into her chair,
and, had not a flood of tears come immediately to her relief, perhaps
worse had followed.

Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more
contrition or remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the
agonies of a tender wife, when taking her last farewel of her condemned
husband; or rather he looked down on her with the same emotions which
arise in an honest fair tradesman, who sees his debtor dragged to prison
for £10, which, though a just debt, the wretch is wickedly unable to pay.
Or, to hit the case still more nearly, he felt the same compunction with a
bawd, when some poor innocent, whom she hath ensnared into her hands,
falls into fits at the first proposal of what is called seeing company.
Indeed this resemblance would be exact, was it not that the bawd hath an
interest in what she doth, and the father, though perhaps he may blindly
think otherwise, can, in reality, have none in urging his daughter to
almost an equal prostitution.

In this condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a very
vulgar observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room, and
returned to the parson, who said everything he durst in behalf of the
young lady, which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as his duty
required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire into a violent rage,
and into many indecent reflections on the whole body of the clergy, which
we have too great an honour for that sacred function to commit to paper.

Chapter iii. — What happened to Sophia during her confinement.

The landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very early to
entertain a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she was informed
that the squire was a man of vast fortune, and as she had taken care to
exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms, she did not think proper
to give any offence; for, though she was not without some concern for the
confinement of poor Sophia, of whose great sweetness of temper and
affability the maid of the house had made so favourable a report, which
was confirmed by all the squire’s servants, yet she had much more concern
for her own interest than to provoke one, whom, as she said, she perceived
to be a very hastish kind of a gentleman.

Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with her meals;
indeed, I believe, if she had liked any one rarity, that the squire,
however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to have procured
it for her; since, however strange it may appear to some of my readers, he
really doated on his daughter, and to give her any kind of pleasure was
the highest satisfaction of his life.

The dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet, the
squire himself (for he had sworn not to part with the key) attending the
door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments passed between him
and Sophia (for he had not seen her since she left the country, and she
treated every servant with more respect than some persons shew to those
who are in a very slight degree their inferiors). Sophia would have had
him take the pullet back, saying, she could not eat; but George begged her
to try, and particularly recommended to her the eggs, of which he said it
was full.

All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a great
favourite with his master, as his employment was in concerns of the
highest nature, namely, about the game, and was accustomed to take many
liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner, being, as he said,
very desirous to see his young lady; he made therefore no scruple of
keeping his master standing above ten minutes, while civilities were
passing between him and Sophia, for which he received only a good-humoured
rebuke at the door when he returned.

The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, &c., were, as George well
knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore no wonder
that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take care to supply
her with this kind of delicacy, at a time when all the servants in the
house were afraid she would be starved; for she had scarce swallowed a
single morsel in the last forty hours.

Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it usually hath
on a widow, whose appetite it often renders sharper than it can be
rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain; yet the
sublimest grief, notwithstanding what some people may say to the contrary,
will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after some little consideration,
began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be as full of eggs as George
had reported it.

But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would
have delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with three legs
be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath produced a thousand
such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which so totally contradicts
all the laws of animal oeconomy, as to contain a letter in its belly? Ovid
tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus was metamorphosed, that bears
letters on its leaves, which Virgil recommended as a miracle to the Royal
Society of his day; but no age nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a
letter in its maw.

But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the Académies
des Sciences in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless enquiry; yet the
reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue which passed between
Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be very easily satisfied from whence
this letter came, and how it found its passage into the fowl.

Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her favourite
dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she immediately
snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:—

What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often she read
it, or whether more than once, shall all be left to our reader’s
imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at
present: for this reason, among others, that she did not now write any,
and that for several good causes, one of which was this, she had no paper,
pen, nor ink.

In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had
received, or on something else, a violent noise from below disturbed her
meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at altercation
between two persons. One of the combatants, by his voice, she immediately
distinguished to be her father; but she did not so soon discover the
shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt Western, who was just
arrived in town, where having, by means of one of her servants, who stopt
at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her brother lodged, she drove
directly to his lodgings.

We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with our
usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.

Chapter iv. — In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.

The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise engaged)
were smoaking their pipes together, when the arrival of the lady was first
signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he immediately ran
down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great observer of such
ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he stood more in awe than
of any other human creature, though he never would own this, nor did he
perhaps know it himself.

Mrs Western, on her arrival in the dining-room, having flung herself into
a chair, began thus to harangue: “Well, surely, no one ever had such
an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many turnpike acts,
are grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you get into this odious
place? no person of condition, I dare swear, ever set foot here before.”
“I don’t know,” cries the squire, “I think they do well
enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he knew most of
the quality, he could best shew me where to get among um.” “Well,
and where’s my niece?” says the lady; “have you been to wait
upon Lady Bellaston yet?” “Ay, ay,” cries the squire,
“your niece is safe enough; she is upstairs in chamber.”
“How!” answered the lady, “is my niece in this house,
and does she not know of my being here?” “No, nobody can well
get to her,” says the squire, “for she is under lock and key.
I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady cousin the first night I came
to town, and I have taken care o’ her ever since; she is as secure as a
fox in a bag, I promise you.” “Good heaven!” returned
Mrs Western, “what do I hear? I thought what a fine piece of work
would be the consequence of my consent to your coming to town yourself;
nay, it was indeed your own headstrong will, nor can I charge myself with
having ever consented to it. Did not you promise me, brother, that you
would take none of these headstrong measures? Was it not by these
headstrong measures that you forced my niece to run away from you in the
country? Have you a mind to oblige her to take such another step?”
“Z—ds and the devil!” cries the squire, dashing his pipe
on the ground; “did ever mortal hear the like? when I expected you
would have commended me for all I have done, to be fallen upon in this
manner!” “How, brother!” said the lady, “have I
ever given you the least reason to imagine I should commend you for
locking up your daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a free
country are not to be treated with such arbitrary power? We are as free as
the men, and I heartily wish I could not say we deserve that freedom
better. If you expect I should stay a moment longer in this wretched
house, or that I should ever own you again as my relation, or that I
should ever trouble myself again with the affairs of your family, I insist
upon it that my niece be set at liberty this instant.” This she
spoke with so commanding an air, standing with her back to the fire, with
one hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in the other, that I question
whether Thalestris, at the head of her Amazons, ever made a more
tremendous figure. It is no wonder, therefore, that the poor squire was
not proof against the awe which she inspired. “There,” he
cried, throwing down the key, “there it is, do whatever you please.
I intended only to have kept her up till Blifil came to town, which can’t
be long; and now if any harm happens in the mean time, remember who is to
be blamed for it.”

“I will answer it with my life,” cried Mrs Western, “but
I shall not intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and that is,
that you will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any one
measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If you
ratify these preliminaries, brother, I yet will endeavour to preserve the
honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a neutral state.”

“I pray you, good sir,” said the parson, “permit
yourself this once to be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by
communing with young Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been
able to perpetrate by more rigorous measures.”

“What, dost thee open upon me?” cries the squire: “if
thee dost begin to babble, I shall whip thee in presently.”

“Fie, brother,” answered the lady, “is this language to
a clergyman? Mr Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the best advice;
and the whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must
tell you I expect an immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either
cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own
surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr Supple, evacuate the
garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever.”

“I pray you let me be a mediator,” cries the parson, “let
me supplicate you.”

“Why, there lies the key on the table,” cries the squire.
“She may take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?”

“No, brother,” answered the lady, “I insist on the
formality of its being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the
concessions stipulated.”

“Why then I will deliver it to you.—There ’tis,” cries
the squire. “I am sure, sister, you can’t accuse me of ever denying
to trust my daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi’ you a whole year and
muore to a time, without my ever zeeing her.”

“And it would have been happy for her,” answered the lady,
“if she had always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would have
happened under my eye.”

“Ay, certainly,” cries he, “I only am to blame.”

“Why, you are to blame, brother,” answered she. “I have
been often obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to tell you
so. However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from
past errors, as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders.
Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these negociations. All your
whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore, insist, that
you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is past.”——

“Z—ds and bl—d, sister,” cries the squire, “what
would you have me say? You are enough to provoke the devil.”

“There, now,” said she, “just according to the old
custom. I see, brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to Mr
Supple, who is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any
human creature into a passion; but you are so wrongheaded every way.”

“Let me beg you, madam,” said the parson, “not to
irritate his worship.”

“Irritate him?” said the lady; “sure, you are as great a
fool as himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to interfere,
I will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy
upon all affairs which are under the directions of men! The head of one
woman is worth a thousand of yours.” And now having summoned a
servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.

She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door)
ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses against her, not
sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but added, “Now
one hath been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it at last, for
want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can’t live for ever, and I
know I am down for it upon the will.”

The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire having
ordered in another bottle, which was his usual method when anything either
pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully of this medicinal
julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his temper was become
perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs Western returned with Sophia into
the room. The young lady had on her hat and capuchin, and the aunt
acquainted Mr Western, “that she intended to take her niece with her
to her own lodgings; for, indeed, brother,” says she, “these
rooms are not fit to receive a Christian soul in.”

“Very well, madam,” quoth Western, “whatever you please.
The girl can never be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can
do me the justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back,
that you was one of the most sensible women in the world.”

“To this,” cries the parson, “I am ready to bear
testimony.”

“Nay, brother,” says Mrs Western, “I have always, I’m
sure, given you as favourable a character. You must own you have a little
too much hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time
to reflect I never knew a man more reasonable.”

“Why then, sister, if you think so,” said the squire, “here’s
your good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate sometimes,
but I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do
everything your aunt orders you.”

“I have not the least doubt of her,” answered Mrs Western.
“She hath had already an example before her eyes in the behaviour of
that wretch her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my
advice. O brother, what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing,
when you set out for London, when who should arrive but that impudent
fellow with the odious Irish name—that Fitzpatrick. He broke in
abruptly upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He ran on a
long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced me to give
him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and delivered him the
letter from his wife, which I bid him answer himself. I suppose the wretch
will endeavour to find us out, but I beg you will not see her, for I am
determined I will not.”

“I zee her!” answered the squire; “you need not fear me.
I’ll ge no encouragement to such undutiful wenches. It is well for the
fellow, her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have
taken a dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what
undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your own family.”

“Brother,” cries the aunt, “you need not shock my niece
by such odious repetitions. Why will you not leave everything entirely to
me?” “Well, well, I wull, I wull,” said the squire.

And now Mrs Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the conversation by
ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had it continued much
longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most probably, have arisen
between the brother and sister; between whom education and sex made the
only difference; for both were equally violent and equally positive: they
had both a vast affection for Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for
each other.

Chapter v. — In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes
to a play with Mrs Miller and Partridge.

The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that
grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly
comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which he
had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of the said
George, he received the following answer to his letter, which Sophia, to
whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her liberty, wrote
the very evening when she departed from her confinement:

A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this letter out
in less time than Jones took in reading it. The sensations it occasioned
were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat like what divide the mind of a
good man when he peruses the will of his deceased friend, in which a large
legacy, which his distresses make the more welcome, is bequeathed to him.
Upon the whole, however, he was more pleased than displeased; and, indeed,
the reader may probably wonder that he was displeased at all; but the
reader is not quite so much in love as was poor Jones; and love is a
disease which, though it may, in some instances, resemble a consumption
(which it sometimes causes), in others proceeds in direct opposition to
it, and particularly in this, that it never flatters itself, or sees any
one symptom in a favourable light.

One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his mistress had
regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she might at least
assure herself of a decent treatment. Another comfortable circumstance was
the reference which she made to her promise of never marrying any other
man; for however disinterested he might imagine his passion, and
notwithstanding all the generous overtures made in his letter, I very much
question whether he could have heard a more afflicting piece of news than
that Sophia was married to another, though the match had been never so
great, and never so likely to end in making her completely happy. That
refined degree of Platonic affection which is absolutely detached from the
flesh, and is, indeed, entirely and purely spiritual, is a gift confined
to the female part of the creation; many of whom I have heard declare
(and, doubtless, with great truth), that they would, with the utmost
readiness, resign a lover to a rival, when such resignation was proved to
be necessary for the temporal interest of such lover. Hence, therefore, I
conclude that this affection is in nature, though I cannot pretend to say
I have ever seen an instance of it.

Mr Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid
letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from the
last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an appointment, which he
had before made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs Miller, and her
younger daughter, into the gallery at the play-house, and to admit Mr
Partridge as one of the company. For as Jones had really that taste for
humour which many affect, he expected to enjoy much entertainment in the
criticisms of Partridge, from whom he expected the simple dictates of
nature, unimproved, indeed, but likewise unadulterated, by art.

In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr Jones, Mrs Miller, her
youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge immediately
declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When the first music
was played, he said, “It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could
play at one time, without putting one another out.” While the fellow
was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs Miller, “Look,
look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of the common-prayer
book before the gunpowder-treason service.” Nor could he help
observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, “That
here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family
for a whole twelvemonth.”

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began, Partridge
was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the
ghost; upon which he asked Jones, “What man that was in the strange
dress; something,” said he, “like what I have seen in a
picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?” Jones answered, “That
is the ghost.” To which Partridge replied with a smile, “Persuade
me to that, sir, if you can. Though I can’t say I ever actually saw a
ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better
than that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don’t appear in such dresses as
that, neither.” In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene
between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr
Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a
trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what
was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the stage?
“O la! sir,” said he, “I perceive now it is what you
told me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if
it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in
so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person.”
“Why, who,” cries Jones, “dost thou take to be such a
coward here besides thyself?” “Nay, you may call me coward if
you will; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I
never saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to
be sure! Who’s fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
fool-hardiness!—Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.——Follow
you? I’d follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil——for
they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.—Oh! here he is
again.——No farther! No, you have gone far enough already;
farther than I’d have gone for all the king’s dominions.” Jones
offered to speak, but Partridge cried “Hush, hush! dear sir, don’t
you hear him?” And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with
his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his
mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet,
succeeding likewise in him.

When the scene was over Jones said, “Why, Partridge, you exceed my
expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible.”
“Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “if you are not afraid
of the devil, I can’t help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be
surprized at such things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that
it was the ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that
to have been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man
so frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me.” “And
dost thou imagine, then, Partridge,” cries Jones, “that he was
really frightened?” “Nay, sir,” said Partridge, “did
not you yourself observe afterwards, when he found it was his own father’s
spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by
degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should
have been, had it been my own case?—But hush! O la! what noise is
that? There he is again.——Well, to be certain, though I know
there is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those
men are.” Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, “Ay, you
may draw your sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the
devil?”

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired
the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon the king’s
countenance. “Well,” said he, “how people may be
deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying.
Who would think, by looking in the king’s face, that he had ever committed
a murder?” He then enquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended
he should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, “that
he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire.”

Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost
made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, “There, sir, now;
what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you
think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not be in
so bad a condition as what’s his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for all
the world. Bless me! what’s become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I
thought I saw him sink into the earth.” “Indeed, you saw
right,” answered Jones. “Well, well,” cries Partridge,
“I know it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all
this, Madam Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not
be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.—There, there—Ay,
no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked wretch to
pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all
duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.——Ay, go
about your business, I hate the sight of you.”

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet introduces
before the king. This he did not at first understand, till Jones explained
it to him; but he no sooner entered into the spirit of it, than he began
to bless himself that he had never committed murder. Then turning to Mrs
Miller, he asked her, “If she did not imagine the king looked as if
he was touched; though he is,” said he, “a good actor, and
doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for,
as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he
sits upon. No wonder he ran away; for your sake I’ll never trust an
innocent face again.”

The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who
expressed much surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage. To
which Jones answered, “That it was one of the most famous
burial-places about town.” “No wonder then,” cries
Partridge, “that the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a
worse grave-digger. I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug
three graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it
was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing.
You had rather sing than work, I believe.”—Upon Hamlet’s
taking up the skull, he cried out, “Well! it is strange to see how
fearless some men are: I never could bring myself to touch anything
belonging to a dead man, on any account.—He seemed frightened enough
too at the ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit.”

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of
which Jones asked him, “Which of the players he had liked best?”
To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question,
“The king, without doubt.” “Indeed, Mr Partridge,”
says Mrs Miller, “you are not of the same opinion with the town; for
they are all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was
on the stage.” “He the best player!” cries Partridge,
with a contemptuous sneer, “why, I could act as well as he myself. I
am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same
manner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as
you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so
fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a
mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with
me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have
seen acting before in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks
all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the other.—Anybody
may see he is an actor.”

While Mrs Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a lady
came up to Mr Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs Fitzpatrick. She
said, she had seen him from the other part of the gallery, and had taken
that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had something to say, which
might be of great service to himself. She then acquainted him with her
lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in the morning; which,
upon recollection, she presently changed to the afternoon; at which time
Jones promised to attend her.

Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had afforded
great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs Miller, but to all who sat within
hearing, who were more attentive to what he said, than to anything that
passed on the stage.

He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and for many
nights after sweated two or three hours before he went to sleep, with the
same apprehensions, and waked several times in great horrors, crying out,
“Lord have mercy upon us! there it is.”

Chapter vi. — In which the history is obliged to look back.

It is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact
impartiality to his children, even though no superior merit should bias
his affection; but sure a parent can hardly be blamed, when that
superiority determines his preference.

As I regard all the personages of this history in the light of my
children; so I must confess the same inclination of partiality to Sophia;
and for that I hope the reader will allow me the same excuse, from the
superiority of her character.

This extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine never suffers me
to quit her any long time without the utmost reluctance. I could now,
therefore, return impatiently to enquire what hath happened to this lovely
creature since her departure from her father’s, but that I am obliged
first to pay a short visit to Mr Blifil.

Mr Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast upon the
sudden news he received of his daughter, and in the first hurry to go
after her, had not once thought of sending any account of the discovery to
Blifil. He had not gone far, however, before he recollected himself, and
accordingly stopt at the very first inn he came to, and dispatched away a
messenger to acquaint Blifil with his having found Sophia, and with his
firm resolution to marry her to him immediately, if he would come up after
him to town.

As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind, which
nothing but the loss of her fortune, or some such accident, could lessen,
his inclination to the match was not at all altered by her having run
away, though he was obliged to lay this to his own account. He very
readily, therefore, embraced this offer. Indeed, he now proposed the
gratification of a very strong passion besides avarice, by marrying this
young lady, and this was hatred; for he concluded that matrimony afforded
an equal opportunity of satisfying either hatred or love; and this opinion
is very probably verified by much experience. To say the truth, if we are
to judge by the ordinary behaviour of married persons to each other, we
shall perhaps be apt to conclude that the generality seek the indulgence
of the former passion only, in their union of everything but of hearts.

There was one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from Mr
Allworthy. That good man, when he found by the departure of Sophia (for
neither that, nor the cause of it, could be concealed from him), the great
aversion which she had for his nephew, began to be seriously concerned
that he had been deceived into carrying matters so far. He by no means
concurred with the opinion of those parents, who think it as immaterial to
consult the inclinations of their children in the affair of marriage, as
to solicit the good pleasure of their servants when they intend to take a
journey; and who are by law, or decency at least, withheld often from
using absolute force. On the contrary, as he esteemed the institution to
be of the most sacred kind, he thought every preparatory caution necessary
to preserve it holy and inviolate; and very wisely concluded, that the
surest way to effect this was by laying the foundation in previous
affection.

Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of deceit, by
many vows and protestations that he had been deceived himself, with which
the many declarations of Western very well tallied; but now to persuade
Allworthy to consent to the renewing his addresses was a matter of such
apparent difficulty, that the very appearance was sufficient to have
deterred a less enterprizing genius; but this young gentleman so well knew
his own talents, that nothing within the province of cunning seemed to him
hard to be achieved.

Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, and the hopes
of subduing aversion in the lady by perseverance. He begged that, in an
affair on which depended all his future repose, he might at least be at
liberty to try all fair means for success. Heaven forbid, he said, that he
should ever think of prevailing by any other than the most gentle methods!
“Besides, sir,” said he, “if they fail, you may then
(which will be surely time enough) deny your consent.” He urged the
great and eager desire which Mr Western had for the match; and lastly, he
made great use of the name of Jones, to whom he imputed all that had
happened; and from whom, he said, to preserve so valuable a young lady was
even an act of charity.

All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a little
stronger on the authority of parents than Mr Blifil himself had done. He
ascribed the measures which Mr Blifil was desirous to take to Christian
motives; “and though,” says he, “the good young
gentleman hath mentioned charity last, I am almost convinced it is his
first and principal consideration.”

Square, possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same tune,
though in a different key, and would have discovered much moral fitness in
the proceeding: but he was now gone to Bath for the recovery of his
health.

Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the desires
of his nephew. He said he would accompany him to London, where he might be
at liberty to use every honest endeavour to gain the lady: “But I
declare,” said he, “I will never give my consent to any
absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor shall you ever have her,
unless she can be brought freely to compliance.”

Thus did the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the superior
understanding to be triumphed over by the inferior; and thus is the
prudence of the best of heads often defeated by the tenderness of the best
of hearts.

Blifil, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his uncle, rested
not till he carried his purpose into execution. And as no immediate
business required Mr Allworthy’s presence in the country, and little
preparation is necessary to men for a journey, they set out the very next
day, and arrived in town that evening, when Mr Jones, as we have seen, was
diverting himself with Partridge at the play.

The morning after his arrival Mr Blifil waited on Mr Western, by whom he
was most kindly and graciously received, and from whom he had every
possible assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that he should very
shortly be as happy as Sophia could make him; nor would the squire suffer
the young gentleman to return to his uncle till he had, almost against his
will, carried him to his sister.

Chapter vii. — In which Mr Western pays a visit to his sister, in
company with Mr Blifil.

Mrs Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and matrimonial politics,
to her niece, when her brother and Blifil broke in with less ceremony than
the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw Blifil than she turned
pale, and almost lost the use of all her faculties; but her aunt, on the
contrary, waxed red, and, having all her faculties at command, began to
exert her tongue on the squire.

“Brother,” said she, “I am astonished at your behaviour;
will you never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look upon every
apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of your country tenants? Do
you think yourself at liberty to invade the privacies of women of
condition, without the least decency or notice?”——“Why,
what a pox is the matter now?” quoth the squire; “one would
think I had caught you at—“—“None of your
brutality, sir, I beseech you,” answered she.——“You
have surprized my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I see, support
herself.——Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit your
spirits; for I see you have occasion.” At which words Sophia, who
never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.

“To be sure, sister,” cries the squire, “you are mad,
when I have brought Mr Blifil here to court her, to force her away.”

“Sure, brother,” says she, “you are worse than mad, when
you know in what situation affairs are, to——I am sure I ask Mr
Blifil’s pardon, but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable
a reception. For my own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to see
Mr Blifil; but his own good sense would not have suffered him to proceed
so abruptly, had you not compelled him to it.”

Blifil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; but Western, without
giving him time to form a speech for the purpose, answered, “Well,
well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, certainly; but come, let
the girl be fetched back again, or let Mr Blifil go to her.——He’s
come up on purpose, and there is no time to be lost.”

“Brother,” cries Mrs Western, “Mr Blifil, I am
confident, understands himself better than to think of seeing my niece any
more this morning, after what hath happened. Women are of a nice
contexture; and our spirits, when disordered, are not to be recomposed in
a moment. Had you suffered Mr Blifil to have sent his compliments to my
niece, and to have desired the favour of waiting on her in the afternoon,
I should possibly have prevailed on her to have seen him; but now I
despair of bringing about any such matter.”

“I am very sorry, madam,” cried Blifil, “that Mr
Western’s extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never enough
acknowledge, should have occasioned—” “Indeed, sir,”
said she, interrupting him, “you need make no apologies, we all know
my brother so well.”

“I don’t care what anybody knows of me,” answered the squire;——“but
when must he come to see her? for, consider, I tell you, he is come up on
purpose, and so is Allworthy.”—“Brother,” said
she, “whatever message Mr Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece
shall be delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no instructions to
make a proper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr Blifil
at a proper time.”—“The devil she won’t!” answered
the squire.—“Odsbud!—Don’t we know—I say nothing,
but some volk are wiser than all the world.——If I might have
had my will, she had not run away before: and now I expect to hear every
moment she is guone again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I
know very well she hates——” “No matter, brother,”
replied Mrs Western, “I will not hear my niece abused. It is a
reflection on my family. She is an honour to it; and she will be an honour
to it, I promise you. I will pawn my whole reputation in the world on her
conduct.——I shall be glad to see you, brother, in the
afternoon; for I have somewhat of importance to mention to you.—At
present, Mr Blifil, as well as you, must excuse me; for I am in haste to
dress.” “Well, but,” said the squire, “do appoint
a time.” “Indeed,” said she, “I can appoint no
time. I tell you I will see you in the afternoon.”—“What
the devil would you have me do?” cries the squire, turning to
Blifil; “I can no more turn her, than a beagle can turn an old hare.
Perhaps she will be in a better humour in the afternoon.”—“I
am condemned, I see, sir, to misfortune,” answered Blifil; “but
I shall always own my obligations to you.” He then took a
ceremonious leave of Mrs Western, who was altogether as ceremonious on her
part; and then they departed, the squire muttering to himself with an
oath, that Blifil should see his daughter in the afternoon.

If Mr Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil was less. As
to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of his sister to her humour
only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of ceremony in the visit;
but Blifil saw a little deeper into things. He suspected somewhat of more
consequence, from two or three words which dropt from the lady; and, to
say the truth, he suspected right, as will appear when I have unfolded the
several matters which will be contained in the following chapter.

Chapter viii. — Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones.

Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamar to be plucked
up by the rude hands of Mr Western. In the heat of resentment he had,
indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the captain had far
exceeded in the execution; nor had it been executed at all, had his
lordship been able to find the captain after he had seen Lady Bellaston,
which was in the afternoon of the day after he had received the affront;
but so industrious was the captain in the discharge of his duty, that,
having after long enquiry found out the squire’s lodgings very late in the
evening, he sat up all night at a tavern, that he might not miss the
squire in the morning, and by that means missed the revocation which my
lord had sent to his lodgings.

In the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his
lordship, as we have said, made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid open
so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly saw the
absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his words,
especially as he had those honourable designs on his daughter. He then
unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady Bellaston, who readily
undertook the cause, and encouraged him with certain assurance of a most
favourable reception from all the elders of the family, and from the
father himself when he should be sober, and should be made acquainted with
the nature of the offer made to his daughter. The only danger, she said,
lay in the fellow she had formerly mentioned, who, though a beggar and a
vagabond, had, by some means or other, she knew not what, procured himself
tolerable cloaths, and past for a gentleman. “Now,” says she,
“as I have, for the sake of my cousin, made it my business to
enquire after this fellow, I have luckily found out his lodgings;”
with which she then acquainted his lordship. “I am thinking, my
lord,” added she “(for this fellow is too mean for your
personal resentment), whether it would not be possible for your lordship
to contrive some method of having him pressed and sent on board a ship.
Neither law nor conscience forbid this project: for the fellow, I promise
you, however well drest, is but a vagabond, and as proper as any fellow in
the streets to be pressed into the service; and as for the conscientious
part, surely the preservation of a young lady from such ruin is a most
meritorious act; nay, with regard to the fellow himself, unless he could
succeed (which Heaven forbid) with my cousin, it may probably be the means
of preserving him from the gallows, and perhaps may make his fortune in an
honest way.”

Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part which she
was pleased to take in the affair, upon the success of which his whole
future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at present no
objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of putting it in
execution. He then most earnestly recommended to her ladyship to do him
the honour of immediately mentioning his proposals to the family; to whom
he said he offered a carte blanche, and would settle his fortune in
almost any manner they should require. And after uttering many ecstasies
and raptures concerning Sophia, he took his leave and departed, but not
before he had received the strongest charge to beware of Jones, and to
lose no time in securing his person, where he should no longer be in a
capacity of making any attempts to the ruin of the young lady.

The moment Mrs Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was despatched
with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; who no sooner received it than,
with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her cousin, rejoiced at this
fair opportunity, which beyond her hopes offered itself, for she was much
better pleased with the prospect of making the proposals to a woman of
sense, and who knew the world, than to a gentleman whom she honoured with
the appellation of Hottentot; though, indeed, from him she apprehended no
danger of a refusal.

The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials, fell to
business, which was indeed almost as soon concluded as begun; for Mrs
Western no sooner heard the name of Lord Fellamar than her cheeks glowed
with pleasure; but when she was acquainted with the eagerness of his
passion, the earnestness of his proposals, and the generosity of his
offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the most explicit terms.

In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to Jones, and
both cousins very pathetically lamented the unfortunate attachment which
both agreed Sophia had to that young fellow; and Mrs Western entirely
attributed it to the folly of her brother’s management. She concluded,
however, at last, with declaring her confidence in the good understanding
of her niece, who, though she would not give up her affection in favour of
Blifil, will, I doubt not, says she, soon be prevailed upon to sacrifice a
simple inclination to the addresses of a fine gentleman, who brings her
both a title and a large estate: “For, indeed,” added she,
“I must do Sophy the justice to confess this Blifil is but a hideous
kind of fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all country gentlemen are, and
hath nothing but his fortune to recommend him.”

“Nay,” said Lady Bellaston, “I don’t then so much wonder
at my cousin; for I promise you this Jones is a very agreeable fellow, and
hath one virtue, which the men say is a great recommendation to us. What
do you think, Mrs Western—I shall certainly make you laugh; nay, I
can hardly tell you myself for laughing—will you believe that the
fellow hath had the assurance to make love to me? But if you should be
inclined to disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own handwriting, I
assure you.” She then delivered her cousin the letter with the
proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire to see, he will
find already on record in the XVth book of this history.

“Upon my word I am astonished,” said Mrs Western; “this
is, indeed, a masterpiece of assurance. With your leave I may possibly
make some use of this letter.” “You have my full liberty,”
cries Lady Bellaston, “to apply it to what purpose you please.
However, I would not have it shewn to any but Miss Western, nor to her
unless you find occasion.” “Well, and how did you use the
fellow?” returned Mrs Western. “Not as a husband,” said
the lady; “I am not married, I promise you, my dear. You know, Bell,
I have tried the comforts once already; and once, I think, is enough for
any reasonable woman.”

This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the balance
against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was emboldened to give it up,
partly by her hopes of having him instantly dispatched out of the way, and
partly by having secured the evidence of Honour, who, upon sounding her,
she saw sufficient reason to imagine was prepared to testify whatever she
pleased.

But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her heart
hated Sophia, should be so desirous of promoting a match which was so much
to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire such readers to
look carefully into human nature, page almost the last, and there he will
find, in scarce legible characters, that women, notwithstanding the
preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts, &c., in matrimonial matters,
do in reality think it so great a misfortune to have their inclinations in
love thwarted, that they imagine they ought never to carry enmity higher
than upon these disappointments; again, he will find it written much about
the same place, that a woman who hath once been pleased with the
possession of a man, will go above halfway to the devil, to prevent any
other woman from enjoying the same.

If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I see no
other motive to the actions of that lady, unless we will conceive she was
bribed by Lord Fellamar, which for my own part I see no cause to suspect.

Now this was the affair which Mrs Western was preparing to introduce to
Sophia, by some prefatory discourse on the folly of love, and on the
wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and Blifil broke
abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness in her behaviour
to Blifil, which, though the squire, as was usual with him, imputed to a
wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he being a much more cunning
man) a suspicion of the real truth.

Chapter ix. — In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick.

The reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr Jones,
who, at the appointed hour, attended on Mrs Fitzpatrick; but before we
relate the conversation which now past it may be proper, according to our
method, to return a little back, and to account for so great an alteration
of behaviour in this lady, that from changing her lodging principally to
avoid Mr Jones, she had now industriously, as hath been seen, sought this
interview.

And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding day,
when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr Western was arrived in town, she
went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at Piccadilly, where she was
received with many scurvy compellations too coarse to be repeated, and was
even threatened to be kicked out of doors. From hence, an old servant of
her aunt Western, with whom she was well acquainted, conducted her to the
lodgings of that lady, who treated her not more kindly, but more politely;
or, to say the truth, with rudeness in another way. In short, she returned
from both, plainly convinced, not only that her scheme of reconciliation
had proved abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts of
bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of
revenge only filled her mind; and in this temper meeting Jones at the
play, an opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this purpose.

The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs Fitzpatrick, in the
account she gave of her own story, with the fondness Mrs Western had
formerly shewn for Mr Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the disappointment of
which Mrs Fitzpatrick derived the great bitterness her aunt had expressed
toward her. She had, therefore, no doubt but that the good lady would as
easily listen to the addresses of Mr Jones as she had before done to the
other; for the superiority of charms was clearly on the side of Mr Jones;
and the advance which her aunt had since made in age, she concluded (how
justly I will not say), was an argument rather in favour of her project
than against it.

Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of her desire
of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm assurance how much she
should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some excuses for her former
disappointment, and after acquainting Mr Jones in whose custody his
mistress was, of which she thought him ignorant; she very explicitly
mentioned her scheme to him, and advised him to make sham addresses to the
older lady, in order to procure an easy access to the younger, informing
him at the same time of the success which Mr Fitzpatrick had formerly owed
to the very same stratagem.

Mr Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind intentions
towards him which she had expressed, and indeed testified, by this
proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence of success from the
lady’s knowledge of his love to her niece, which had not been her case in
regard to Mr Fitzpatrick, he said, he was afraid Miss Western would never
agree to an imposition of this kind, as well from her utter detestation of
all fallacy as from her avowed duty to her aunt.

Mrs Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may not be
called a lapse of the tongue, it was a small deviation from politeness in
Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen, had not the delight he
felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of all reflection; for this
commendation of one cousin was more than a tacit rebuke on the other.

“Indeed, sir,” answered the lady, with some warmth, “I
cannot think there is anything easier than to cheat an old woman with a
profession of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is my
aunt, I must say there never was a more liquorish one than her ladyship.
Can’t you pretend that the despair of possessing her niece, from her being
promised to Blifil, has made you turn your thoughts towards her? As to my
cousin Sophia, I can’t imagine her to be such a simpleton as to have the
least scruple on such an account, or to conceive any harm in punishing one
of these haggs for the many mischiefs they bring upon families by their
tragi-comic passions; for which I think it is a pity they are not
punishable by law. I had no such scruple myself; and yet I hope my cousin
Sophia will not think it an affront when I say she cannot detest every
real species of falsehood more than her cousin Fitzpatrick. To my aunt,
indeed, I pretend no duty, nor doth she deserve any. However, sir, I have
given you my advice; and if you decline pursuing it, I shall have the less
opinion of your understanding—that’s all.”

Jones now clearly saw the error he had committed, and exerted his utmost
power to rectify it; but he only faultered and stuttered into nonsense and
contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to abide by the
consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to rectify it; for by
such endeavours we generally plunge deeper instead of extricating
ourselves; and few persons will on such occasions have the good-nature
which Mrs Fitzpatrick displayed to Jones, by saying, with a smile, “You
need attempt no more excuses; for I can easily forgive a real lover,
whatever is the effect of fondness for his mistress.”

She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recommended it, omitting
no argument which her invention could suggest on the subject; for she was
so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce anything was capable
of affording her equal pleasure with exposing her; and, like a true woman,
she would see no difficulties in the execution of a favourite scheme.

Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had not,
indeed, the least probability of success. He easily perceived the motives
which induced Mrs Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing her advice. He
said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard he had for Sophia;
but was so conscious of the inequality of their situations, that he could
never flatter himself so far as to hope that so divine a young lady would
condescend to think on so unworthy a man; nay, he protested, he could
scarce bring himself to wish she should. He concluded with a profession of
generous sentiments, which we have not at present leisure to insert.

There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too general terms)
with whom self is so predominant, that they never detach it from any
subject; and, as vanity is with them a ruling principle, they are apt to
lay hold of whatever praise they meet with; and, though the property of
others, convey it to their own use. In the company of these ladies it is
impossible to say anything handsome of another woman which they will not
apply to themselves; nay, they often improve the praise they seize; as,
for instance, if her beauty, her wit, her gentility, her good humour
deserve so much commendation, what do I deserve, who possess those
qualities in so much more eminent a degree?

To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is commending
another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and generous sentiments
for his mistress, they are considering what a charming lover this man
would make to them, who can feel all this tenderness for an inferior
degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may seem, I have seen many
instances besides Mrs Fitzpatrick, to whom all this really happened, and
who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr Jones, the symptoms of which she
much sooner understood than poor Sophia had formerly done.

To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more irresistible
object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding some of us are
contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote (as children to repeat
what gives them no idea) to despise outside, and to value more solid
charms; yet I have always observed, at the approach of consummate beauty,
that these more solid charms only shine with that kind of lustre which the
stars have after the rising of the sun.

When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have become
the mouth of Oroöndates himself, Mrs Fitzpatrick heaved a deep sigh, and,
taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been some time fixed, and
dropping them on the ground, she cried, “Indeed, Mr Jones, I pity
you; but it is the curse of such tenderness to be thrown away on those who
are insensible of it. I know my cousin better than you, Mr Jones, and I
must say, any woman who makes no return to such a passion, and such a
person, is unworthy of both.”

“Sure, madam,” said Jones, “you can’t mean——”
“Mean!” cries Mrs Fitzpatrick, “I know not what I mean;
there is something, I think, in true tenderness bewitching; few women ever
meet with it in men, and fewer still know how to value it when they do. I
never heard such truly noble sentiments, and I can’t tell how it is, but
you force one to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of
women who can overlook such merit.”

The manner and look with which all this was spoke infused a suspicion into
Jones which we don’t care to convey in direct words to the reader. Instead
of making any answer, he said, “I am afraid, madam, I have made too
tiresome a visit;” and offered to take his leave.

“Not at all, sir,” answered Mrs Fitzpatrick.—“Indeed
I pity you, Mr Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the
scheme I have mentioned—I am convinced you will approve it—and
let me see you again as soon as you can.—To-morrow morning if you
will, or at least some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day.”

Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully retired;
nor could Mrs Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of a look at
parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have had no
understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it confirmed his
resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as he hath hitherto
appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now so confined to his
Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could have now drawn him into
an act of inconstancy.

Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended to give
her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and accordingly
produced the tragical incident which we are now in sorrowful notes to
record.

Chapter x. — The consequence of the preceding visit.

Mr Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from Mrs
Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to which his
wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence the day after set
forward to London.

The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of this
gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion which he
had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the room with Mrs
Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had afterwards appeared entirely to
clear up that suspicion, yet now the reading so handsome a character of Mr
Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect that she likewise was in the
inn at the same time, and jumbled together such a confusion of
circumstances in a head which was naturally none of the clearest, that the
whole produced that green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his
tragedy of Othello.

And now, as he was enquiring in the street after his wife, and had just
received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr Jones was issuing from
it.

Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing a
young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly up to
him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? “for I am
sure,” said he, “you must have been in it, as I saw you come
out of it.”

Jones answered very modestly, “That he had been visiting a lady
there.” To which Fitzpatrick replied, “What business have you
with the lady?” Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the
voice, features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out——“Ha,
my good friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining
between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago.”

“Upon my soul, sir,” said Fitzpatrick, “I don’t know
your name nor your face.” “Indeed, sir,” said Jones,
“neither have I the pleasure of knowing your name, but your face I
very well remember to have seen before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel
happened between us, which, if it is not made up yet, we will now make up
over a bottle.”

“At Upton!” cried the other;——“Ha! upon my
soul, I believe your name is Jones?” “Indeed,” answered
he, “it is.”—“O! upon my soul,” cries
Fitzpatrick, “you are the very man I wanted to meet.—Upon my
soul I will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give you a
great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul, if
you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you another.”
And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of defence, which
was the only science he understood.

Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat
unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself he also drew, and though he
understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon Fitzpatrick, that
he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his sword in the body of
the said gentleman, who had no sooner received it than he stept backwards,
dropped the point of his sword, and leaning upon it, cried, “I have
satisfaction enough: I am a dead man.”

“I hope not,” cries Jones, “but whatever be the
consequence, you must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself.”
At this instant a number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told
them he should make no resistance, and begged some of them at least would
take care of the wounded gentleman.

“Ay,” cries one of the fellows, “the wounded gentleman
will be taken care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to
live. As for you, sir, you have a month at least good yet.” “D—n
me, Jack,” said another, “he hath prevented his voyage; he’s
bound to another port now;” and many other such jests was our poor
Jones made the subject of by these fellows, who were indeed the gang
employed by Lord Fellamar, and had dogged him into the house of Mrs
Fitzpatrick, waiting for him at the corner of the street when this
unfortunate accident happened.

The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded that his
business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the civil
magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a public-house,
where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him to his custody.

The constable, seeing Mr Jones very well drest, and hearing that the
accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great civility,
and at his request dispatched a messenger to enquire after the wounded
gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon’s hands. The report
brought back was, that the wound was certainly mortal, and there were no
hopes of life. Upon which the constable informed Jones that he must go
before a justice. He answered, “Wherever you please; I am
indifferent as to what happens to me; for though I am convinced I am not
guilty of murder in the eye of the law, yet the weight of blood I find
intolerable upon my mind.”

Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who dressed
Mr Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the wound to be
mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the Gatehouse. It was
very late at night, so that Jones would not send for Partridge till the
next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till seven, so it was near
twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly frightened at not hearing
from his master so long, received a message which almost deprived him of
his being when he heard it.

He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart, and was
no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones than he lamented the misfortune
that had befallen him with many tears, looking all the while frequently
about him in great terror; for as the news now arrived that Mr Fitzpatrick
was dead, the poor fellow apprehended every minute that his ghost would
enter the room. At last he delivered him a letter, which he had like to
have forgot, and which came from Sophia by the hands of Black George.

Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having eagerly
broke open the letter, read as follows:—

Of the present situation of Mr Jones’s mind, and of the pangs with which
he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader a better idea than by
saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would almost have pitied
him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave him in it, as his good
genius (if he really had any) seems to have done. And here we put an end
to the sixteenth book of our history.

BOOK XVII.

CONTAINING THREE DAYS.

Chapter i. — Containing a portion of introductory writing.

When a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as he can,
or when a tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch of human
misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and that their work
is come to a period.

Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we were
very nearly arrived at this period, since it would be difficult for the
devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have contrived much
greater torments for poor Jones than those in which we left him in the
last chapter; and as for Sophia, a good-natured woman would hardly wish
more uneasiness to a rival than what she must at present be supposed to
feel. What then remains to complete the tragedy but a murder or two and a
few moral sentences!

But to bring our favourites out of their present anguish and distress, and
to land them at last on the shore of happiness, seems a much harder task;
a task indeed so hard that we do not undertake to execute it. In regard to
Sophia, it is more than probable that we shall somewhere or other provide
a good husband for her in the end—either Blifil, or my lord, or
somebody else; but as to poor Jones, such are the calamities in which he
is at present involved, owing to his imprudence, by which if a man doth
not become felon to the world, he is at least a felo de se; so
destitute is he now of friends, and so persecuted by enemies, that we
almost despair of bringing him to any good; and if our reader delights in
seeing executions, I think he ought not to lose any time in taking a first
row at Tyburn.

This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which we
may be supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have unfortunately made
our heroe, we will lend him none of that supernatural assistance with
which we are entrusted, upon condition that we use it only on very
important occasions. If he doth not therefore find some natural means of
fairly extricating himself from all his distresses, we will do no violence
to the truth and dignity of history for his sake; for we had rather relate
that he was hanged at Tyburn (which may very probably be the case) than
forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith of our reader.

In this the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their
mythology, which was at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar than
any religion is at present, gave them always an opportunity of delivering
a favourite heroe. Their deities were always ready at the writer’s elbow,
to execute any of his purposes; and the more extraordinary the invention
was, the greater was the surprize and delight of the credulous reader.
Those writers could with greater ease have conveyed a heroe from one
country to another, nay from one world to another, and have brought him
back again, than a poor circumscribed modern can deliver him from a jail.

The Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their tales
from the genii and fairies, which they believe in as an article of their
faith, upon the authority of the Koran itself. But we have none of these
helps. To natural means alone we are confined; let us try therefore what,
by these means, may be done for poor Jones; though to confess the truth,
something whispers me in the ear that he doth not yet know the worst of
his fortune; and that a more shocking piece of news than any he hath yet
heard remains for him in the unopened leaves of fate.

Chapter ii. — The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.

Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller were just sat down to breakfast, when Blifil,
who had gone out very early that morning, returned to make one of the
company.

He had not been long seated before he began as follows: “Good Lord!
my dear uncle, what do you think hath happened? I vow I am afraid of
telling it you, for fear of shocking you with the remembrance of ever
having shewn any kindness to such a villain.” “What is the
matter, child?” said the uncle. “I fear I have shewn kindness
in my life to the unworthy more than once. But charity doth not adopt the
vices of its objects.” “O, sir!” returned Blifil,
“it is not without the secret direction of Providence that you
mention the word adoption. Your adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch
whom you nourished in your bosom, hath proved one of the greatest villains
upon earth.” “By all that’s sacred ’tis false,” cries
Mrs Miller. “Mr Jones is no villain. He is one of the worthiest
creatures breathing; and if any other person had called him villain, I
would have thrown all this boiling water in his face.” Mr Allworthy
looked very much amazed at this behaviour. But she did not give him leave
to speak, before, turning to him, she cried, “I hope you will not be
angry with me; I would not offend you, sir, for the world; but, indeed, I
could not bear to hear him called so.” “I must own, madam,”
said Allworthy, very gravely, “I am a little surprized to hear you
so warmly defend a fellow you do not know.” “O! I do know him,
Mr Allworthy,” said she, “indeed I do; I should be the most
ungrateful of all wretches if I denied it. O! he hath preserved me and my
little family; we have all reason to bless him while we live.—And I
pray Heaven to bless him, and turn the hearts of his malicious enemies. I
know, I find, I see, he hath such.” “You surprize me, madam,
still more,” said Allworthy; “sure you must mean some other.
It is impossible you should have any such obligations to the man my nephew
mentions.” “Too surely,” answered she, “I have
obligations to him of the greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been the
preserver of me and mine. Believe me, sir, he hath been abused, grossly
abused to you; I know he hath, or you, whom I know to be all goodness and
honour, would not, after the many kind and tender things I have heard you
say of this poor helpless child, have so disdainfully called him fellow.—Indeed,
my best of friends, he deserves a kinder appellation from you, had you
heard the good, the kind, the grateful things which I have heard him utter
of you. He never mentions your name but with a sort of adoration. In this
very room I have seen him on his knees, imploring all the blessings of
heaven upon your head. I do not love that child there better than he loves
you.”

“I see, sir, now,” said Blifil, with one of those grinning
sneers with which the devil marks his best beloved, “Mrs Miller
really doth know him. I suppose you will find she is not the only one of
your acquaintance to whom he hath exposed you. As for my character, I
perceive, by some hints she hath thrown out, he hath been very free with
it, but I forgive him.” “And the Lord forgive you, sir!”
said Mrs Miller; “we have all sins enough to stand in need of his
forgiveness.”

“Upon my word, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “I do not
take this behaviour of yours to my nephew kindly; and I do assure you, as
any reflections which you cast upon him must come only from that wickedest
of men, they would only serve, if that were possible, to heighten my
resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs Miller, the young man who
now stands before you hath ever been the warmest advocate for the
ungrateful wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when you hear it
from my own mouth, will make you wonder at so much baseness and
ingratitude.”

“You are deceived, sir,” answered Mrs Miller; “if they
were the last words which were to issue from my lips, I would say you were
deceived; and I once more repeat it, the Lord forgive those who have
deceived you! I do not pretend to say the young man is without faults; but
they are all the faults of wildness and of youth; faults which he may,
nay, which I am certain he will, relinquish, and, if he should not, they
are vastly overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender, honest hearts
that ever man was blest with.”

“Indeed, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “had this been
related of you, I should not have believed it.” “Indeed, sir,”
answered she, “you will believe everything I have said, I am sure
you will: and when you have heard the story which I shall tell you (for I
will tell you all), you will be so far from being offended, that you will
own (I know your justice so well), that I must have been the most
despicable and most ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other part
than I have.”

“Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “I shall be very glad to
hear any good excuse for a behaviour which, I must confess, I think wants
an excuse. And now, madam, will you be pleased to let my nephew proceed in
his story without interruption. He would not have introduced a matter of
slight consequence with such a preface. Perhaps even this story will cure
you of your mistake.”

Mrs Miller gave tokens of submission, and then Mr Blifil began thus:
“I am sure, sir, if you don’t think proper to resent the ill-usage
of Mrs Miller, I shall easily forgive what affects me only. I think your
goodness hath not deserved this indignity at her hands.” “Well,
child,” said Allworthy, “but what is this new instance? What
hath he done of late?” “What,” cries Blifil, “notwithstanding
all Mrs Miller hath said, I am very sorry to relate, and what you should
never have heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to conceal
from the whole world. In short he hath killed a man; I will not say
murdered—for perhaps it may not be so construed in law, and I hope
the best for his sake.”

Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning to Mrs
Miller, he cried, “Well, madam, what say you now?”

“Why, I say, sir,” answered she, “that I never was more
concerned at anything in my life; but, if the fact be true, I am convinced
the man, whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows there are many villains
in this town who make it their business to provoke young gentlemen.
Nothing but the greatest provocation could have tempted him; for of all
the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or so
sweet-tempered. He was beloved by every one in the house, and every one
who came near it.”

While she was thus running on, a violent knocking at the door interrupted
their conversation, and prevented her from proceeding further, or from
receiving any answer; for, as she concluded this was a visitor to Mr
Allworthy, she hastily retired, taking with her her little girl, whose
eyes were all over blubbered at the melancholy news she heard of Jones,
who used to call her his little wife, and not only gave her many
playthings, but spent whole hours in playing with her himself.

Some readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute circumstances, in
relating of which we follow the example of Plutarch, one of the best of
our brother historians; and others, to whom they may appear trivial, will,
we hope, at least pardon them, as we are never prolix on such occasions.

Chapter iii. — The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters
concerning the paternal authority.

Mrs Miller had not long left the room when Mr Western entered; but not
before a small wrangling bout had passed between him and his chairmen; for
the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the Hercules Pillars, had
conceived no hopes of having any future good customer in the squire; and
they were moreover farther encouraged by his generosity (for he had given
them of his own accord sixpence more than their fare); they therefore very
boldly demanded another shilling, which so provoked the squire, that he
not only bestowed many hearty curses on them at the door, but retained his
anger after he came into the room; swearing that all the Londoners were
like the court, and thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen.
“D—n me,” says he, “if I won’t walk in the rain
rather than get into one of their hand-barrows again. They have jolted me
more in a mile than Brown Bess would in a long fox-chase.”

When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed the same
passionate tone on another. “There,” says he, “there is
fine business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last; and when we
imagined we had a fox to deal with, od-rat it, it turns out to be a badger
at last!”

“Pray, my good neighbour,” said Allworthy, “drop your
metaphors, and speak a little plainer.” “Why, then,”
says the squire, “to tell you plainly, we have been all this time
afraid of a son of a whore of a bastard of somebody’s, I don’t know whose,
not I. And now here’s a confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a
bastard too for what I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of
mine by my consent. They have beggared the nation, but they shall never
beggar me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover.”

“You surprize me much, my good friend,” said Allworthy.
“Why, zounds! I am surprized myself,” answered the squire.
“I went to zee sister Western last night, according to her own
appointment, and there I was had into a whole room full of women. There
was my lady cousin Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady Catherine,
and my lady I don’t know who; d—n me, if ever you catch me among
such a kennel of hoop-petticoat b—s! D—n me, I’d rather be run
by my own dogs, as one Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into
a hare, and his own dogs killed un and eat un. Od-rabbit it, no mortal was
ever run in such a manner; if I dodged one way, one had me; if I offered
to clap back, another snapped me. `O! certainly one of the greatest
matches in England,’ says one cousin (here he attempted to mimic them); `A
very advantageous offer indeed,’ cries another cousin (for you must know
they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half o’ um before). `Surely,’
says that fat a—se b—, my Lady Bellaston, `cousin, you must be
out of your wits to think of refusing such an offer.’”

“Now I begin to understand,” says Allworthy; “some
person hath made proposals to Miss Western, which the ladies of the family
approve, but is not to your liking.”

“My liking!” said Western, “how the devil should it? I
tell you it is a lord, and those are always volks whom you know I always
resolved to have nothing to do with. Did unt I refuse a matter of vorty
years’ purchase now for a bit of land, which one o’ um had a mind to put
into a park, only because I would have no dealings with lords, and dost
think I would marry my daughter zu? Besides, ben’t I engaged to you, and
did I ever go off any bargain when I had promised?”

“As to that point, neighbour,” said Allworthy, “I
entirely release you from any engagement. No contract can be binding
between parties who have not a full power to make it at the time, nor ever
afterwards acquire the power of fulfilling it.”

“Slud! then,” answered Western, “I tell you I have
power, and I will fulfil it. Come along with me directly to Doctors’
Commons, I will get a licence; and I will go to sister and take away the
wench by force, and she shall ha un, or I will lock her up, and keep her
upon bread and water as long as she lives.”

“Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “shall I beg you will hear
my full sentiments on this matter?”—“Hear thee; ay, to
be sure I will,” answered he. “Why, then, sir,” cries
Allworthy, “I can truly say, without a compliment either to you or
the young lady, that when this match was proposed, I embraced it very
readily and heartily, from my regard to you both. An alliance between two
families so nearly neighbours, and between whom there had always existed
so mutual an intercourse and good harmony, I thought a most desirable
event; and with regard to the young lady, not only the concurrent opinion
of all who knew her, but my own observation assured me that she would be
an inestimable treasure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of her
personal qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good nature,
her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too well known to need any
panegyric: but she hath one quality which existed in a high degree in that
best of women, who is now one of the first of angels, which, as it is not
of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes observation; so little indeed is
it remarked, that I want a word to express it. I must use negatives on
this occasion. I never heard anything of pertness, or what is called
repartee, out of her mouth; no pretence to wit, much less to that kind of
wisdom which is the result only of great learning and experience, the
affectation of which, in a young woman, is as absurd as any of the
affectations of an ape. No dictatorial sentiments, no judicial opinions,
no profound criticisms. Whenever I have seen her in the company of men,
she hath been all attention, with the modesty of a learner, not the
forwardness of a teacher. You’ll pardon me for it, but I once, to try her
only, desired her opinion on a point which was controverted between Mr
Thwackum and Mr Square. To which she answered, with much sweetness, `You
will pardon me, good Mr Allworthy; I am sure you cannot in earnest think
me capable of deciding any point in which two such gentlemen disagree.’
Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought themselves sure of a
favourable decision, seconded my request. She answered with the same good
humour, `I must absolutely be excused: for I will affront neither so much
as to give my judgment on his side.’ Indeed, she always shewed the highest
deference to the understandings of men; a quality absolutely essential to
the making a good wife. I shall only add, that as she is most apparently
void of all affectation, this deference must be certainly real.”

Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were full of
tears at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, “Don’t be
chicken-hearted, for shat ha her, d—n me, shat ha her, if she was
twenty times as good.”

“Remember your promise, sir,” cried Allworthy, “I was
not to be interrupted.” “Well, shat unt,” answered the
squire; “I won’t speak another word.”

“Now, my good friend,” continued Allworthy, “I have
dwelt so long on the merit of this young lady, partly as I really am in
love with her character, and partly that fortune (for the match in that
light is really advantageous on my nephew’s side) might not be imagined to
be my principal view in having so eagerly embraced the proposal. Indeed, I
heartily wished to receive so great a jewel into my family; but though I
may wish for many good things, I would not, therefore, steal them, or be
guilty of any violence or injustice to possess myself of them. Now to
force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent or approbation, is
an act of such injustice and oppression, that I wish the laws of our
country could restrain it; but a good conscience is never lawless in the
worst regulated state, and will provide those laws for itself, which the
neglect of legislators hath forgotten to supply. This is surely a case of
that kind; for, is it not cruel, nay, impious, to force a woman into that
state against her will; for her behaviour in which she is to be
accountable to the highest and most dreadful court of judicature, and to
answer at the peril of her soul? To discharge the matrimonial duties in an
adequate manner is no easy task; and shall we lay this burthen upon a
woman, while we at the same time deprive her of all that assistance which
may enable her to undergo it? Shall we tear her very heart from her, while
we enjoin her duties to which a whole heart is scarce equal? I must speak
very plainly here. I think parents who act in this manner are accessories
to all the guilt which their children afterwards incur, and of course
must, before a just judge, expect to partake of their punishment; but if
they could avoid this, good heaven! is there a soul who can bear the
thought of having contributed to the damnation of his child?

“For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations of
this young lady are most unhappily averse to my nephew, I must decline any
further thoughts of the honour you intended him, though I assure you I
shall always retain the most grateful sense of it.”

“Well, sir,” said Western (the froth bursting forth from his
lips the moment they were uncorked), “you cannot say but I have
heard you out, and now I expect you’ll hear me; and if I don’t answer
every word on’t, why then I’ll consent to gee the matter up. First then, I
desire you to answer me one question—Did not I beget her? did not I
beget her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that
knows his own child; but I am sure I have the best title to her, for I
bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and if I
be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not to govern my
own child? and if I am to govern her in other matters, surely I am to
govern her in this, which concerns her most. And what am I desiring all
this while? Am I desiring her to do anything for me? to give me anything?—Zu
much on t’other side, that I am only desiring her to take away half my
estate now, and t’other half when I die. Well, and what is it all vor?
Why, is unt it to make her happy? It’s enough to make one mad to hear
volks talk; if I was going to marry myself, then she would ha reason to
cry and to blubber; but, on the contrary, han’t I offered to bind down my
land in such a manner, that I could not marry if I would, seeing as narro’
woman upon earth would ha me. What the devil in hell can I do more? I
contribute to her damnation!—Zounds! I’d zee all the world d—n’d
bevore her little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr Allworthy, you must
excuse me, but I am surprized to hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I
must say, take it how you will, that I thought you had more sense.”

Allworthy resented this reflection only with a smile; nor could he, if he
would have endeavoured it, have conveyed into that smile any mixture of
malice or contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as we may suppose
the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind.

Blifil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. “As to
using any violence on the young lady, I am sure I shall never consent to
it. My conscience will not permit me to use violence on any one, much less
on a lady for whom, however cruel she is to me, I shall always preserve
the purest and sincerest affection; but yet I have read that women are
seldom proof against perseverance. Why may I not hope then by such
perseverance at last to gain those inclinations, in which for the future I
shall, perhaps, have no rival; for as for this lord, Mr Western is so kind
to prefer me to him; and sure, sir, you will not deny but that a parent
hath at least a negative voice in these matters; nay, I have heard this
very young lady herself say so more than once, and declare that she
thought children inexcusable who married in direct opposition to the will
of their parents. Besides, though the other ladies of the family seem to
favour the pretensions of my lord, I do not find the lady herself is
inclined to give him any countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is
not; I am too sensible that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her
heart.”

“Ay, ay, so he does,” cries Western.

“But surely,” says Blifil, “when she hears of this
murder which he hath committed, if the law should spare his life——”

“What’s that?” cries Western. “Murder! hath he committed
a murder, and is there any hopes of seeing him hanged?—Tol de rol,
tol lol de rol.” Here he fell a singing and capering about the room.

“Child,” says Allworthy, “this unhappy passion of yours
distresses me beyond measure. I heartily pity you, and would do every fair
thing to promote your success.”

“I desire no more,” cries Blifil; “I am convinced my
dear uncle hath a better opinion of me than to think that I myself would
accept of more.”

“Lookee,” says Allworthy, “you have my leave to write,
to visit, if she will permit it—but I insist on no thoughts of
violence. I will have no confinement, nothing of that kind attempted.”

“Well, well,” cries the squire, “nothing of that kind
shall be attempted; we will try a little longer what fair means will
effect; and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way—Tol lol de
rol! I never heard better news in my life—I warrant everything goes
to my mind.—Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me at
the Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a
spare-rib of pork, and a fowl and egg-sauce. There will be nobody but
ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlord; for I have sent
Parson Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box, which I left at an
inn there, and I would not lose it for the world; for it is an old
acquaintance of above twenty years’ standing. I can tell you landlord is a
vast comical bitch, you will like un hugely.”

Mr Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after the squire
went off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing the speedy tragical
end of poor Jones.

When he was gone, Mr Allworthy resumed the aforesaid subject with much
gravity. He told his nephew, “He wished with all his heart he would
endeavour to conquer a passion, in which I cannot,” says he, “flatter
you with any hopes of succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar error, that
aversion in a woman may be conquered by perseverance. Indifference may,
perhaps, sometimes yield to it; but the usual triumphs gained by
perseverance in a lover are over caprice, prudence, affectation, and often
an exorbitant degree of levity, which excites women not over-warm in their
constitutions to indulge their vanity by prolonging the time of courtship,
even when they are well enough pleased with the object, and resolve (if
they ever resolve at all) to make him a very pitiful amends in the end.
But a fixed dislike, as I am afraid this is, will rather gather strength
than be conquered by time. Besides, my dear, I have another apprehension
which you must excuse. I am afraid this passion which you have for this
fine young creature hath her beautiful person too much for its object, and
is unworthy of the name of that love which is the only foundation of
matrimonial felicity. To admire, to like, and to long for the possession
of a beautiful woman, without any regard to her sentiments towards us, is,
I am afraid, too natural; but love, I believe, is the child of love only;
at least, I am pretty confident that to love the creature who we are
assured hates us is not in human nature. Examine your heart, therefore,
thoroughly, my good boy, and if, upon examination, you have but the least
suspicion of this kind, I am sure your own virtue and religion will impel
you to drive so vicious a passion from your heart, and your good sense
will soon enable you to do it without pain.”

The reader may pretty well guess Blifil’s answer; but, if he should be at
a loss, we are not at present at leisure to satisfy him, as our history
now hastens on to matters of higher importance, and we can no longer bear
to be absent from Sophia.

Chapter iv. — An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt.

The lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may ramble
safe and unregarded through the pastures. These are, indeed, hereafter
doomed to be the prey of man; yet many years are they suffered to enjoy
their liberty undisturbed. But if a plump doe be discovered to have
escaped from the forest, and to repose herself in some field or grove, the
whole parish is presently alarmed, every man is ready to set his dogs
after her; and, if she is preserved from the rest by the good squire, it
is only that he may secure her for his own eating.

I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and fashion,
when first found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to be in pretty
much the same situation with this doe. The town is immediately in an
uproar; she is hunted from park to play, from court to assembly, from
assembly to her own chamber, and rarely escapes a single season from the
jaws of some devourer or other; for, if her friends protect her from some,
it is only to deliver her over to one of their own chusing, often more
disagreeable to her than any of the rest; while whole herds or flocks of
other women securely, and scarce regarded, traverse the park, the play,
the opera, and the assembly; and though, for the most part at least, they
are at last devoured, yet for a long time do they wanton in liberty,
without disturbance or controul.

Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than poor
Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with all that she had suffered on
account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer, who seemed likely
to torment her no less than the other had done. For though her aunt was
less violent, she was no less assiduous in teizing her, than her father
had been before.

The servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs Western, who
had opened the matter to Sophia, informed her, “That she expected
his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take the first
opportunity of leaving her alone with him.” “If you do, madam,”
answered Sophia, with some spirit, “I shall take the first
opportunity of leaving him by himself.” “How! madam!”
cries the aunt; “is this the return you make me for my kindness in
relieving you from your confinement at your father’s?” “You
know, madam,” said Sophia, “the cause of that confinement was
a refusal to comply with my father in accepting a man I detested; and will
my dear aunt, who hath relieved me from that distress, involve me in
another equally bad?” “And do you think then, madam,”
answered Mrs Western, “that there is no difference between my Lord
Fellamar and Mr Blifil?” “Very little, in my opinion,”
cries Sophia; “and, if I must be condemned to one, I would certainly
have the merit of sacrificing myself to my father’s pleasure.”
“Then my pleasure, I find,” said the aunt, “hath very
little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I act
from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of ennobling
yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of ambition? Are there
no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on your coach?”
“None, upon my honour,” said Sophia. “A pincushion upon
my coach would please me just as well.” “Never mention honour,”
cries the aunt. “It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am
sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear your
groveling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But,
however mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no imputation on
mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that I encouraged you in
refusing one of the best matches in England; a match which, besides its
advantage in fortune, would do honour to almost any family, and hath,
indeed, in title, the advantage of ours.” “Surely,” says
Sophia, “I am born deficient, and have not the senses with which
other people are blessed; there must be certainly some sense which can
relish the delights of sound and show, which I have not; for surely
mankind would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so much for the obtaining,
nor would they be so elate and proud with possessing, what appeared to
them, as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles.”

“No, no, miss,” cries the aunt; “you are born with as
many senses as other people; but I assure you you are not born with a
sufficient understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to
the world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I
believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his
lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you to-morrow
morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere with you, nor
see your face again.” Sophia stood a few moments silent after this
speech, which was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then,
bursting into tears, she cryed, “Do with me, madam, whatever you
please; I am the most miserable undone wretch upon earth; if my dear aunt
forsakes me where shall I look for a protector?” “My dear
niece,” cries she, “you will have a very good protector in his
lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering after that vile fellow
Jones can make you decline.” “Indeed, madam,” said
Sophia, “you wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have
shewn me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish them
for ever? If it will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament upon it
never to see his face again.” “But, child, dear child,”
said the aunt, “be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?”
“I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection,”
answered Sophia. “What?” cries the aunt; “I remember
none.” “Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “I told you he
had used me in the rudest and vilest manner.” “Indeed, child,”
answered she, “I never heard you, or did not understand you:—but
what do you mean by this rude, vile manner?” “Indeed, madam,”
said Sophia, “I am almost ashamed to tell you. He caught me in his
arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust his hand into my bosom,
and kissed it with such violence that I have the mark upon my left breast
at this moment.” “Indeed!” said Mrs Western. “Yes,
indeed, madam,” answered Sophia; “my father luckily came in at
that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended to have proceeded
to.” “I am astonished and confounded,” cries the aunt.
“No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since we
were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, if he had
attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible! sure, Sophia, you must
invent this to raise my indignation against him.” “I hope,
madam,” said Sophia, “you have too good an opinion of me to
imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is true.”
“I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present,”
returned the aunt. “Yet surely he could have no dishonourable
design; it is impossible! he durst not: besides, his proposals shew he
hath not; for they are not only honourable, but generous. I don’t know;
the age allows too great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have
allowed before the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago
neither; several lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I
never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I
never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as
much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to a husband; and, indeed,
could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I should not have
soon been brought to endure so much.” “You will pardon me,
dear madam,” said Sophia, “if I make one observation: you own
you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should deny
it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among
them.” “You say true, dear Sophy,” answered she; “I
had once the offer of a title.” “Why, then,” said
Sophia, “will you not suffer me to refuse this once?” “It
is true, child,” said she, “I have refused the offer of a
title; but it was not so good an offer; that is, not so very, very good an
offer.”—“Yes, madam,” said Sophia; “but you
have had very great proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not the
first, nor the second, nor the third advantageous match that offered
itself.” “I own it was not,” said she. “Well,
madam,” continued Sophia, “and why may not I expect to have a
second, perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman, and I am
convinced would not promise to yield to the first lover of fortune, nay,
or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I need not despair.”
“Well, my dear, dear Sophy,” cries the aunt, “what would
you have me say?” “Why, I only beg that I may not be left
alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit, if you
think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your company.”
“Well, I will grant it,” cries the aunt. “Sophy, you
know I love you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my
nature; I have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought
cruel; by the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have
broke many a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it.
Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something of you
formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says
in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the human form.”
Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and her conquests, and
her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who, after a most tedious visit,
during which Mrs Western never once offered to leave the room, retired,
not much more satisfied with the aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had
brought her aunt into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost
everything her niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour
might not be improper to so forward a lover.

Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely none
will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at least, put off
the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a better situation than
she hath been for a long time before, we will look a little after Mr
Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable situation that can be well
imagined.

Chapter v. — Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale visit Jones in the
prison.

When Mr Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr Western, Mrs Miller set
forwards to her son-in-law’s lodgings, in order to acquaint him with the
accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he had known it long
before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left Mrs Miller, had been
furnished with a room in the same house with Mr Nightingale). The good
woman found her daughter under great affliction on account of Mr Jones,
whom having comforted as well as she could, she set forwards to the
Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where Mr Nightingale was arrived
before her.

The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so extremely
delightful to persons in any kind of distress, that the distress itself,
if it be only temporary, and admits of relief, is more than compensated by
bringing this comfort with it. Nor are instances of this kind so rare as
some superficial and inaccurate observers have reported. To say the truth,
want of compassion is not to be numbered among our general faults. The
black ingredient which fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is
seldom, I am afraid, turned upward to those who are manifestly greater,
better, wiser, or happier than ourselves, without some degree of
malignity; while we commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with
sufficient benevolence and pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of
the defects which have discovered themselves in the friendships within my
observation have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet one from
which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough of a subject
which, if pursued, would lead me too far.

Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink under
the weight of his adversity, and that she might thus lose any future
opportunity of tormenting him, or whether she really abated somewhat of
her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her persecution, by
sending him the company of two such faithful friends, and what is perhaps
more rare, a faithful servant. For Partridge, though he had many
imperfections, wanted not fidelity; and though fear would not suffer him
to be hanged for his master, yet the world, I believe, could not have
bribed him to desert his cause.

While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his
friends, Partridge brought an account that Mr Fitzpatrick was still alive,
though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon which,
Jones fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, “My dear Tom,
why should you afflict yourself so upon an accident, which, whatever be
the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you, and in which your
conscience cannot accuse you of having been the least to blame? If the
fellow should die, what have you done more than taken away the life of a
ruffian in your own defence? So will the coroner’s inquest certainly find
it; and then you will be easily admitted to bail; and, though you must
undergo the form of a trial, yet it is a trial which many men would stand
for you for a shilling.” “Come, come, Mr Jones,” says
Mrs Miller, “chear yourself up. I knew you could not be the
aggressor, and so I told Mr Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge too,
before I have done with him.”

Jones gravely answered, “That whatever might be his fate, he should
always lament the having shed the blood of one of his fellow-creatures, as
one of the highest misfortunes which could have befallen him. But I have
another misfortune of the tenderest kind——O! Mrs Miller, I
have lost what I held most dear upon earth.” “That must be a
mistress,” said Mrs Miller; “but come, come; I know more than
you imagine” (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); “and I
have heard more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you
think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which he
hath of the lady.”

“Indeed, my dear friend, indeed,” answered Jones, “you
are an entire stranger to the cause of my grief. If you was acquainted
with the story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I
apprehend no danger from Blifil. I have undone myself.” “Don’t
despair,” replied Mrs Miller; “you know not what a woman can
do; and if anything be in my power, I promise you I will do it to serve
you. It is my duty. My son, my dear Mr Nightingale, who is so kind to tell
me he hath obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty.
Shall I go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have
me say.”

“Thou best of women,” cries Jones, taking her by the hand,
“talk not of obligations to me;—but as you have been so kind
to mention it, there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I
see you are acquainted with the lady (how you came by your information I
know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you could contrive to
deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever
acknowledge your goodness.”

“Give it me,” said Mrs Miller. “If I see it not in her
own possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Comfort
yourself, my good young man! be wise enough to take warning from past
follies, and I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you happy
with the most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear from every
one she is.”

“Believe me, madam,” said he, “I do not speak the common
cant of one in my unhappy situation. Before this dreadful accident
happened, I had resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of
the wickedness as well as folly. I do assure you, notwithstanding the
disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your house, for which I
heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate. Though I have
been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious character, nor will I
ever, from this moment, deserve it.”

Mrs Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in the
sincerity of which she averred she had an entire faith; and now the
remainder of the conversation past in the joint attempts of that good
woman and Mr Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr Jones, in
which they so far succeeded as to leave him much better comforted and
satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration nothing so much
contributed as the kind undertaking of Mrs Miller to deliver his letter to
Sophia, which he despaired of finding any means to accomplish; for when
Black George produced the last from Sophia, he informed Partridge that she
had strictly charged him, on pain of having it communicated to her father,
not to bring her any answer. He was, moreover, not a little pleased to
find he had so warm an advocate to Mr Allworthy himself in this good
woman, who was, in reality, one of the worthiest creatures in the world.

After about an hour’s visit from the lady (for Nightingale had been with
him much longer), they both took their leave, promising to return to him
soon; during which Mrs Miller said she hoped to bring him some good news
from his mistress, and Mr Nightingale promised to enquire into the state
of Mr Fitzpatrick’s wound, and likewise to find out some of the persons
who were present at the rencounter.

The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we likewise
shall now attend her.

Chapter vi. — In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.

Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she lived now
on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full liberty to
receive what visitants she pleased.

Sophia was dressing when she was acquainted that there was a gentlewoman
below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor ashamed, to see any
of her own sex, Mrs Miller was immediately admitted.

Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers to each
other, being past, Sophia said, “I have not the pleasure to know
you, madam.” “No, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “and
I must beg pardon for intruding upon you. But when you know what has
induced me to give you this trouble, I hope——” “Pray,
what is your business, madam?” said Sophia, with a little emotion.
“Madam, we are not alone,” replied Mrs Miller, in a low voice.
“Go out, Betty,” said Sophia.

When Betty was departed, Mrs Miller said, “I was desired, madam, by
a very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter.” Sophia
changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand, and
after some hesitation, said—“I could not conceive, madam, from
your appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.—Whomever
you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry to
entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an utter stranger to
me.”

“If you will have patience, madam,” answered Mrs Miller,
“I will acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter.”
“I have no curiosity, madam, to know anything,” cries Sophia;
“but I must insist on your delivering that letter back to the person
who gave it you.”

Mrs Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate terms
implored her compassion; to which Sophia answered: “Sure, madam, it
is surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the behalf of
this person. I would not think, madam”—“No, madam,”
says Mrs Miller, “you shall not think anything but the truth. I will
tell you all, and you will not wonder that I am interested. He is the
best-natured creature that ever was born.”—She then began and
related the story of Mr Anderson.—After this she cried, “This,
madam, this is his goodness; but I have much more tender obligations to
him. He hath preserved my child.”—Here, after shedding some
tears, she related everything concerning that fact, suppressing only those
circumstances which would have most reflected on her daughter, and
concluded with saying, “Now, madam, you shall judge whether I can
ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young man; and sure he
is the best and worthiest of all human beings.”

The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been chiefly to
her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too great paleness;
but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion, and cried, “I
know not what to say; certainly what arises from gratitude cannot be
blamed—But what service can my reading this letter do your friend,
since I am resolved never——” Mrs Miller fell again to
her entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not, she said,
carry it back. “Well, madam,” says Sophia, “I cannot
help it, if you will force it upon me.—Certainly you may leave it
whether I will or no.” What Sophia meant, or whether she meant
anything, I will not presume to determine; but Mrs Miller actually
understood this as a hint, and presently laying the letter down on the
table, took her leave, having first begged permission to wait again on
Sophia; which request had neither assent nor denial.

The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs Miller was out of
sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.

This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted of
little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter
lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations of
his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped to
convince her, if he had ever more the honour of being admitted to her
presence; and that he could account for the letter to Lady Bellaston in
such a manner, that, though it would not entitle him to her forgiveness,
he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And concluded with vowing
that nothing was ever less in his thoughts than to marry Lady Bellaston.

Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his meaning
still remained a riddle to her; nor could her invention suggest to her any
means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained very angry with him, though
indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of her resentment, that her gentle
mind had but little left to bestow on any other person.

That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt Western,
and in the afternoon they were all three, by appointment, to go together
to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet’s drum. Sophia would have
gladly been excused from all, but would not disoblige her aunt; and as to
the arts of counterfeiting illness, she was so entirely a stranger to
them, that it never once entered into her head. When she was drest,
therefore, down she went, resolved to encounter all the horrors of the
day, and a most disagreeable one it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every
opportunity very civilly and slily to insult her; to all which her
dejection of spirits disabled her from making any return; and, indeed, to
confess the truth, she was at the very best but an indifferent mistress of
repartee.

Another misfortune which befel poor Sophia was the company of Lord
Fellamar, whom she met at the opera, and who attended her to the drum. And
though both places were too publick to admit of any particularities, and
she was farther relieved by the musick at the one place, and by the cards
at the other, she could not, however, enjoy herself in his company; for
there is something of delicacy in women, which will not suffer them to be
even easy in the presence of a man whom they know to have pretensions to
them which they are disinclined to favour.

Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our posterity,
it is hoped, will not understand in the sense it is here applied, we
shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to describe the
entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a moment describe
it.

A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes, most
of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the mistress
of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and like the
landlady of an inn prides herself in the number of her guests, though she
doth not always, like her, get anything by it.

No wonder then, as so much spirits must be required to support any
vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion
eternally complaining of the want of them; a complaint confined entirely
to upper life. How insupportable must we imagine this round of
impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time; how difficult must she
have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her looks, when her
mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and when every thought was
charged with tormenting ideas!

Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will leave
her to soothe her melancholy at least, though incapable we fear of rest,
and shall pursue our history, which, something whispers us, is now arrived
at the eve of some great event.

Chapter vii. — A pathetic scene between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller.

Mrs Miller had a long discourse with Mr Allworthy, at his return from
dinner, in which she acquainted him with Jones’s having unfortunately lost
all which he was pleased to bestow on him at their separation; and with
the distresses to which that loss had subjected him; of all which she had
received a full account from the faithful retailer Partridge. She then
explained the obligations she had to Jones; not that she was entirely
explicit with regard to her daughter; for though she had the utmost
confidence in Mr Allworthy, and though there could be no hopes of keeping
an affair secret which was unhappily known to more than half a dozen, yet
she could not prevail with herself to mention those circumstances which
reflected most on the chastity of poor Nancy, but smothered that part of
her evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a judge, and the girl
was now on her trial for the murder of a bastard.

Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as not to
have the least mixture of good in them. “However,” says he,
“I cannot deny but that you have some obligations to the fellow, bad
as he is, and I shall therefore excuse what hath past already, but must
insist you never mention his name to me more; for, I promise you, it was
upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to take the
measures I have taken.” “Well, sir,” says she, “I
make not the least doubt but time will shew all matters in their true and
natural colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young man
deserves better of you than some other folks that shall be nameless.”

“Madam,” cries Allworthy, a little ruffled, “I will not
hear any reflections on my nephew; and if ever you say a word more of that
kind, I will depart from your house that instant. He is the worthiest and
best of men; and I once more repeat it to you, he hath carried his
friendship to this man to a blameable length, by too long concealing facts
of the blackest die. The ingratitude of the wretch to this good young man
is what I most resent; for, madam, I have the greatest reason to imagine
he had laid a plot to supplant my nephew in my favour, and to have
disinherited him.”

“I am sure, sir,” answered Mrs Miller, a little frightened
(for, though Mr Allworthy had the utmost sweetness and benevolence in his
smiles, he had great terror in his frowns), “I shall never speak
against any gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure, sir,
such behaviour would very little become me, especially when the gentleman
is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not be angry with me, you
must not indeed, for my good wishes to this poor wretch. Sure I may call
him so now, though once you would have been angry with me if I had spoke
of him with the least disrespect. How often have I heard you call him your
son? How often have you prattled to me of him with all the fondness of a
parent? Nay, sir, I cannot forget the many tender expressions, the many
good things you have told me of his beauty, and his parts, and his
virtues; of his good-nature and generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot
forget them, for I find them all true. I have experienced them in my own
cause. They have preserved my family. You must pardon my tears, sir,
indeed you must. When I consider the cruel reverse of fortune which this
poor youth, to whom I am so much obliged, hath suffered; when I consider
the loss of your favour, which I know he valued more than his life, I
must, I must lament him. If you had a dagger in your hand, ready to plunge
into my heart, I must lament the misery of one whom you have loved, and I
shall ever love.”

Allworthy was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed not to be
with anger; for, after a short silence, taking Mrs Miller by the hand, he
said very affectionately to her, “Come, madam, let us consider a
little about your daughter. I cannot blame you for rejoicing in a match
which promises to be advantageous to her, but you know this advantage, in
a great measure, depends on the father’s reconciliation. I know Mr
Nightingale very well, and have formerly had concerns with him; I will
make him a visit, and endeavour to serve you in this matter. I believe he
is a worldly man; but as this is an only son, and the thing is now
irretrievable, perhaps he may in time be brought to reason. I promise you
I will do all I can for you.”

Many were the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy for
this kind and generous offer, nor could she refrain from taking this
occasion again to express her gratitude towards Jones, “to whom,”
said she, “I owe the opportunity of giving you, sir, this present
trouble.” Allworthy gently stopped her; but he was too good a man to
be really offended with the effects of so noble a principle as now
actuated Mrs Miller; and indeed, had not this new affair inflamed his
former anger against Jones, it is possible he might have been a little
softened towards him, by the report of an action which malice itself could
not have derived from an evil motive.

Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller had been above an hour together, when their
conversation was put an end to by the arrival of Blifil and another
person, which other person was no less than Mr Dowling, the attorney, who
was now become a great favourite with Mr Blifil, and whom Mr Allworthy, at
the desire of his nephew, had made his steward; and had likewise
recommended him to Mr Western, from whom the attorney received a promise
of being promoted to the same office upon the first vacancy; and, in the
meantime, was employed in transacting some affairs which the squire then
had in London in relation to a mortgage.

This was the principal affair which then brought Mr Dowling to town;
therefore he took the same opportunity to charge himself with some money
for Mr Allworthy, and to make a report to him of some other business; in
all which, as it was of much too dull a nature to find any place in this
history, we will leave the uncle, nephew, and their lawyer concerned, and
resort to other matters.

Chapter viii. — Containing various matters.

Before we return to Mr Jones, we will take one more view of Sophia.

Though that young lady had brought her aunt into great good humour by
those soothing methods which we have before related, she had not brought
her in the least to abate of her zeal for the match with Lord Fellamar.
This zeal was now inflamed by Lady Bellaston, who had told her the
preceding evening, that she was well satisfied from the conduct of Sophia,
and from her carriage to his lordship, that all delays would be dangerous,
and that the only way to succeed was to press the match forward with such
rapidity that the young lady should have no time to reflect, and be
obliged to consent while she scarce knew what she did; in which manner,
she said, one-half of the marriages among people of condition were brought
about. A fact very probably true, and to which, I suppose, is owing the
mutual tenderness which afterwards exists among so many happy couples.

A hint of the same kind was given by the same lady to Lord Fellamar; and
both these so readily embraced the advice that the very next day was, at
his lordship’s request, appointed by Mrs Western for a private interview
between the young parties. This was communicated to Sophia by her aunt,
and insisted upon in such high terms, that, after having urged everything
she possibly could invent against it without the least effect, she at last
agreed to give the highest instance of complacence which any young lady
can give, and consented to see his lordship.

As conversations of this kind afford no great entertainment, we shall be
excused from reciting the whole that past at this interview; in which,
after his lordship had made many declarations of the most pure and ardent
passion to the silent blushing Sophia, she at last collected all the
spirits she could raise, and with a trembling low voice said, “My
lord, you must be yourself conscious whether your former behaviour to me
hath been consistent with the professions you now make.” “Is
there,” answered he, “no way by which I can atone for madness?
what I did I am afraid must have too plainly convinced you, that the
violence of love had deprived me of my senses.” “Indeed, my
lord,” said she, “it is in your power to give me a proof of an
affection which I much rather wish to encourage, and to which I should
think myself more beholden.” “Name it, madam,” said my
lord, very warmly. “My lord,” says she, looking down upon her
fan, “I know you must be sensible how uneasy this pretended passion
of yours hath made me.” “Can you be so cruel to call it
pretended?” says he. “Yes, my lord,” answered Sophia,
“all professions of love to those whom we persecute are most
insulting pretences. This pursuit of yours is to me a most cruel
persecution: nay, it is taking a most ungenerous advantage of my unhappy
situation.” “Most lovely, most adorable charmer, do not accuse
me,” cries he, “of taking an ungenerous advantage, while I
have no thoughts but what are directed to your honour and interest, and
while I have no view, no hope, no ambition, but to throw myself, honour,
fortune, everything at your feet.” “My lord,” says she,
“it is that fortune and those honours which gave you the advantage
of which I complain. These are the charms which have seduced my relations,
but to me they are things indifferent. If your lordship will merit my
gratitude, there is but one way.” “Pardon me, divine creature,”
said he, “there can be none. All I can do for you is so much your
due, and will give me so much pleasure, that there is no room for your
gratitude.” “Indeed, my lord,” answered she, “you
may obtain my gratitude, my good opinion, every kind thought and wish
which it is in my power to bestow; nay, you may obtain them with ease, for
sure to a generous mind it must be easy to grant my request. Let me
beseech you, then, to cease a pursuit in which you can never have any
success. For your own sake as well as mine I entreat this favour; for sure
you are too noble to have any pleasure in tormenting an unhappy creature.
What can your lordship propose but uneasiness to yourself, by a
perseverance, which, upon my honour, upon my soul, cannot, shall not
prevail with me, whatever distresses you may drive me to.” Here my
lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said—“Is it then, madam,
that I am so unhappy to be the object of your dislike and scorn; or will
you pardon me if I suspect there is some other?” Here he hesitated,
and Sophia answered with some spirit, “My lord, I shall not be
accountable to you for the reasons of my conduct. I am obliged to your
lordship for the generous offer you have made; I own it is beyond either
my deserts or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you will not insist on my
reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it.” Lord Fellamar returned
much to this, which we do not perfectly understand, and perhaps it could
not all be strictly reconciled either to sense or grammar; but he
concluded his ranting speech with saying, “That if she had
pre-engaged herself to any gentleman, however unhappy it would make him,
he should think himself bound in honour to desist.” Perhaps my lord
laid too much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we cannot else well
account for the indignation with which he inspired Sophia, who, in her
answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront he had given her.

While she was speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs Western
came into the room, the fire glaring in her cheeks, and the flames
bursting from her eyes. “I am ashamed,” says she, “my
lord, of the reception which you have met with. I assure your lordship we
are all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell you, Miss Western,
the family expect a different behaviour from you.” Here my lord
interfered on behalf of the young lady, but to no purpose; the aunt
proceeded till Sophia pulled out her handkerchief, threw herself into a
chair, and burst into a violent fit of tears.

The remainder of the conversation between Mrs Western and his lordship,
till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter lamentations on his side,
and on hers of the strongest assurances that her niece should and would
consent to all he wished. “Indeed, my lord,” says she, “the
girl hath had a foolish education, neither adapted to her fortune nor her
family. Her father, I am sorry to say it, is to blame for everything. The
girl hath silly country notions of bashfulness. Nothing else, my lord,
upon my honour; I am convinced she hath a good understanding at the
bottom, and will be brought to reason.”

This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some time
before left the room, with more appearance of passion than she had ever
shown on any occasion; and now his lordship, after many expressions of
thanks to Mrs Western, many ardent professions of passion which nothing
could conquer, and many assurances of perseverance, which Mrs Western
highly encouraged, took his leave for this time.

Before we relate what now passed between Mrs Western and Sophia, it may be
proper to mention an unfortunate accident which had happened, and which
had occasioned the return of Mrs Western with so much fury, as we have
seen.

The reader then must know that the maid who at present attended on Sophia
was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived for some time
in the capacity of a comb-brush: she was a very sensible girl, and had
received the strictest instructions to watch her young lady very
carefully. These instructions, we are sorry to say, were communicated to
her by Mrs Honour, into whose favour Lady Bellaston had now so ingratiated
herself, that the violent affection which the good waiting-woman had
formerly borne to Sophia was entirely obliterated by that great attachment
which she had to her new mistress.

Now, when Mrs Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the name of the
girl), returning to her young lady, found her very attentively engaged in
reading a long letter, and the visible emotions which she betrayed on that
occasion might have well accounted for some suspicions which the girl
entertained; but indeed they had yet a stronger foundation, for she had
overheard the whole scene which passed between Sophia and Mrs Miller.

Mrs Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who, after
receiving many commendations and some rewards for her fidelity, was
ordered, that, if the woman who brought the letter came again, she should
introduce her to Mrs Western herself.

Unluckily, Mrs Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was engaged
with his lordship. Betty, according to order, sent her directly to the
aunt; who, being mistress of so many circumstances relating to what had
past the day before, easily imposed upon the poor woman to believe that
Sophia had communicated the whole affair; and so pumped everything out of
her which she knew relating to the letter and relating to Jones.

This poor creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She was one
of that order of mortals who are apt to believe everything which is said
to them; to whom nature hath neither indulged the offensive nor defensive
weapons of deceit, and who are consequently liable to be imposed upon by
any one who will only be at the expense of a little falshood for that
purpose. Mrs Western, having drained Mrs Miller of all she knew, which,
indeed, was but little, but which was sufficient to make the aunt suspect
a great deal, dismissed her with assurances that Sophia would not see her,
that she would send no answer to the letter, nor ever receive another; nor
did she suffer her to depart without a handsome lecture on the merits of
an office to which she could afford no better name than that of procuress.—This
discovery had greatly discomposed her temper, when, coming into the
apartment next to that in which the lovers were, she overheard Sophia very
warmly protesting against his lordship’s addresses. At which the rage
already kindled burst forth, and she rushed in upon her niece in a most
furious manner, as we have already described, together with what past at
that time till his lordship’s departure.

No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone than Mrs Western returned to Sophia, whom
she upbraided in the most bitter terms for the ill use she had made of the
confidence reposed in her; and for her treachery in conversing with a man
with whom she had offered but the day before to bind herself in the most
solemn oath never more to have any conversation. Sophia protested she had
maintained no such conversation. “How, how! Miss Western,”
said the aunt; “will you deny your receiving a letter from him
yesterday?” “A letter, madam!” answered Sophia, somewhat
surprized. “It is not very well bred, miss,” replies the aunt,
“to repeat my words. I say a letter, and I insist upon your showing
it me immediately.” “I scorn a lie, madam,” said Sophia;
“I did receive a letter, but it was without my desire, and, indeed,
I may say, against my consent.” “Indeed, indeed, miss,”
cries the aunt, “you ought to be ashamed of owning you had received
it at all; but where is the letter? for I will see it.”

To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she returned an
answer; and at last only excused herself by declaring she had not the
letter in her pocket, which was, indeed, true; upon which her aunt, losing
all manner of patience, asked her niece this short question, whether she
would resolve to marry Lord Fellamar, or no? to which she received the
strongest negative. Mrs Western then replied with an oath, or something
very like one, that she would early the next morning deliver her back into
her father’s hand.

Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following manner:—“Why,
madam, must I of necessity be forced to marry at all? Consider how cruel
you would have thought it in your own case, and how much kinder your
parents were in leaving you to your liberty. What have I done to forfeit
this liberty? I will never marry contrary to my father’s consent, nor
without asking yours——And when I ask the consent of either
improperly, it will be then time enough to force some other marriage upon
me.” “Can I bear to hear this,” cries Mrs Western,
“from a girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her pocket?”
“I have no such letter, I promise you,” answered Sophia;
“and, if he be a murderer, he will soon be in no condition to give
you any further disturbance.” “How, Miss Western!” said
the aunt, “have you the assurance to speak of him in this manner; to
own your affection for such a villain to my face?” “Sure,
madam,” said Sophia, “you put a very strange construction on
my words.” “Indeed, Miss Western,” cries the lady,
“I shall not bear this usage; you have learnt of your father this
manner of treating me; he hath taught you to give me the lie. He hath
totally ruined you by this false system of education; and, please heaven,
he shall have the comfort of its fruits; for once more I declare to you,
that to-morrow morning I will carry you back. I will withdraw all my
forces from the field, and remain henceforth, like the wise king of
Prussia, in a state of perfect neutrality. You are both too wise to be
regulated by my measures; so prepare yourself, for to-morrow morning you
shall evacuate this house.”

Sophia remonstrated all she could; but her aunt was deaf to all she said.
In this resolution therefore we must at present leave her, as there seems
to be no hopes of bringing her to change it.

Chapter ix. — What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.

Mr Jones passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself, unless when
relieved by the company of Partridge, before Mr Nightingale returned; not
that this worthy young man had deserted or forgot his friend; for, indeed,
he had been much the greatest part of the time employed in his service.

He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the
beginning of the unfortunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a
man-of-war which then lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went in
search of this crew, where he was informed that the men he sought after
were all gone ashore. He then traced them from place to place, till at
last he found two of them drinking together, with a third person, at a
hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.

Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was in
the room when he came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale, taking
Jones by the hand, cried, “Come, my brave friend, be not too much
dejected at what I am going to tell you——I am sorry I am the
messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to tell you.” “I
guess already what that bad news is,” cries Jones. “The poor
gentleman then is dead.”—“I hope not,” answered
Nightingale. “He was alive this morning; though I will not flatter
you; I fear, from the accounts I could get, that his wound is mortal. But
if the affair be exactly as you told it, your own remorse would be all you
would have reason to apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me, my
dear Tom, if I entreat you to make the worst of your story to your
friends. If you disguise anything to us, you will only be an enemy to
yourself.”

“What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you,” said
Jones, “to stab me with so cruel a suspicion?” “Have
patience,” cries Nightingale, “and I will tell you all. After
the most diligent enquiry I could make, I at last met with two of the
fellows who were present at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say,
they do not relate the story so much in your favour as you yourself have
told it.” “Why, what do they say?” cries Jones. “Indeed
what I am sorry to repeat, as I am afraid of the consequence of it to you.
They say that they were at too great a distance to overhear any words that
passed between you: but they both agree that the first blow was given by
you.” “Then, upon my soul,” answered Jones, “they
injure me. He not only struck me first, but struck me without the least
provocation. What should induce those villains to accuse me falsely?”
“Nay, that I cannot guess,” said Nightingale, “and if
you yourself, and I, who am so heartily your friend, cannot conceive a
reason why they should belie you, what reason will an indifferent court of
justice be able to assign why they should not believe them? I repeated the
question to them several times, and so did another gentleman who was
present, who, I believe, is a seafaring man, and who really acted a very
friendly part by you; for he begged them often to consider that there was
the life of a man in the case; and asked them over and over, if they were
certain; to which they both answered, that they were, and would abide by
their evidence upon oath. For heaven’s sake, my dear friend, recollect
yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it will be your
business to think in time of making the best of your interest. I would not
shock you; but you know, I believe, the severity of the law, whatever
verbal provocations may have been given you.” “Alas! my
friend,” cries Jones, “what interest hath such a wretch as I?
Besides, do you think I would even wish to live with the reputation of a
murderer? If I had any friends (as, alas! I have none), could I have the
confidence to solicit them to speak in the behalf of a man condemned for
the blackest crime in human nature? Believe me, I have no such hope; but I
have some reliance on a throne still greatly superior; which will, I am
certain, afford me all the protection I merit.”

He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the truth
of what he had at first asserted.

The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to incline to
credit his friend, when Mrs Miller appeared, and made a sorrowful report
of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had heard, he cried out
most heroically, “Well, my friend, I am now indifferent as to what
shall happen, at least with regard to my life; and if it be the will of
Heaven that I shall make an atonement with that for the blood I have
spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness will one day suffer my honour to be
cleared, and that the words of a dying man, at least, will be believed, so
far as to justify his character.”

A very mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends, at
which, as few readers would have been pleased to be present, so few, I
believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We will, therefore,
pass on to the entrance of the turnkey, who acquainted Jones that there
was a lady without who desired to speak with him when he was at leisure.

Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, “He knew no
lady in the world whom he could possibly expect to see there.”
However, as he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs Miller and
Mr Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders to have the
lady admitted.

If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how greatly was
he astonished when he discovered this lady to be no other than Mrs Waters!
In this astonishment then we shall leave him awhile, in order to cure the
surprize of the reader, who will likewise, probably, not a little wonder
at the arrival of this lady.

Who this Mrs Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she was, he
must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to remember that
this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr Fitzpatrick and
the other Irish gentleman, and in their company travelled to Bath.

Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr Fitzpatrick at that time
vacant, namely that of a wife: for the lady who had lately filled that
office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr Fitzpatrick
therefore, having thoroughly examined Mrs Waters on the road, found her
extremely fit for the place, which, on their arrival at Bath, he presently
conferred upon her, and she without any scruple accepted. As husband and
wife this gentleman and lady continued together all the time they stayed
at Bath, and as husband and wife they arrived together in town.

Whether Mr Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one good
thing till he had secured another, which he had at present only a prospect
of regaining; or whether Mrs Waters had so well discharged her office,
that he intended still to retain her as principal, and to make his wife
(as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not say; but certain it is,
he never mentioned his wife to her, never communicated to her the letter
given him by Mrs Western, nor ever once hinted his purpose of repossessing
his wife; much less did he ever mention the name of Jones. For, though he
intended to fight with him wherever he met him, he did not imitate those
prudent persons who think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole
family, the safest seconds on these occasions. The first account therefore
which she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he was
brought home from the tavern where his wound had been drest.

As Mr Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a story at
any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than usual, it was
some time before she discovered that the gentleman who had given him this
wound was the very same person from whom her heart had received a wound,
which, though not of a mortal kind, was yet so deep that it had left a
considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was she acquainted that Mr
Jones himself was the man who had been committed to the Gatehouse for this
supposed murder, than she took the first opportunity of committing Mr
Fitzpatrick to the care of his nurse, and hastened away to visit the
conqueror.

She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an
immediate check from the melancholy aspect of poor Jones, who started and
blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said, “Nay, I do not
wonder at your surprize; I believe you did not expect to see me; for few
gentlemen are troubled here with visits from any lady, unless a wife. You
see the power you have over me, Mr Jones. Indeed, I little thought, when
we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would have been in such a place.”
“Indeed, madam,” says Jones, “I must look upon this
visit as kind; few will follow the miserable, especially to such dismal
habitations.” “I protest, Mr Jones,” says she, “I
can hardly persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at
Upton. Why, your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe.
What can be the matter with you?” “I thought, madam,”
said Jones, “as you knew of my being here, you knew the unhappy
reason.” “Pugh!” says she, “you have pinked a man
in a duel, that’s all.” Jones exprest some indignation at this
levity, and spoke with the utmost contrition for what had happened. To
which she answered, “Well, then, sir, if you take it so much to
heart, I will relieve you; the gentleman is not dead, and, I am pretty
confident, is in no danger of dying. The surgeon, indeed, who first
dressed him was a young fellow, and seemed desirous of representing his
case to be as bad as possible, that he might have the more honour from
curing him: but the king’s surgeon hath seen him since, and says, unless
from a fever, of which there are at present no symptoms, he apprehends not
the least danger of life.” Jones shewed great satisfaction in his
countenance at this report; upon which she affirmed the truth of it,
adding, “By the most extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at
the same house; and have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you
justice, and says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the
aggressor, and that you was not in the least to blame.”

Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs Waters
brought him. He then informed her of many things which she well knew
before, as who Mr Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his resentment, &c.
He likewise told her several facts of which she was ignorant, as the
adventure of the muff, and other particulars, concealing only the name of
Sophia. He then lamented the follies and vices of which he had been
guilty; every one of which, he said, had been attended with such ill
consequences, that he should be unpardonable if he did not take warning,
and quit those vicious courses for the future. He lastly concluded with
assuring her of his resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should
happen to him.

Mrs Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects of low
spirits and confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the devil when
he was sick, and told him, “She doubted not but shortly to see him
at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then,” says she,
“I don’t question but your conscience will be safely delivered of
all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding.”

Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do her
no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember; nor are we
quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be treated with
ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the rest of this
conversation, and only observe that it ended at last with perfect
innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than of the lady;
for the former was greatly transported with the news she had brought him;
but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the penitential
behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first interview, conceived a very
different opinion of from what she now entertained of him.

Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr Nightingale was pretty
well effaced; but the dejection into which Mrs Miller had thrown him still
continued. The account she gave so well tallied with the words of Sophia
herself in her letter, that he made not the least doubt but that she had
disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had taken a fixed resolution to
abandon him. The torments this thought gave him were to be equalled only
by a piece of news which fortune had yet in store for him, and which we
shall communicate in the second chapter of the ensuing book.

BOOK XVIII.

CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.

Chapter i. — A farewel to the reader.

We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey. As we
have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages, let us behave
to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who have passed
several days in the company of each other; and who, notwithstanding any
bickerings or little animosities which may have occurred on the road,
generally make all up at last, and mount, for the last time, into their
vehicle with chearfulness and good humour; since after this one stage, it
may possibly happen to us, as it commonly happens to them, never to meet
more.

As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a little
farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good company I
have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well known that all jokes
and raillery are at this time laid aside; whatever characters any of the
passengers have for the jest-sake personated on the road are now thrown
off, and the conversation is usually plain and serious.

In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this work,
indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here lay it down.
The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to cram into this
book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous observations which I
have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented thee
from taking a nap when it was beginning to steal upon thee. In this last
book thou wilt find nothing (or at most very little) of that nature. All
will be plain narrative only; and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many
great events which this book will produce, thou wilt think the number of
pages contained in it scarce sufficient to tell the story.

And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no other) of
heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining companion to
thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in anything I have
offended, it was really without any intention. Some things, perhaps, here
said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do most solemnly declare
they were not pointed at thee or them. I question not but thou hast been
told, among other stories of me, that thou wast to travel with a very
scurrilous fellow; but whoever told thee so did me an injury. No man
detests and despises scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more
reason; for none hath ever been treated with more; and what is a very
severe fate, I have had some of the abusive writings of those very men
fathered upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves
with the utmost virulence.

All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long before
this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however short the period
may be of my own performances, they will most probably outlive their own
infirm author, and the weakly productions of his abusive contemporaries.

Chapter ii. — Containing a very tragical incident.

While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which we
left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room with
his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair standing
an end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as he would have
done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a spectre himself.

Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being somewhat
shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself change colour,
and his voice a little faultered while he asked him, What was the matter?

“I hope, sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry
with me. Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward
room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than have
heard what I have heard.” “Why, what is the matter?”
said Jones. “The matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered
Partridge, “was that woman who is just gone out the woman who was
with you at Upton?” “She was, Partridge,” cried Jones.
“And did you really, sir, go to bed with that woman?” said he,
trembling.—“I am afraid what past between us is no secret,”
said Jones.—“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven’s sake, sir,
answer me,” cries Partridge. “You know I did,” cries
Jones. “Why then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive
you,” cries Partridge; “but as sure as I stand here alive, you
have been a-bed with your own mother.”

Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of horror than
Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck dumb with
amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his words
found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, “How! how! what’s
this you tell me?” “Nay, sir,” cries Partridge, “I
have not breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
certainly true.—That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that
time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived to
bring about this wickedness.”

“Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with
me till she hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I
am myself the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which
have befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice. What
thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses! And
was Mrs Waters, then—but why do I ask? for thou must certainly know
her—If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou hast any pity,
let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman back again to me. O good
Heavens! incest——with a mother! To what am I reserved!”
He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of grief and
despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him; but at last,
having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a little to himself;
and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would find this wretched
woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman was lodged, he
despatched him in quest of her.

If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the scene
at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many strange
accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview between Partridge
and Mrs Waters, when she spent a whole day there with Mr Jones. Instances
of this kind we may frequently observe in life, where the greatest events
are produced by a nice train of little circumstances; and more than one
example of this may be discovered by the accurate eye, in this our
history.

After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned back to
his master, without having seen Mrs Waters. Jones, who was in a state of
desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he brought him his
account. He was not long, however, in this condition before he received
the following letter:

Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold it,
and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties). Partridge took
it up, and having received consent by silence, read it likewise; nor had
it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil, and not the pen, should
describe the horrors which appeared in both their countenances. While they
both remained speechless the turnkey entered the room, and, without taking
any notice of what sufficiently discovered itself in the faces of them
both, acquainted Jones that a man without desired to speak with him. This
person was presently introduced, and was no other than Black George.

As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to the
turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the face of
Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened, which was
reported in the very worst light in Mr Western’s family; he concluded,
therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr Jones was in a fair
way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave him much uneasiness;
for George was of a compassionate disposition, and notwithstanding a small
breach of friendship which he had been over-tempted to commit, was, in the
main, not insensible of the obligations he had formerly received from Mr
Jones.

The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the present
sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his misfortunes, and begged
him to consider if he could be of any manner of service. “Perhaps,
sir,” said he, “you may want a little matter of money upon
this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is heartily at your
service.”

Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many thanks for
the kind offer he had made; but answered, “He had not the least want
of that kind.” Upon which George began to press his services more
eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with assurances that he
wanted nothing which was in the power of any man living to give. “Come,
come, my good master,” answered George, “do not take the
matter so much to heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to be
sure you an’t the first gentleman who hath killed a man, and yet come off.”
“You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the
gentleman is not dead, nor like to die. Don’t disturb my master, at
present, for he is troubled about a matter in which it is not in your
power to do him any good.” “You don’t know what I may be able
to do, Mr Partridge,” answered George; “if his concern is
about my young lady, I have some news to tell my master.” “What
do you say, Mr George?” cried Jones. “Hath anything lately
happened in which my Sophia is concerned? My Sophia! how dares such a
wretch as I mention her so profanely.” “I hope she will be
yours yet,” answered George. “Why yes, sir, I have something
to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia home,
and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very
right of it; but my master he hath been in a vast big passion, and so was
Madam Western, and I heard her say, as she went out of doors into her
chair, that she would never set her foot in master’s house again. I don’t
know what’s the matter, not I, but everything was very quiet when I came
out; but Robin, who waited at supper, said he had never seen the squire
for a long while in such good humour with young madam; that he kissed her
several times, and swore she should be her own mistress, and he never
would think of confining her any more. I thought this news would please
you, and so I slipped out, though it was so late, to inform you of it.”
Mr Jones assured George that it did greatly please him; for though he
should never more presume to lift his eyes toward that incomparable
creature, nothing could so much relieve his misery as the satisfaction he
should always have in hearing of her welfare.

The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not important
enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore, forgive us this
abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this great good-will of
the squire towards his daughter was brought about.

Mrs Western, on her first arrival at her brother’s lodging, began to set
forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to the family by
the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had absolutely refused; in
which refusal, when the squire took the part of his daughter, she fell
immediately into the most violent passion, and so irritated and provoked
the squire, that neither his patience nor his prudence could bear it any
longer; upon which there ensued between them both so warm a bout at
altercation, that perhaps the regions of Billingsgate never equalled it.
In the heat of this scolding Mrs Western departed, and had consequently no
leisure to acquaint her brother with the letter which Sophia received,
which might have possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I
believe it never once occurred to her memory at this time.

When Mrs Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as well
indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the compliment which
her father had made her, in taking her part against her aunt, by taking
his likewise against the lady. This was the first time of her so doing,
and it was in the highest degree acceptable to the squire. Again, he
remembered that Mr Allworthy had insisted on an entire relinquishment of
all violent means; and, indeed, as he made no doubt but that Jones would
be hanged, he did not in the least question succeeding with his daughter
by fair means; he now, therefore, once more gave a loose to his natural
fondness for her, which had such an effect on the dutiful, grateful,
tender, and affectionate heart of Sophia, that had her honour, given to
Jones, and something else, perhaps, in which he was concerned, been
removed, I much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed herself to a
man she did not like, to have obliged her father. She promised him she
would make it the whole business of her life to oblige him, and would
never marry any man against his consent; which brought the old man so near
to his highest happiness, that he was resolved to take the other step, and
went to bed completely drunk.

Chapter iii. — Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange
discovery that he made on that occasion.

The morning after these things had happened, Mr Allworthy went, according
to his promise, to visit old Nightingale, with whom his authority was so
great, that, after having sat with him three hours, he at last prevailed
with him to consent to see his son.

Here an accident happened of a very extraordinary kind; one indeed of
those strange chances whence very good and grave men have concluded that
Providence often interposes in the discovery of the most secret villany,
in order to caution men from quitting the paths of honesty, however warily
they tread in those of vice.

Mr Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr Nightingale’s, saw Black George; he
took no notice of him, nor did Black George imagine he had perceived him.

However, when their conversation on the principal point was over,
Allworthy asked Nightingale, Whether he knew one George Seagrim, and upon
what business he came to his house? “Yes,” answered
Nightingale, “I know him very well, and a most extraordinary fellow
he is, who, in these days, hath been able to hoard up £500 from renting a
very small estate of £30 a year.” “And is this the story which
he hath told you?” cries Allworthy. “Nay, it is true, I
promise you,” said Nightingale, “for I have the money now in
my own hands, in five bank-bills, which I am to lay out either in a
mortgage, or in some purchase in the north of England.” The
bank-bills were no sooner produced at Allworthy’s desire than he blessed
himself at the strangeness of the discovery. He presently told Nightingale
that these bank-bills were formerly his, and then acquainted him with the
whole affair. As there are no men who complain more of the frauds of
business than highwaymen, gamesters, and other thieves of that kind, so
there are none who so bitterly exclaim against the frauds of gamesters,
&c., as usurers, brokers, and other thieves of this kind; whether it
be that the one way of cheating is a discountenance or reflection upon the
other, or that money, which is the common mistress of all cheats, makes
them regard each other in the light of rivals; but Nightingale no sooner
heard the story than he exclaimed against the fellow in terms much severer
than the justice and honesty of Allworthy had bestowed on him.

Allworthy desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the secret till
he should hear farther from him; and, if he should in the meantime see the
fellow, that he would not take the least notice to him of the discovery
which he had made. He then returned to his lodgings, where he found Mrs
Miller in a very dejected condition, on account of the information she had
received from her son-in-law. Mr Allworthy, with great chearfulness, told
her that he had much good news to communicate; and, with little further
preface, acquainted her that he had brought Mr Nightingale to consent to
see his son, and did not in the least doubt to effect a perfect
reconciliation between them; though he found the father more sowered by
another accident of the same kind which had happened in his family. He
then mentioned the running away of the uncle’s daughter, which he had been
told by the old gentleman, and which Mrs Miller and her son-in-law did not
yet know.

The reader may suppose Mrs Miller received this account with great
thankfulness, and no less pleasure; but so uncommon was her friendship to
Jones, that I am not certain whether the uneasiness she suffered for his
sake did not overbalance her satisfaction at hearing a piece of news
tending so much to the happiness of her own family; nor whether even this
very news, as it reminded her of the obligations she had to Jones, did not
hurt as well as please her; when her grateful heart said to her, “While
my own family is happy, how miserable is the poor creature to whose
generosity we owe the beginning of all this happiness!”

Allworthy, having left her a little while to chew the cud (if I may use
that expression) on these first tidings, told her he had still something
more to impart, which he believed would give her pleasure. “I think,”
said he, “I have discovered a pretty considerable treasure belonging
to the young gentleman, your friend; but perhaps, indeed, his present
situation may be such that it will be of no service to him.” The
latter part of the speech gave Mrs Miller to understand who was meant, and
she answered with a sigh, “I hope not, sir.” “I hope so
too,” cries Allworthy, “with all my heart; but my nephew told
me this morning he had heard a very bad account of the affair.”——“Good
Heaven! sir,” said she—“Well, I must not speak, and yet
it is certainly very hard to be obliged to hold one’s tongue when one
hears.”—“Madam,” said Allworthy, “you may
say whatever you please, you know me too well to think I have a prejudice
against any one; and as for that young man, I assure you I should be
heartily pleased to find he could acquit himself of everything, and
particularly of this sad affair. You can testify the affection I have
formerly borne him. The world, I know, censured me for loving him so much.
I did not withdraw that affection from him without thinking I had the
justest cause. Believe me, Mrs Miller, I should be glad to find I have
been mistaken.” Mrs Miller was going eagerly to reply, when a
servant acquainted her that a gentleman without desired to speak with her
immediately. Allworthy then enquired for his nephew, and was told that he
had been for some time in his room with the gentleman who used to come to
him, and whom Mr Allworthy guessing rightly to be Mr Dowling, he desired
presently to speak with him.

When Dowling attended, Allworthy put the case of the bank-notes to him,
without mentioning any name, and asked in what manner such a person might
be punished. To which Dowling answered, “He thought he might be
indicted on the Black Act; but said, as it was a matter of some nicety, it
would be proper to go to counsel. He said he was to attend counsel
presently upon an affair of Mr Western’s, and if Mr Allworthy pleased he
would lay the case before them.” This was agreed to; and then Mrs
Miller, opening the door, cried, “I ask pardon, I did not know you
had company;” but Allworthy desired her to come in, saying he had
finished his business. Upon which Mr Dowling withdrew, and Mrs Miller
introduced Mr Nightingale the younger, to return thanks for the great
kindness done him by Allworthy: but she had scarce patience to let the
young gentleman finish his speech before she interrupted him, saying,
“O sir! Mr Nightingale brings great news about poor Mr Jones: he
hath been to see the wounded gentleman, who is out of all danger of death,
and, what is more, declares he fell upon poor Mr Jones himself, and beat
him. I am sure, sir, you would not have Mr Jones be a coward. If I was a
man myself, I am sure, if any man was to strike me, I should draw my
sword. Do pray, my dear, tell Mr Allworthy, tell him all yourself.”
Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs Miller had said; and concluded with
many handsome things of Jones, who was, he said, one of the best-natured
fellows in the world, and not in the least inclined to be quarrelsome.
Here Nightingale was going to cease, when Mrs Miller again begged him to
relate all the many dutiful expressions he had heard him make use of
towards Mr Allworthy. “To say the utmost good of Mr Allworthy,”
cries Nightingale, “is doing no more than strict justice, and can
have no merit in it: but indeed, I must say, no man can be more sensible
of the obligations he hath to so good a man than is poor Jones. Indeed,
sir, I am convinced the weight of your displeasure is the heaviest burthen
he lies under. He hath often lamented it to me, and hath as often
protested in the most solemn manner he hath never been intentionally
guilty of any offence towards you; nay, he hath sworn he would rather die
a thousand deaths than he would have his conscience upbraid him with one
disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought towards you. But I ask
pardon, sir, I am afraid I presume to intermeddle too far in so tender a
point.” “You have spoke no more than what a Christian ought,”
cries Mrs Miller. “Indeed, Mr Nightingale,” answered
Allworthy, “I applaud your generous friendship, and I wish he may
merit it of you. I confess I am glad to hear the report you bring from
this unfortunate gentleman; and, if that matter should turn out to be as
you represent it (and, indeed, I doubt nothing of what you say), I may,
perhaps, in time, be brought to think better than lately I have of this
young man; for this good gentlewoman here, nay, all who know me, can
witness that I loved him as dearly as if he had been my own son. Indeed, I
have considered him as a child sent by fortune to my care. I still
remember the innocent, the helpless situation in which I found him. I feel
the tender pressure of his little hands at this moment. He was my darling,
indeed he was.” At which words he ceased, and the tears stood in his
eyes.

As the answer which Mrs Miller made may lead us into fresh matters, we
will here stop to account for the visible alteration in Mr Allworthy’s
mind, and the abatement of his anger to Jones. Revolutions of this kind,
it is true, do frequently occur in histories and dramatic writers, for no
other reason than because the history or play draws to a conclusion, and
are justified by authority of authors; yet, though we insist upon as much
authority as any author whatever, we shall use this power very sparingly,
and never but when we are driven to it by necessity, which we do not at
present foresee will happen in this work.

This alteration then in the mind of Mr Allworthy was occasioned by a
letter he had just received from Mr Square, and which we shall give the
reader in the beginning of the next chapter.

Chapter iv. — Containing two letters in very different stiles.

The reader will, after this, scarce wonder at the revolution so visibly
appearing in Mr Allworthy, notwithstanding he received from Thwackum, by
the same post, another letter of a very different kind, which we shall
here add, as it may possibly be the last time we shall have occasion to
mention the name of that gentleman.

This was the first time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative stile to
Allworthy, and of this he had afterwards sufficient reason to repent, as
in the case of those who mistake the highest degree of goodness for the
lowest degree of weakness. Allworthy had indeed never liked this man. He
knew him to be proud and ill-natured; he also knew that his divinity
itself was tinctured with his temper, and such as in many respects he
himself did by no means approve; but he was at the same time an excellent
scholar, and most indefatigable in teaching the two lads. Add to this, the
strict severity of his life and manners, an unimpeached honesty, and a
most devout attachment to religion. So that, upon the whole, though
Allworthy did not esteem nor love the man, yet he could never bring
himself to part with a tutor to the boys, who was, both by learning and
industry, extremely well qualified for his office; and he hoped, that as
they were bred up in his own house, and under his own eye, he should be
able to correct whatever was wrong in Thwackum’s instructions.

Chapter v. — In which the history is continued.

Mr Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender ideas
concerning Jones, which had brought tears into the good man’s eyes. This
Mrs Miller observing, said, “Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to this
poor young man is known, notwithstanding all your care to conceal it; but
there is not a single syllable of truth in what those villains said. Mr
Nightingale hath now discovered the whole matter. It seems these fellows
were employed by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr Jones, to have pressed
him on board a ship.—I assure them I don’t know who they will press
next. Mr Nightingale here hath seen the officer himself, who is a very
pretty gentleman, and hath told him all, and is very sorry for what he
undertook, which he would never have done, had he known Mr Jones to have
been a gentleman; but he was told that he was a common strolling vagabond.”

Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to every word
she said. “Yes, sir,” answered she, “I believe you are.——It
is a very different story, I believe, from what those fellows told this
lawyer.”

“What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?” said Allworthy.
“Nay, nay,” said she, “this is so like you to deny your
own goodness: but Mr Nightingale here saw him.” “Saw whom,
madam?” answered he. “Why, your lawyer, sir,” said she,
“that you so kindly sent to enquire into the affair.” “I
am still in the dark, upon my honour,” said Allworthy. “Why
then do you tell him, my dear sir,” cries she. “Indeed, sir,”
said Nightingale, “I did see that very lawyer who went from you when
I came into the room, at an alehouse in Aldersgate, in company with two of
the fellows who were employed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr Jones, and who
were by that means present at the unhappy rencounter between him and Mr
Fitzpatrick.” “I own, sir,” said Mrs Miller, “when
I saw this gentleman come into the room to you, I told Mr Nightingale that
I apprehended you had sent him thither to inquire into the affair.”
Allworthy shewed marks of astonishment in his countenance at this news,
and was indeed for two or three minutes struck dumb by it. At last,
addressing himself to Mr Nightingale, he said, “I must confess
myself, sir, more surprized at what you tell me than I have ever been
before at anything in my whole life. Are you certain this was the
gentleman?” “I am most certain,” answered Nightingale.
“At Aldersgate?” cries Allworthy. “And was you in
company with this lawyer and the two fellows?”—“I was,
sir,” said the other, “very near half an hour.” “Well,
sir,” said Allworthy, “and in what manner did the lawyer
behave? did you hear all that past between him and the fellows?”
“No, sir,” answered Nightingale, “they had been together
before I came.—In my presence the lawyer said little; but, after I
had several times examined the fellows, who persisted in a story directly
contrary to what I had heard from Mr Jones, and which I find by Mr
Fitzpatrick was a rank falshood, the lawyer then desired the fellows to
say nothing but what was the truth, and seemed to speak so much in favour
of Mr Jones, that, when I saw the same person with you, I concluded your
goodness had prompted you to send him thither.”—“And did
you not send him thither?” says Mrs Miller.—“Indeed I
did not,” answered Allworthy; “nor did I know he had gone on
such an errand till this moment.”—“I see it all!”
said Mrs Miller, “upon my soul, I see it all! No wonder they have
been closeted so close lately. Son Nightingale, let me beg you run for
these fellows immediately——find them out if they are
above-ground. I will go myself”—“Dear madam,” said
Allworthy, “be patient, and do me the favour to send a servant
upstairs to call Mr Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if not, Mr
Blifil.” Mrs Miller went out muttering something to herself, and
presently returned with an answer, “That Mr Dowling was gone; but
that the t’other,” as she called him, “was coming.”

Allworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose spirits
were all up in arms in the cause of her friend. He was not however without
some suspicions which were near akin to hers. When Blifil came into the
room, he asked him with a very serious countenance, and with a less
friendly look than he had ever before given him, “Whether he knew
anything of Mr Dowling’s having seen any of the persons who were present
at the duel between Jones and another gentleman?”

There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by surprize on a
man whose business it is to conceal truth, or to defend falshood. For
which reason those worthy personages, whose noble office it is to save the
lives of their fellow-creatures at the Old Bailey, take the utmost care,
by frequent previous examination, to divine every question which may be
asked their clients on the day of tryal, that they may be supplyed with
proper and ready answers, which the most fertile invention cannot supply
in an instant. Besides, the sudden and violent impulse on the blood,
occasioned by these surprizes, causes frequently such an alteration in the
countenance, that the man is obliged to give evidence against himself. And
such indeed were the alterations which the countenance of Blifil underwent
from this sudden question, that we can scarce blame the eagerness of Mrs
Miller, who immediately cryed out, “Guilty, upon my honour! guilty,
upon my soul!”

Mr Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and then turning to
Blifil, who seemed sinking into the earth, he said, “Why do you
hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You certainly must have employed
him; for he would not, of his own accord, I believe, have undertaken such
an errand, and especially without acquainting me.”

Blifil then answered, “I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence,
yet may I hope your pardon?”—“My pardon,” said
Allworthy, very angrily.—“Nay, sir,” answered Blifil,
“I knew you would be offended; yet surely my dear uncle will forgive
the effects of the most amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for those
who do not deserve it, I own is a crime; and yet it is a crime from which
you yourself are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in
more than one instance to this very person; and I will own I did send Mr
Dowling, not on a vain and fruitless enquiry, but to discover the
witnesses, and to endeavour to soften their evidence. This, sir, is the
truth; which, though I intended to conceal from you, I will not deny.”

“I confess,” said Nightingale, “this is the light in
which it appeared to me from the gentleman’s behaviour.”

“Now, madam,” said Allworthy, “I believe you will once
in your life own you have entertained a wrong suspicion, and are not so
angry with my nephew as you was.”

Mrs Miller was silent; for, though she could not so hastily be pleased
with Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the ruin of Jones, yet in
this particular instance he had imposed upon her as well as upon the rest;
so entirely had the devil stood his friend. And, indeed, I look upon the
vulgar observation, “That the devil often deserts his friends, and
leaves them in the lurch,” to be a great abuse on that gentleman’s
character. Perhaps he may sometimes desert those who are only his cup
acquaintance; or who, at most, are but half his; but he generally stands
by those who are thoroughly his servants, and helps them off in all
extremities, till their bargain expires.

As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is more
perfectly established by recovery from some diseases; so anger, when
removed, often gives new life to affection. This was the case of Mr
Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped off the greater suspicion, the lesser,
which had been raised by Square’s letter, sunk of course, and was
forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was greatly offended, bore alone all
the reflections which Square had cast on the enemies of Jones.

As for that young man, the resentment of Mr Allworthy began more and more
to abate towards him. He told Blifil, “He did not only forgive the
extraordinary efforts of his good-nature, but would give him the pleasure
of following his example.” Then, turning to Mrs Miller with a smile
which would have become an angel, he cryed, “What say you, madam?
shall we take a hackney-coach, and all of us together pay a visit to your
friend? I promise you it is not the first visit I have made in a prison.”

Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy woman; but
they must have a great deal of good-nature, and be well acquainted with
friendship, who can feel what she felt on this occasion. Few, I hope, are
capable of feeling what now passed in the mind of Blifil; but those who
are will acknowledge that it was impossible for him to raise any objection
to this visit. Fortune, however, or the gentleman lately mentioned above,
stood his friend, and prevented his undergoing so great a shock; for at
the very instant when the coach was sent for, Partridge arrived, and,
having called Mrs Miller from the company, acquainted her with the
dreadful accident lately come to light; and hearing Mr Allworthy’s
intention, begged her to find some means of stopping him: “For,”
says he, “the matter must at all hazards be kept a secret from him;
and if he should now go, he will find Mr Jones and his mother, who arrived
just as I left him, lamenting over one another the horrid crime they have
ignorantly committed.”

The poor woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at his dreadful
news, was never less capable of invention than at present. However, as
women are much readier at this than men, she bethought herself of an
excuse, and, returning to Allworthy, said, “I am sure, sir, you will
be surprized at hearing any objection from me to the kind proposal you
just now made; and yet I am afraid of the consequence of it, if carried
immediately into execution. You must imagine, sir, that all the calamities
which have lately befallen this poor young fellow must have thrown him
into the lowest dejection of spirits; and now, sir, should we all on a
sudden fling him into such a violent fit of joy, as I know your presence
will occasion, it may, I am afraid, produce some fatal mischief,
especially as his servant, who is without, tells me he is very far from
being well.”

“Is his servant without?” cries Allworthy; “pray call
him hither. I will ask him some questions concerning his master.”

Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr Allworthy; but was at
length persuaded, after Mrs Miller, who had often heard his whole story
from his own mouth, had promised to introduce him.

Allworthy recollected Partridge the moment he came into the room, though
many years had passed since he had seen him. Mrs Miller, therefore, might
have spared here a formal oration, in which, indeed, she was something
prolix; for the reader, I believe, may have observed already that the good
woman, among other things, had a tongue always ready for the service of
her friends.

“And are you,” said Allworthy to Partridge, “the servant
of Mr Jones?” “I can’t say, sir,” answered he, “that
I am regularly a servant, but I live with him, an’t please your honour, at
present. Non sum qualis eram, as your honour very well knows.”

Mr Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning Jones, as to his
health, and other matters; to all which Partridge answered, without having
the least regard to what was, but considered only what he would have
things appear; for a strict adherence to truth was not among the articles
of this honest fellow’s morality or his religion.

During this dialogue Mr Nightingale took his leave, and presently after
Mrs Miller left the room, when Allworthy likewise despatched Blifil; for
he imagined that Partridge when alone with him would be more explicit than
before company. They were no sooner left in private together than
Allworthy began, as in the following chapter.

Chapter vi. — In which the history is farther continued

“Sure, friend,” said the good man, “you are the
strangest of all human beings. Not only to have suffered as you have
formerly for obstinately persisting in a falshood, but to persist in it
thus to the last, and to pass thus upon the world for a servant of your
own son! What interest can you have in all this? What can be your motive?”

“I see, sir,” said Partridge, falling down upon his knees,
“that your honour is prepossessed against me, and resolved not to
believe anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my protestations?
but yet there is one above who knows that I am not the father of this
young man.”

“How!” said Allworthy, “will you yet deny what you was
formerly convicted of upon such unanswerable, such manifest evidence? Nay,
what a confirmation is your being now found with this very man, of all
which twenty years ago appeared against you! I thought you had left the
country! nay, I thought you had been long since dead.—In what manner
did you know anything of this young man? Where did you meet with him,
unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not deny this; for I
promise you it will greatly raise your son in my opinion, to find that he
hath such a sense of filial duty as privately to support his father for so
many years.”

“If your honour will have patience to hear me,” said
Partridge, “I will tell you all.”—Being bid go on, he
proceeded thus: “When your honour conceived that displeasure against
me, it ended in my ruin soon after; for I lost my little school; and the
minister, thinking I suppose it would be agreeable to your honour, turned
me out from the office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust to but the
barber’s shop, which, in a country place like that, is a poor livelihood;
and when my wife died (for till that time I received a pension of £12 a
year from an unknown hand, which indeed I believe was your honour’s own,
for nobody that ever I heard of doth these things besides)—but, as I
was saying, when she died, this pension forsook me; so that now, as I owed
two or three small debts, which began to be troublesome to me,
particularly one[*] which an attorney brought up by law-charges from 15s.
to near £30, and as I found all my usual means of living had forsook me, I
packed up my little all as well as I could, and went off.

“The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the
service of a gentleman belonging to the law, and one of the best gentlemen
that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know a thousand
good and charitable acts which he did while I staid with him; and I have
known him often refuse business because it was paultry and oppressive.”
“You need not be so particular,” said Allworthy; “I know
this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour to his
profession.”—“Well, sir,” continued Partridge,
“from hence I removed to Lymington, where I was above three years in
the service of another lawyer, who was likewise a very good sort of a man,
and to be sure one of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the
end of the three years I set up a little school, and was likely to do well
again, had it not been for a most unlucky accident. Here I kept a pig; and
one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig broke out, and did a
trespass, I think they call it, in a garden belonging to one of my
neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man, and employed a lawyer, one—one—I
can’t think of his name; but he sent for a writ against me, and had me to
size. When I came there, Lord have mercy upon me—to hear what the
counsellors said! There was one that told my lord a parcel of the
confoundedest lies about me; he said that I used to drive my hogs into
other folk’s gardens, and a great deal more; and at last he said, he hoped
I had at last brought my hogs to a fair market. To be sure, one would have
thought that, instead of being owner only of one poor little pig, I had
been the greatest hog-merchant in England. Well—” “Pray,”
said Allworthy, “do not be so particular, I have heard nothing of
your son yet.” “O it was a great many years,” answered
Partridge, “before I saw my son, as you are pleased to call him.——I
went over to Ireland after this, and taught school at Cork (for that one
suit ruined me again, and I lay seven years in Winchester jail).”—“Well,”
said Allworthy, “pass that over till your return to England.”—“Then,
sir,” said he, “it was about half a year ago that I landed at
Bristol, where I staid some time, and not finding it do there, and hearing
of a place between that and Gloucester where the barber was just dead, I
went thither, and there I had been about two months when Mr Jones came
thither.” He then gave Allworthy a very particular account of their
first meeting, and of everything, as well as he could remember, which had
happened from that day to this; frequently interlarding his story with
panegyrics on Jones, and not forgetting to insinuate the great love and
respect which he had for Allworthy. He concluded with saying, “Now,
sir, I have told your honour the whole truth.” And then repeated a
most solemn protestation, “That he was no more the father of Jones
than of the Pope of Rome;” and imprecated the most bitter curses on
his head, if he did not speak truth.

“What am I to think of this matter?” cries Allworthy. “For
what purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which I think it would be
rather your interest to own?” “Nay, sir,” answered
Partridge (for he could hold no longer), “if your honour will not
believe me, you are like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had
mistaken the mother of this young man, as well as you have his father.”—And
now being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in
his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he had
a little before expressed such desire to Mrs Miller to conceal from him.

Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge
himself had been while he related it. “Good heavens!” says he,
“in what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve men!
How much beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness sometimes
carried!” He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs Waters came
hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw her than he
cried, “Here, sir, here is the very woman herself. This is the
unfortunate mother of Mr Jones. I am sure she will acquit me before your
honour. Pray, madam——”

Mrs Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and almost
without taking any notice of him, advanced to Mr Allworthy. “I
believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that you
do not recollect me.” “Indeed,” answered Allworthy,
“you are so very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this
man already acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately
called you to my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business
which brings you to me?” Allworthy spoke this with great reserve;
for the reader may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct
of this lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what
Partridge had now delivered.

Mrs Waters answered—“Indeed, sir, I have very particular
business with you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must
desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure you
what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance.”

Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged the
lady to satisfy Mr Allworthy that he was perfectly innocent. To which she
answered, “You need be under no apprehension, sir; I shall satisfy
Mr Allworthy very perfectly of that matter.”

Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Waters
which is written in the next chapter.

Chapter vii. — Continuation of the history.

Mrs Waters remaining a few moments silent, Mr Allworthy could not refrain
from saying, “I am sorry, madam, to perceive, by what I have since
heard, that you have made so very ill a use——” “Mr
Allworthy,” says she, interrupting him, “I know I have faults,
but ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never can nor shall forget
your goodness, which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased to
wave all upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an affair to
communicate to you concerning this young man, to whom you have given my
maiden name of Jones.”

“Have I then,” said Allworthy, “ignorantly punished an
innocent man, in the person of him who hath just left us? Was he not the
father of the child?” “Indeed he was not,” said Mrs
Waters. “You may be pleased to remember, sir, I formerly told you,
you should one day know; and I acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a
cruel neglect, in not having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little
knew how necessary it was.” “Well, madam,” said
Allworthy, “be pleased to proceed.” “You must remember,
sir,” said she, “a young fellow, whose name was Summer.”
“Very well,” cries Allworthy, “he was the son of a
clergyman of great learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest
friendship.” “So it appeared, sir,” answered she;
“for I believe you bred the young man up, and maintained him at the
university; where, I think, he had finished his studies, when he came to
reside at your house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon;
for, besides the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had
so much wit and good breeding.” “Poor gentleman,” said
Allworthy, “he was indeed untimely snatched away; and little did I
think he had any sins of this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive
you are going to tell me he was the father of your child.”

“Indeed, sir,” answered she, “he was not.” “How!”
said Allworthy, “to what then tends all this preface?” “To
a story,” said she, “which I am concerned falls to my lot to
unfold to you. O, sir! prepare to hear something which will surprize you,
will grieve you.” “Speak,” said Allworthy, “I am
conscious of no crime, and cannot be afraid to hear.” “Sir,”
said she, “that Mr Summer, the son of your friend, educated at your
expense, who, after living a year in the house as if he had been your own
son, died there of the small-pox, was tenderly lamented by you, and buried
as if he had been your own; that Summer, sir, was the father of this
child.” “How!” said Allworthy; “you contradict
yourself.” “That I do not,” answered she; “he was
indeed the father of this child, but not by me.” “Take care,
madam,” said Allworthy, “do not, to shun the imputation of any
crime, be guilty of falshood. Remember there is One from whom you can
conceal nothing, and before whose tribunal falshood will only aggravate
your guilt.” “Indeed, sir,” says she, “I am not
his mother; nor would I now think myself so for the world.” “I
know your reason,” said Allworthy, “and shall rejoice as much
as you to find it otherwise; yet you must remember, you yourself confest
it before me.” “So far what I confest,” said she,
“was true, that these hands conveyed the infant to your bed;
conveyed it thither at the command of its mother; at her commands I
afterwards owned it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly
rewarded, both for my secrecy and my shame.” “Who could this
woman be?” said Allworthy. “Indeed, I tremble to name her,”
answered Mrs Waters. “By all this preparation I am to guess that she
was a relation of mine,” cried he. “Indeed she was a near one.”
At which words Allworthy started, and she continued—“You had a
sister, sir.” “A sister!” repeated he, looking aghast.—“As
there is truth in heaven,” cries she, “your sister was the
mother of that child you found between your sheets.” “Can it
be possible?” cries he, “Good heavens!” “Have
patience, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “and I will unfold to you the
whole story. Just after your departure for London, Miss Bridget came one
day to the house of my mother. She was pleased to say she had heard an
extraordinary character of me, for my learning and superior understanding
to all the young women there, so she was pleased to say. She then bid me
come to her to the great house; where, when I attended, she employed me to
read to her. She expressed great satisfaction in my reading, shewed great
kindness to me, and made me many presents. At last she began to catechise
me on the subject of secrecy, to which I gave her such satisfactory
answers, that, at last, having locked the door of her room, she took me
into her closet, and then locking that door likewise, she said she should
convince me of the vast reliance she had on my integrity, by communicating
a secret in which her honour, and consequently her life, was concerned.
She then stopt, and after a silence of a few minutes, during which she
often wiped her eyes, she enquired of me if I thought my mother might
safely be confided in. I answered, I would stake my life on her fidelity.
She then imparted to me the great secret which laboured in her breast, and
which, I believe, was delivered with more pains than she afterwards
suffered in child-birth. It was then contrived that my mother and myself
only should attend at the time, and that Mrs Wilkins should be sent out of
the way, as she accordingly was, to the very furthest part of Dorsetshire,
to enquire the character of a servant; for the lady had turned away her
own maid near three months before; during all which time I officiated
about her person upon trial, as she said, though, as she afterwards
declared, I was not sufficiently handy for the place. This, and many other
such things which she used to say of me, were all thrown out to prevent
any suspicion which Wilkins might hereafter have, when I was to own the
child; for she thought it could never be believed she would venture to
hurt a young woman with whom she had intrusted such a secret. You may be
assured, sir, I was well paid for all these affronts, which, together with
being informed with the occasion of them, very well contented me. Indeed,
the lady had a greater suspicion of Mrs Wilkins than of any other person;
not that she had the least aversion to the gentlewoman, but she thought
her incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I have
often heard Miss Bridget say, that, if Mrs Wilkins had committed a murder,
she believed she would acquaint you with it. At last the expected day
came, and Mrs Wilkins, who had been kept a week in readiness, and put off
from time to time, upon some pretence or other, that she might not return
too soon, was dispatched. Then the child was born, in the presence only of
myself and my mother, and was by my mother conveyed to her own house,
where it was privately kept by her till the evening of your return, when
I, by the command of Miss Bridget, conveyed it into the bed where you
found it. And all suspicions were afterwards laid asleep by the artful
conduct of your sister, in pretending ill-will to the boy, and that any
regard she shewed him was out of meer complacence to you.”

Mrs Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story, and
concluded by saying, “Thus, sir, you have at last discovered your
nephew; for so I am sure you will hereafter think him, and I question not
but he will be both an honour and a comfort to you under that appellation.”

“I need not, madam,” said Allworthy, “express my
astonishment at what you have told me; and yet surely you would not, and
could not, have put together so many circumstances to evidence an untruth.
I confess I recollect some passages relating to that Summer, which
formerly gave me a conceit that my sister had some liking to him. I
mentioned it to her; for I had such a regard to the young man, as well on
his own account as on his father’s, that I should willingly have consented
to a match between them; but she exprest the highest disdain of my unkind
suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more on the subject.
Good heavens! Well! the Lord disposeth all things.—Yet sure it was a
most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry this secret with her out
of the world.” “I promise you, sir,” said Mrs Waters,
“she always profest a contrary intention, and frequently told me she
intended one day to communicate it to you. She said, indeed, she was
highly rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well, and that you had of
your own accord taken such a fancy to the child, that it was yet
unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh! sir, had that lady lived
to have seen this poor young man turned like a vagabond from your house:
nay, sir, could she have lived to hear that you had yourself employed a
lawyer to prosecute him for a murder of which he was not guilty——Forgive
me, Mr Allworthy, I must say it was unkind.—Indeed, you have been
abused, he never deserved it of you.” “Indeed, madam,”
said Allworthy, “I have been abused by the person, whoever he was,
that told you so.” “Nay, sir,” said she, “I would
not be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty of any wrong.
The gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter; he only said, taking
me for Mr Fitzpatrick’s wife, that, if Mr Jones had murdered my husband, I
should be assisted with any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by
a very worthy gentleman, who, he said, was well apprized what a villain I
had to deal with. It was by this man I found out who Mr Jones was; and
this man, whose name is Dowling, Mr Jones tells me is your steward. I
discovered his name by a very odd accident; for he himself refused to tell
it me; but Partridge, who met him at my lodgings the second time he came,
knew him formerly at Salisbury.”

“And did this Mr Dowling,” says Allworthy, with great
astonishment in his countenance, “tell you that I would assist in
the prosecution?”—“No, sir,” answered she, “I
will not charge him wrongfully. He said I should be assisted, but he
mentioned no name. Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I
thought it could be no other.”—“Indeed, madam,”
says Allworthy, “from circumstances I am too well convinced it was
another. Good Heaven! by what wonderful means is the blackest and deepest
villany sometimes discovered!—Shall I beg you, madam, to stay till
the person you have mentioned comes, for I expect him every minute? nay,
he may be, perhaps, already in the house.”

Allworthy then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, when in
came, not Mr Dowling, but the gentleman who will be seen in the next
chapter.

Chapter viii. — Further continuation.

The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr Western. He no sooner
saw Allworthy, than, without considering in the least the presence of Mrs
Waters, he began to vociferate in the following manner: “Fine doings
at my house! A rare kettle of fish I have discovered at last! who the
devil would be plagued with a daughter?” “What’s the matter,
neighbour?” said Allworthy. “Matter enough,” answered
Western: “when I thought she was just a coming to; nay, when she had
in a manner promised me to do as I would ha her, and when I was a hoped to
have had nothing more to do than to have sent for the lawyer, and finished
all; what do you think I have found out? that the little b— hath bin
playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying on a correspondence
with that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I have quarrelled with
upon her account, sent me word o’t, and I ordered her pockets to be
searched when she was asleep, and here I have got un signed with the son
of a whore’s own name. I have not had patience to read half o’t, for ’tis
longer than one of parson Supple’s sermons; but I find plainly it is all
about love; and indeed what should it be else? I have packed her up in
chamber again, and to-morrow morning down she goes into the country,
unless she consents to be married directly, and there she shall live in a
garret upon bread and water all her days; and the sooner such a b—
breaks her heart the better, though, d—n her, that I believe is too
tough. She will live long enough to plague me.” “Mr Western,”
answered Allworthy, “you know I have always protested against force,
and you yourself consented that none should be used.” “Ay,”
cries he, “that was only upon condition that she would consent
without. What the devil and doctor Faustus! shan’t I do what I will with
my own daughter, especially when I desire nothing but her own good?”
“Well, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “if you will give
me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the young lady.”
“Will you?” said Western; “why that is kind now, and
neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do with
her; for I promise you she hath a very good opinion of you.” “Well,
sir,” said Allworthy, “if you will go home, and release the
young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within this half-hour.”
“But suppose,” said Western, “she should run away with
un in the meantime? For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of
hanging the fellow at last; for that the man is alive, and like to do
well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again presently.”
“How!” said Allworthy; “what, did you employ him then to
enquire or to do anything in that matter?” “Not I,”
answered Western, “he mentioned it to me just now of his own accord.”
“Just now!” cries Allworthy, “why, where did you see him
then? I want much to see Mr Dowling.” “Why, you may see un an
you will presently at my lodgings; for there is to be a meeting of lawyers
there this morning about a mortgage. ‘Icod! I shall lose two or dree
thousand pounds, I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr Nightingale.”
“Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “I will be with you within
the half-hour.” “And do for once,” cries the squire,
“take a fool’s advice; never think of dealing with her by gentle
methods, take my word for it those will never do. I have tried ‘um long
enough. She must be frightened into it, there is no other way. Tell her
I’m her father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience, and of the dreadful
punishment of it in t’other world, and then tell her about being locked up
all her life in a garret in this, and being kept only on bread and water.”
“I will do all I can,” said Allworthy; “for I promise
you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with this amiable
creature.” “Nay, the girl is well enough for matter o’ that,”
cries the squire; “a man may go farther and meet with worse meat;
that I may declare o’her, thof she be my own daughter. And if she will but
be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within a hundred miles o’ the
place, that loves a daughter better than I do; but I see you are busy with
the lady here, so I will go huome and expect you; and so your humble
servant.”

As soon as Mr Western was gone Mrs Waters said, “I see, sir, the
squire hath not the least remembrance of my face. I believe, Mr Allworthy,
you would not have known me neither. I am very considerably altered since
that day when you so kindly gave me that advice, which I had been happy
had I followed.” “Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy,
“it gave me great concern when I first heard the contrary.”
“Indeed, sir,” says she, “I was ruined by a very deep
scheme of villany, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think it
would justify me in your opinion, it would at least mitigate my offence,
and induce you to pity me: you are not now at leisure to hear my whole
story; but this I assure you, I was betrayed by the most solemn promises
of marriage; nay, in the eye of heaven I was married to him; for, after
much reading on the subject, I am convinced that particular ceremonies are
only requisite to give a legal sanction to marriage, and have only a
worldly use in giving a woman the privileges of a wife; but that she who
lives constant to one man, after a solemn private affiance, whatever the
world may call her, hath little to charge on her own conscience.”
“I am sorry, madam,” said Allworthy, “you made so ill a
use of your learning. Indeed, it would have been well that you had been
possessed of much more, or had remained in a state of ignorance. And yet,
madam, I am afraid you have more than this sin to answer for.”
“During his life,” answered she, “which was above a
dozen years, I most solemnly assure you I had not. And consider, sir, on
my behalf, what is in the power of a woman stript of her reputation and
left destitute; whether the good-natured world will suffer such a stray
sheep to return to the road of virtue, even if she was never so desirous.
I protest, then, I would have chose it had it been in my power; but
necessity drove me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, though
still unmarried, I lived as a wife for many years, and went by his name. I
parted with this gentleman at Worcester, on his march against the rebels,
and it was then I accidentally met with Mr Jones, who rescued me from the
hands of a villain. Indeed, he is the worthiest of men. No young gentleman
of his age is, I believe, freer from vice, and few have the twentieth part
of his virtues; nay, whatever vices he hath had, I am firmly persuaded he
hath now taken a resolution to abandon them.” “I hope he hath,”
cries Allworthy, “and I hope he will preserve that resolution. I
must say, I have still the same hopes with regard to yourself. The world,
I do agree, are apt to be too unmerciful on these occasions; yet time and
perseverance will get the better of this their disinclination, as I may
call it, to pity; for though they are not, like heaven, ready to receive a
penitent sinner; yet a continued repentance will at length obtain mercy
even with the world. This you may be assured of, Mrs Waters, that whenever
I find you are sincere in such good intentions, you shall want no
assistance in my power to make them effectual.”

Mrs Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a flood of tears,
made him many most passionate acknowledgments of his goodness, which, as
she truly said, savoured more of the divine than human nature.

Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender manner, making use
of every expression which his invention could suggest to comfort her, when
he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr Dowling, who, upon his first
entrance, seeing Mrs Waters, started, and appeared in some confusion; from
which he soon recovered himself as well as he could, and then said he was
in the utmost haste to attend counsel at Mr Western’s lodgings; but,
however, thought it his duty to call and acquaint him with the opinion of
counsel upon the case which he had before told him, which was that the
conversion of the moneys in that case could not be questioned in a
criminal cause, but that an action of trover might be brought, and if it
appeared to the jury to be the moneys of plaintiff, that plaintiff would
recover a verdict for the value.

Allworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and then,
advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he said, “Whatever be your
haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions. Do you know
this lady?”—“That lady, sir!” answered Dowling,
with great hesitation. Allworthy then, with the most solemn voice, said,
“Look you, Mr Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a
moment longer in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but answer
faithfully and truly to every question I ask.——Do you know
this lady?”—“Yes, sir,” said Dowling, “I
have seen the lady.” “Where, sir?” “At her own
lodgings.”—“Upon what business did you go thither, sir;
and who sent you?” “I went, sir, to enquire, sir, about Mr
Jones.” “And who sent you to enquire about him?” “Who,
sir? why, sir, Mr Blifil sent me.” “And what did you say to
the lady concerning that matter?” “Nay, sir, it is impossible
to recollect every word.” “Will you please, madam, to assist
the gentleman’s memory?” “He told me, sir,” said Mrs
Waters, “that if Mr Jones had murdered my husband, I should be
assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very
worthy gentleman, who was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with.
These, I can safely swear, were the very words he spoke.”—“Were
these the words, sir?” said Allworthy. “I cannot charge my
memory exactly,” cries Dowling, “but I believe I did speak to
that purpose.”—“And did Mr Blifil order you to say so?”
“I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, nor have
willingly exceeded my authority in matters of this kind. If I said so, I
must have so understood Mr Blifil’s instructions.” “Look you,
Mr Dowling,” said Allworthy; “I promise you before this lady,
that whatever you have done in this affair by Mr Blifil’s order I will
forgive, provided you now tell me strictly the truth; for I believe what
you say, that you would not have acted of your own accord and without
authority in this matter.——Mr Blifil then likewise sent you to
examine the two fellows at Aldersgate?”—“He did, sir.”
“Well, and what instructions did he then give you? Recollect as well
as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the very words he used.”—“Why,
sir, Mr Blifil sent me to find out the persons who were eye-witnesses of
this fight. He said, he feared they might be tampered with by Mr Jones, or
some of his friends. He said, blood required blood; and that not only all
who concealed a murderer, but those who omitted anything in their power to
bring him to justice, were sharers in his guilt. He said, he found you was
very desirous of having the villain brought to justice, though it was not
proper you should appear in it.” “He did so?” says
Allworthy.—“Yes, sir,” cries Dowling; “I should
not, I am sure, have proceeded such lengths for the sake of any other
person living but your worship.”—“What lengths, sir?”
said Allworthy.—“Nay, sir,” cries Dowling, “I
would not have your worship think I would, on any account, be guilty of
subornation of perjury; but there are two ways of delivering evidence. I
told them, therefore, that if any offers should be made them on the other
side, they should refuse them, and that they might be assured they should
lose nothing by being honest men, and telling the truth. I said, we were
told that Mr Jones had assaulted the gentleman first, and that, if that
was the truth, they should declare it; and I did give them some hints that
they should be no losers.”—“I think you went lengths
indeed,” cries Allworthy.—“Nay, sir,” answered
Dowling, “I am sure I did not desire them to tell an untruth;——nor
should I have said what I did, unless it had been to oblige you.”—“You
would not have thought, I believe,” says Allworthy, “to have
obliged me, had you known that this Mr Jones was my own nephew.”—“I
am sure, sir,” answered he, “it did not become me to take any
notice of what I thought you desired to conceal.”—“How!”
cries Allworthy, “and did you know it then?”—“Nay,
sir,” answered Dowling, “if your worship bids me speak the
truth, I am sure I shall do it.—Indeed, sir, I did know it; for they
were almost the last words which Madam Blifil ever spoke, which she
mentioned to me as I stood alone by her bedside, when she delivered me the
letter I brought your worship from her.”—“What letter?”
cries Allworthy.—“The letter, sir,” answered Dowling,
“which I brought from Salisbury, and which I delivered into the
hands of Mr Blifil.”—“O heavens!” cries Allworthy:
“Well, and what were the words? What did my sister say to you?”—“She
took me by the hand,” answered he, “and, as she delivered me
the letter, said, `I scarce know what I have written. Tell my brother, Mr
Jones is his nephew—He is my son.—Bless him,’ says she, and
then fell backward, as if dying away. I presently called in the people,
and she never spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes afterwards.”—Allworthy
stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes; and then, turning to Dowling,
said, “How came you, sir, not to deliver me this message?”
“Your worship,” answered he, “must remember that you was
at that time ill in bed; and, being in a violent hurry, as indeed I always
am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr Blifil, who told me he would
carry them both to you, which he hath since told me he did, and that your
worship, partly out of friendship to Mr Jones, and partly out of regard to
your sister, would never have it mentioned, and did intend to conceal it
from the world; and therefore, sir, if you had not mentioned it to me
first, I am certain I should never have thought it belonged to me to say
anything of the matter, either to your worship or any other person.”

We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to
convey a lie in the words of truth; this was the case at present; for
Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not imposed
upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In reality, the
promises which Blifil had made to Dowling were the motives which had
induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very plainly saw Blifil would not
be able to keep them, he thought proper now to make this confession, which
the promises of forgiveness, joined to the threats, the voice, the looks
of Allworthy, and the discoveries he had made before, extorted from him,
who was besides taken unawares, and had no time to consider of evasions.

Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having enjoined
on Dowling strict silence as to what had past, conducted that gentleman
himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was returned to his
chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his last deceit on his uncle,
and little suspected what had since passed below-stairs.

As Allworthy was returning to his room he met Mrs Miller in the entry,
who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said to him, “O! sir,
I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know all; yet do not
on this account abandon the poor young man. Consider, sir, he was ignorant
it was his own mother; and the discovery itself will most probably break
his heart, without your unkindness.”

“Madam,” says Allworthy, “I am under such an
astonishment at what I have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy you;
but come with me into my room. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I have made surprizing
discoveries, and you shall soon know them.”

The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up to Mrs
Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs Miller, said,
“What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for the services
she hath done me?—O! Mrs Miller, you have a thousand times heard me
call the young man to whom you are so faithful a friend, my son. Little
did I then think he was indeed related to me at all.—Your friend,
madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that wicked viper which I have
so long nourished in my bosom.—She will herself tell you the whole
story, and how the youth came to pass for her son. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I
am convinced that he hath been wronged, and that I have been abused;
abused by one whom you too justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in
truth, the worst of villains.”

The joy which Mrs Miller now felt bereft her of the power of speech, and
might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of life, had not a
friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her relief. At length,
recovering so far from her transport as to be able to speak, she cried,
“And is my dear Mr Jones then your nephew, sir, and not the son of
this lady? And are your eyes opened to him at last? And shall I live to
see him as happy as he deserves?” “He certainly is my nephew,”
says Allworthy, “and I hope all the rest.”—“And is
this the dear good woman, the person,” cries she, “to whom all
this discovery is owing?”—“She is indeed,” says
Allworthy.—“Why, then,” cried Mrs Miller, upon her
knees, “may Heaven shower down its choicest blessings upon her head,
and for this one good action forgive her all her sins, be they never so
many!”

Mrs Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very shortly
be released; for that the surgeon was gone, in company with a nobleman, to
the justice who committed him, in order to certify that Mr Fitzpatrick was
out of all manner of danger, and to procure his prisoner his liberty.

Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his return
home; but that he was then obliged to go on some business of consequence.
He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and presently left the
two ladies together.

Mr Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend upon his
uncle; for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He asked his uncle
if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking a man whither he is
going: to which the other making no answer, he again desired to know when
he would be pleased to return?—Allworthy made no answer to this
neither, till he was just going into his chair, and then, turning about,
he said—“Harkee, sir, do you find out, before my return, the
letter which your mother sent me on her death-bed.” Allworthy then
departed, and left Blifil in a situation to be envied only by a man who is
just going to be hanged.

Chapter ix. — A further continuation.

Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of reading the
letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered him; and there were
some expressions in it concerning himself which drew tears from his eyes.
At length he arrived at Mr Western’s, and was introduced to Sophia.

When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and lady had taken
their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued; during which the latter,
who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat playing with her
fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her countenance and
behaviour. At length Allworthy, who was himself a little disconcerted,
began thus: “I am afraid, Miss Western, my family hath been the
occasion of giving you some uneasiness; to which, I fear, I have
innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be assured, madam,
had I at first known how disagreeable the proposals had been, I should not
have suffered you to have been so long persecuted. I hope, therefore, you
will not think the design of this visit is to trouble you with any further
solicitations of that kind, but entirely to relieve you from them.”

“Sir,” said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, “this
behaviour is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from
Mr Allworthy; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you
will pardon me for saying it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness, and
hath been the occasion of my suffering much cruel treatment from a father
who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest of all
parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous to resent my
refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in our own power; and
whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his favour.”
“I assure you, most amiable young lady,” said Allworthy,
“I am capable of no such resentment, had the person been my own son,
and had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly,
madam, we cannot force our inclinations, much less can they be directed by
another.” “Oh! sir,” answered Sophia, “every word
you speak proves you deserve that good, that great, that benevolent
character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less than
the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist the
commands of my father.” “I sincerely believe you, madam,”
replied Allworthy, “and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent
foresight, since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided misery
indeed!” “You speak now, Mr Allworthy,” cries she,
“with a delicacy which few men are capable of feeling! but surely,
in my opinion, to lead our lives with one to whom we are indifferent must
be a state of wretchedness.——Perhaps that wretchedness would
be even increased by a sense of the merits of an object to whom we cannot
give our affections. If I had married Mr Blifil—” “Pardon
my interrupting you, madam,” answered Allworthy, “but I cannot
bear the supposition.—Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from my
heart, I rejoice in your escape.—I have discovered the wretch for
whom you have suffered all this cruel violence from your father to be a
villain.” “How, sir!” cries Sophia—“you must
believe this surprizes me.”—“It hath surprized me,
madam,” answered Allworthy, “and so it will the world.——But
I have acquainted you with the real truth.” “Nothing but
truth,” says Sophia, “can, I am convinced, come from the lips
of Mr Allworthy.——Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news.——Discovered,
you say——may villany be ever so!”—“You will
soon enough hear the story,” cries Allworthy;—“at
present let us not mention so detested a name.—I have another matter
of a very serious nature to propose.—O! Miss Western, I know your
vast worth, nor can I so easily part with the ambition of being allied to
it.—I have a near relation, madam, a young man whose character is, I
am convinced, the very opposite to that of this wretch, and whose fortune
I will make equal to what his was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you
would admit a visit from him?” Sophia, after a minute’s silence,
answered, “I will deal with the utmost sincerity with Mr Allworthy.
His character, and the obligation I have just received from him, demand
it. I have determined at present to listen to no such proposals from any
person. My only desire is to be restored to the affection of my father,
and to be again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to
your good offices. Let me beseech you, let me conjure you, by all the
goodness which I, and all who know you, have experienced, do not, the very
moment when you have released me from one persecution, do not engage me in
another as miserable and as fruitless.” “Indeed, Miss Western,”
replied Allworthy, “I am capable of no such conduct; and if this be
your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment, whatever torments
he may suffer under it.” “I must smile now, Mr Allworthy,”
answered Sophia, “when you mention the torments of a man whom I do
not know, and who can consequently have so little acquaintance with me.”
“Pardon me, dear young lady,” cries Allworthy, “I begin
now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the repose of his
future days; since, if ever man was capable of a sincere, violent, and
noble passion, such, I am convinced, is my unhappy nephew’s for Miss
Western.” “A nephew of your’s, Mr Allworthy!” answered
Sophia. “It is surely strange. I never heard of him before.”
“Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it is only the
circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and
which, till this day, was a secret to me.—Mr Jones, who has long
loved you, he! he is my nephew!” “Mr Jones your nephew, sir!”
cries Sophia, “can it be possible?”—“He is,
indeed, madam,” answered Allworthy; “he is my own sister’s son—as
such I shall always own him; nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much
more ashamed of my past behaviour to him; but I was as ignorant of his
merit as of his birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly——Indeed
I have.”—Here the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short
pause proceeded—“I never shall be able to reward him for his
sufferings without your assistance.——Believe me, most amiable
young lady, I must have a great esteem of that offering which I make to
your worth. I know he hath been guilty of faults; but there is great
goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, madam, there is.” Here
he stopped, seeming to expect an answer, which he presently received from
Sophia, after she had a little recovered herself from the hurry of spirits
into which so strange and sudden information had thrown her: “I
sincerely wish you joy, sir, of a discovery in which you seem to have such
satisfaction. I doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can
promise yourself from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand
good qualities, which makes it impossible he should not behave well to
such an uncle.”—“I hope, madam,” said Allworthy,
“he hath those good qualities which must make him a good husband.—He
must, I am sure, be of all men the most abandoned, if a lady of your merit
should condescend—” “You must pardon me, Mr Allworthy,”
answered Sophia; “I cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr
Jones, I am convinced, hath much merit; but I shall never receive Mr Jones
as one who is to be my husband—Upon my honour I never will.”—“Pardon
me, madam,” cries Allworthy, “if I am a little surprized,
after what I have heard from Mr Western—I hope the unhappy young man
hath done nothing to forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour
to enjoy it.—Perhaps, he may have been misrepresented to you, as he
was to me. The same villany may have injured him everywhere.—He is
no murderer, I assure you; as he hath been called.”—“Mr
Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “I have told you my resolution. I
wonder not at what my father hath told you; but, whatever his
apprehensions or fears have been, if I know my heart, I have given no
occasion for them; since it hath always been a fixed principle with me,
never to have married without his consent. This is, I think, the duty of a
child to a parent; and this, I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed
with me to swerve from. I do not indeed conceive that the authority of any
parent can oblige us to marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To
avoid a force of this kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my
father’s house, and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my
story; and if the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my
own conscience will acquit me.” “I hear you, Miss Western,”
cries Allworthy, “with admiration. I admire the justness of your
sentiments; but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offending
you, young lady; but am I to look on all which I have hitherto heard or
seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty from your
father on the account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely
indifferent?” “I beg, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia,
“you will not insist on my reasons;—yes, I have suffered
indeed; I will not, Mr Allworthy, conceal——I will be very
sincere with you—I own I had a great opinion of Mr Jones—I
believe—I know I have suffered for my opinion—I have been
treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my father; but that is now past—I
beg I may not be farther pressed; for, whatever hath been, my resolution
is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath many virtues—he hath great
virtues, Mr Allworthy. I question not but he will do you honour in the
world, and make you happy.”—“I wish I could make him so,
madam,” replied Allworthy; “but that I am convinced is only in
your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so earnest a
solicitor in his favour.” “You are deceived indeed, sir; you
are deceived,” said Sophia. “I hope not by him. It is
sufficient to have deceived me. Mr Allworthy, I must insist on being
pressed no farther on this subject. I should be sorry—nay, I will
not injure him in your favour. I wish Mr Jones very well. I sincerely wish
him well; and I repeat it again to you, whatever demerit he may have to
me, I am certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former
thoughts; but nothing can ever recal them. At present there is not a man
upon earth whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr Jones; nor would
the addresses of Mr Blifil himself be less agreeable to me.”

Western had been long impatient for the event of this conference, and was
just now arrived at the door to listen; when, having heard the last
sentiments of his daughter’s heart, he lost all temper, and, bursting open
the door in a rage, cried out—“It is a lie! It is a d—n’d
lie! It is all owing to that d—n’d rascal Jones; and if she could
get at un, she’d ha un any hour of the day.” Here Allworthy
interposed, and addressing himself to the squire with some anger in his
look, he said, “Mr Western, you have not kept your word with me. You
promised to abstain from all violence.”—“Why, so I did,”
cries Western, “as long as it was possible; but to hear a wench
telling such confounded lies——Zounds! doth she think, if she
can make vools of other volk, she can make one of me?—No, no, I know
her better than thee dost.” “I am sorry to tell you, sir,”
answered Allworthy, “it doth not appear, by your behaviour to this
young lady, that you know her at all. I ask pardon for what I say: but I
think our intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is
your daughter, Mr Western, and I think she doth honour to your name. If I
was capable of envy, I should sooner envy you on this account than any
other man whatever.”—“Odrabbit it!” cries the
squire, “I wish she was thine, with all my heart—wouldst soon
be glad to be rid of the trouble o’ her.” “Indeed, my good
friend,” answered Allworthy, “you yourself are the cause of
all the trouble you complain of. Place that confidence in the young lady
which she so well deserves, and I am certain you will be the happiest
father on earth.”—“I confidence in her?” cries the
squire. “’Sblood! what confidence can I place in her, when she won’t
do as I would ha’ her? Let her gi’ but her consent to marry as I would ha’
her, and I’ll place as much confidence in her as wouldst ha’ me.”—“You
have no right, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “to insist on
any such consent. A negative voice your daughter allows you, and God and
nature have thought proper to allow you no more.”—“A
negative voice!” cries the squire, “Ay! ay! I’ll show you what
a negative voice I ha.—Go along, go into your chamber, go, you
stubborn——.” “Indeed, Mr Western,” said
Allworthy, “indeed you use her cruelly—I cannot bear to see
this—you shall, you must behave to her in a kinder manner. She
deserves the best of treatment.” “Yes, yes,” said the
squire, “I know what she deserves: now she’s gone, I’ll shew you
what she deserves. See here, sir, here is a letter from my cousin, my Lady
Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi’ me to understand that the fellow
is got out of prison again; and here she advises me to take all the care I
can o’ the wench. Odzookers! neighbour Allworthy, you don’t know what it
is to govern a daughter.”

The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own sagacity; and
then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him with the whole
discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with his anger to Blifil,
and with every particular which hath been disclosed to the reader in the
preceding chapters.

Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as
changeable in them. No sooner then was Western informed of Mr Allworthy’s
intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined heartily with the uncle
in every commendation of the nephew, and became as eager for her marriage
with Jones as he had before been to couple her to Blifil.

Here Mr Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what had
passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great surprize.

The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at this
account.—At last he cried out, “Why, what can be the meaning
of this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o’un she was, that I’ll be sworn to.——Odzookers!
I have hit o’t. As sure as a gun I have hit o’ the very right o’t. It’s
all along o’ zister. The girl hath got a hankering after this son of a
whore of a lord. I vound ’em together at my cousin my Lady Bellaston’s. He
hath turned the head o’ her, that’s certain—but d—n me if he
shall ha her—I’ll ha no lords nor courtiers in my vamily.”

Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his resolution to
avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly recommended gentle methods
to Mr Western, as those by which he might be assured of succeeding best
with his daughter. He then took his leave, and returned back to Mrs
Miller, but was forced to comply with the earnest entreaties of the
squire, in promising to bring Mr Jones to visit him that afternoon, that
he might, as he said, “make all matters up with the young gentleman.”
At Mr Allworthy’s departure, Western promised to follow his advice in his
behaviour to Sophia, saying, “I don’t know how ’tis, but d—n
me, Allworthy, if you don’t make me always do just as you please; and yet
I have as good an estate as you, and am in the commission of the peace as
well as yourself.”

Chapter x. — Wherein the history begins to draw towards a
conclusion.

When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr Jones was just
arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty chamber,
whither he ordered Mr Jones to be brought to him alone.

It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the
meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs Waters, as the reader may
well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret of his
birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both sides are indeed
beyond my power to describe: I shall not therefore attempt it. After
Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he had prostrated himself,
and received him into his arms, “O my child!” he cried,
“how have I been to blame! how have I injured you! What amends can I
ever make you for those unkind, those unjust suspicions which I have
entertained, and for all the sufferings they have occasioned to you?”
“Am I not now made amends?” cries Jones. “Would not my
sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been now richly
repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this tenderness overpowers,
unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the transports which flow so fast upon
me. To be again restored to your presence, to your favour; to be once more
thus kindly received by my great, my noble, my generous benefactor.”—“Indeed,
child,” cries Allworthy, “I have used you cruelly.”——He
then explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and again repeated
expressions of the utmost concern, for having been induced by that
treachery to use him so ill. “O, talk not so!” answered Jones;
“indeed, sir, you have used me nobly. The wisest man might be
deceived as you were; and, under such a deception, the best must have
acted just as you did. Your goodness displayed itself in the midst of your
anger, just as it then seemed. I owe everything to that goodness, of which
I have been most unworthy. Do not put me on self-accusation, by carrying
your generous sentiments too far. Alas! sir, I have not been punished more
than I have deserved; and it shall be the whole business of my future life
to deserve that happiness you now bestow on me; for, believe me, my dear
uncle, my punishment hath not been thrown away upon me: though I have been
a great, I am not a hardened sinner; I thank Heaven, I have had time to
reflect on my past life, where, though I cannot charge myself with any
gross villany, yet I can discern follies and vices more than enough to
repent and to be ashamed of; follies which have been attended with
dreadful consequences to myself, and have brought me to the brink of
destruction.” “I am rejoiced, my dear child,” answered
Allworthy, “to hear you talk thus sensibly; for as I am convinced
hypocrisy (good Heaven! how have I been imposed on by it in others!) was
never among your faults, so I can readily believe all you say. You now see,
Tom, to what dangers imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am
now convinced, you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the duty
which we owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own enemies as to
neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is deficient in discharging
their duty to us; for when a man lays the foundation of his own ruin,
others will, I am afraid, be too apt to build upon it. You say, however,
you have seen your errors, and will reform them. I firmly believe you, my
dear child; and therefore, from this moment, you shall never be reminded
of them by me. Remember them only yourself so far as for the future to
teach you the better to avoid them; but still remember, for your comfort,
that there is this great difference between those faults which candor may
construe into imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany
only. The former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but
if he reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved; the
world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him; and he
may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the dangers he hath
escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered is irretrievable; the
stains which this leaves behind, no time will wash away. The censures of
mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn will abash him in publick; and
if shame drives him into retirement, he will go to it with all those
terrors with which a weary child, who is afraid of hobgoblins, retreats
from company to go to bed alone. Here his murdered conscience will haunt
him.—Repose, like a false friend, will fly from him. Wherever he
turns his eyes, horror presents itself; if he looks backward, unavailable
repentance treads on his heels; if forward, incurable despair stares him
in the face, till, like a condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he
detests his present condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour
which is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that
this is not your case; and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath
suffered you to see your errors, before they have brought on you that
destruction to which a persistance in even those errors must have led you.
You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is such, that
happiness seems in your own power.” At these words Jones fetched a
deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said, “Sir, I
will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence of my vices
I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I have lost a
treasure.” “You need say no more,” answered Allworthy;
“I will be explicit with you; I know what you lament; I have seen
the young lady, and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I must
insist on, as an earnest of your sincerity in all you have said, and of
the stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me in one instance. To
abide intirely by the determination of the young lady, whether it shall be
in your favour or no. She hath already suffered enough from solicitations
which I hate to think of; she shall owe no further constraint to my
family: I know her father will be as ready to torment her now on your
account as he hath formerly been on another’s; but I am determined she
shall suffer no more confinement, no more violence, no more uneasy hours.”
“O, my dear uncle!” answered Jones, “lay, I beseech you,
some command on me, in which I shall have some merit in obedience. Believe
me, sir, the only instance in which I could disobey you would be to give
an uneasy moment to my Sophia. No, sir, if I am so miserable to have
incurred her displeasure beyond all hope of forgiveness, that alone, with
the dreadful reflection of causing her misery, will be sufficient to
overpower me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only
additional blessing which heaven can bestow; but it is a blessing which I
must owe to her alone.” “I will not flatter you, child,”
cries Allworthy; “I fear your case is desperate: I never saw
stronger marks of an unalterable resolution in any person than appeared in
her vehement declarations against receiving your addresses; for which,
perhaps, you can account better than myself.” “Oh, sir! I can
account too well,” answered Jones; “I have sinned against her
beyond all hope of pardon; and guilty as I am, my guilt unfortunately
appears to her in ten times blacker than the real colours. O, my dear
uncle! I find my follies are irretrievable; and all your goodness cannot
save me from perdition.”

A servant now acquainted them that Mr Western was below-stairs; for his
eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon which
Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to entertain
Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself; to which the
good man consented, and, having ordered Mr Western to be shewn into a
parlour, went down to him.

Mrs Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not yet seen
him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into the room,
and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his new-found
uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, “I wish I could give you
joy on another account, my dear child; but anything so inexorable I never
saw.”

Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant. “Why
then,” says she, “I have been with your young lady, and have
explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son
Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter; of that I
am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take his oath,
if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the letter of his
inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the letter ought to
recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon her account, and a plain
proof that you was resolved to quit all your profligacy for the future;
that you had never been guilty of a single instance of infidelity to her
since your seeing her in town: I am afraid I went too far there; but
Heaven forgive me! I hope your future behaviour will be my justification.
I am sure I have said all I can; but all to no purpose. She remains
inflexible. She says, she had forgiven many faults on account of youth;
but expressed such detestation of the character of a libertine, that she
absolutely silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you; but the justness
of her accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman,
and one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I could
have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It was a
sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. `I once fancied madam.’ and
she, `I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr Jones; and for that I
own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire profligacy of manners will
corrupt the best heart in the world; and all which a good-natured
libertine can expect is, that we should mix some grains of pity with our
contempt and abhorrence.’ She is an angelic creature, that is the truth
on’t.” “O, Mrs Miller!” answered Jones, “can I
bear to think that I have lost such an angel?” “Lost! no,”
cries Mrs Miller; “I hope you have not lost her yet. Resolve to
leave such vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes, nay, if she would
remain inexorable, there is another young lady, a sweet pretty young lady,
and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely dying for love of you. I heard
of it this very morning, and I told it to Miss Western; nay, I went a
little beyond the truth again; for I told her you had refused her; but
indeed I knew you would refuse her. And here I must give you a little
comfort; when I mentioned the young lady’s name, who is no other than the
pretty widow Hunt, I thought she turned pale; but when I said you had
refused her, I will be sworn her face was all over scarlet in an instant;
and these were her very words: `I will not deny but that I believe he has
some affection for me.’”

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who could
no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of Allworthy
himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful power over
him.

Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, “My old friend
Tom, I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all past must be forgotten;
I could not intend any affront to thee, because, as Allworthy here knows,
nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for another person; and where a
body means no harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One Christian must
forget and forgive another.” “I hope, sir,” said Jones,
“I shall never forget the many obligations I have had to you; but as
for any offence towards me, I declare I am an utter stranger.”
“A’t,” says Western, “then give me thy fist; a’t as
hearty an honest cock as any in the kingdom. Come along with me; I’ll
carry thee to thy mistress this moment.” Here Allworthy interposed;
and the squire being unable to prevail either with the uncle or nephew,
was, after some litigation, obliged to consent to delay introducing Jones
to Sophia till the afternoon; at which time Allworthy, as well in
compassion to Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of Western,
was prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea-table.

The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which, had
it happened earlier in our history, we would have entertained our reader;
but as we have now leisure only to attend to what is very material, it
shall suffice to say that matters being entirely adjusted as to the
afternoon visit Mr Western again returned home.

Chapter xi. — The history draws nearer to a conclusion.

When Mr Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr Allworthy and Mrs
Miller that his liberty had been procured by two noble lords, who,
together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr Nightingale’s, had attended
the magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on the
surgeons’ oaths, that the wounded person was out of all manner of danger
from his wound, he was discharged.

One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and that no
more than once; but the other had greatly surprized him by asking his
pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him, occasioned, he
said, entirely by his ignorance who he was.

Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted till
afterwards, was this:—The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had
employed, according to the advice of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as a
vagabond into the sea-service, when he came to report to his lordship the
event which we have before seen, spoke very favourably of the behaviour of
Mr Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured that lord that he must have
mistaken the person, for that Jones was certainly a gentleman; insomuch
that his lordship, who was strictly a man of honour, and would by no means
have been guilty of an action which the world in general would have
condemned, began to be much concerned for the advice which he had taken.

Within a day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to dine with the
Irish peer, who, in a conversation upon the duel, acquainted his company
with the character of Fitzpatrick; to which, indeed, he did not do strict
justice, especially in what related to his lady. He said she was the most
innocent, the most injured woman alive, and that from compassion alone he
had undertaken her cause. He then declared an intention of going the next
morning to Fitzpatrick’s lodgings, in order to prevail with him, if
possible, to consent to a separation from his wife, who, the peer said,
was in apprehensions for her life, if she should ever return to be under
the power of her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to go with him, that he
might satisfy himself more concerning Jones and the circumstances of the
duel; for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had acted. The
moment his lordship gave a hint of his readiness to assist in the delivery
of the lady, it was eagerly embraced by the other nobleman, who depended
much on the authority of Lord Fellamar, as he thought it would greatly
contribute to awe Fitzpatrick into a compliance; and perhaps he was in the
right; for the poor Irishman no sooner saw these noble peers had
undertaken the cause of his wife than he submitted, and articles of
separation were soon drawn up and signed between the parties.

Fitzpatrick, who had been so well satisfied by Mrs Waters concerning the
innocence of his wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps, from some other
reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter, that he spoke
highly in favour of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the blame upon
himself, and said the other had behaved very much like a gentleman and a
man of honour; and upon that lord’s further enquiry concerning Mr Jones,
Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a gentleman of very great fashion
and fortune, which was the account he had just received from Mrs Waters
after her interview with Dowling.

Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his power to
make satisfaction to a gentleman whom he had so grossly injured, and
without any consideration of rivalship (for he had now given over all
thoughts of Sophia), determined to procure Mr Jones’s liberty, being
satisfied, as well from Fitzpatrick as his surgeon, that the wound was not
mortal. He therefore prevailed with the Irish peer to accompany him to the
place where Jones was confined, to whom he behaved as we have already
related.

When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he immediately carried Jones into
his room, and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as well what he
had heard from Mrs Waters as what he had discovered from Mr Dowling.

Jones expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this account,
but without making any comment or observation upon it. And now a message
was brought from Mr Blifil, desiring to know if his uncle was at leisure
that he might wait upon him. Allworthy started and turned pale, and then
in a more passionate tone than I believe he had ever used before, bid the
servant tell Blifil he knew him not. “Consider, dear sir,”
cries Jones, in a trembling voice. “I have considered,”
answered Allworthy, “and you yourself shall carry my message to the
villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own ruin so properly as
the man whose ruin he hath so villanously contrived.” “Pardon
me, dear sir,” said Jones; “a moment’s reflection will, I am
sure, convince you of the contrary. What might perhaps be but justice from
another tongue, would from mine be insult; and to whom?—my own
brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so barbarously—indeed,
that would have been more inexcusable than anything he hath done. Fortune
may tempt men of no very bad dispositions to injustice; but insults
proceed only from black and rancorous minds, and have no temptations to
excuse them. Let me beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present
height of your anger. Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned
unheard.” Allworthy stood silent a moment, and then, embracing
Jones, he said, with tears gushing from his eyes, “O my child! to
what goodness have I been so long blind!”

Mrs Miller entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap which was
not perceived, and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle, the poor woman
in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth into the most
ecstatic thanksgivings to heaven for what had happened; then, running to
Jones, she embraced him eagerly, crying, “My dearest friend, I wish
you joy a thousand and a thousand times of this blest day.” And next
Mr Allworthy himself received the same congratulations. To which he
answered, “Indeed, indeed, Mrs Miller, I am beyond expression happy.”
Some few more raptures having passed on all sides, Mrs Miller desired them
both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she said there were a
very happy set of people assembled—being indeed no other than Mr
Nightingale and his bride, and his cousin Harriet with her bridegroom.

Allworthy excused himself from dining with the company, saying he had
ordered some little thing for him and his nephew in his own apartment, for
that they had much private business to discourse of; but would not resist
promising the good woman that both he and Jones would make part of her
society at supper.

Mrs Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? “for indeed,”
says she, “I cannot be easy while such a villain is in my house.”—Allworthy
answered, “He was as uneasy as herself on the same account.”
“Oh!” cries she, “if that be the case, leave the matter
to me, I’ll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warrant you. Here
are two or three lusty fellows below-stairs.” “There will be
no need of any violence,” cries Allworthy; “if you will carry
him a message from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord.”
“Will I?” said Mrs Miller; “I never did anything in my
life with a better will.” Here Jones interfered, and said, “He
had considered the matter better, and would, if Mr Allworthy pleased, be
himself the messenger. I know,” says he, “already enough of
your pleasure, sir, and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own
words. Let me beseech you, sir,” added he, “to reflect on the
dreadful consequences of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How
unfit, alas! is this poor man to die in his present situation.” This
suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs Miller. She left the room,
crying, “You are too good, Mr Jones, infinitely too good to live in
this world.” But it made a deeper impression on Allworthy. “My
good child,” said he, “I am equally astonished at the goodness
of your heart, and the quickness of your understanding. Heaven indeed
forbid that this wretch should be deprived of any means or time for
repentance! That would be a shocking consideration indeed. Go to him,
therefore, and use your own discretion; yet do not flatter him with any
hopes of my forgiveness; for I shall never forgive villany farther than my
religion obliges me, and that extends not either to our bounty or our
conversation.”

Jones went up to Blifil’s room, whom he found in a situation which moved
his pity, though it would have raised a less amiable passion in many
beholders. He cast himself on his bed, where he lay abandoning himself to
despair, and drowned in tears; not in such tears as flow from contrition,
and wash away guilt from minds which have been seduced or surprized into
it unawares, against the bent of their natural dispositions, as will
sometimes happen from human frailty, even to the good; no, these tears
were such as the frighted thief sheds in his cart, and are indeed the
effects of that concern which the most savage natures are seldom deficient
in feeling for themselves.

It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full length. Let
it suffice to say, that the behaviour of Jones was kind to excess. He
omitted nothing which his invention could supply, to raise and comfort the
drooping spirits of Blifil, before he communicated to him the resolution
of his uncle that he must quit the house that evening. He offered to
furnish him with any money he wanted, assured him of his hearty
forgiveness of all he had done against him, that he would endeavour to
live with him hereafter as a brother, and would leave nothing unattempted
to effectuate a reconciliation with his uncle.

Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind whether he
should yet deny all; but, finding at last the evidence too strong against
him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked pardon of his
brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated himself on the ground, and
kissed his feet; in short he was now as remarkably mean as he had been
before remarkably wicked.

Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little discovered
itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. He raised his brother
the moment he could from the ground, and advised him to bear his
afflictions more like a man; repeating, at the same time, his promises,
that he would do all in his power to lessen them; for which Blifil, making
many professions of his unworthiness, poured forth a profusion of thanks;
and then, he having declared he would immediately depart to another
lodging, Jones returned to his uncle.

Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the discovery
which he had made concerning the £500 bank-notes. “I have,”
said he, “already consulted a lawyer, who tells me, to my great
astonishment, that there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind.
Indeed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this fellow toward you, I
think a highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent person.”

“Good Heaven!” says Jones, “is it possible?—I am
shocked beyond measure at this news. I thought there was not an honester
fellow in the world.——The temptation of such a sum was too
great for him to withstand; for smaller matters have come safe to me
through his hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it
weakness rather than ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor fellow loves
me, and hath done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I
believe he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day or
two ago, when my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation, that he
visited me in my confinement, and offered me any money I wanted. Consider,
sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter distress, it
must be, to have a sum in his possession which must put him and his family
beyond any future possibility of suffering the like.”

“Child,” cries Allworthy, “you carry this forgiving
temper too far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on
injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice. The
dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but never his
ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any temptation to
atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and merciful as we ought to
be; and so far I confess I have gone; for I have often pitied the fate of
a highwayman, when I have been on the grand jury; and have more than once
applied to the judge on the behalf of such as have had any mitigating
circumstances in their case; but when dishonesty is attended with any
blacker crime, such as cruelty, murder, ingratitude, or the like,
compassion and forgiveness then become faults. I am convinced the fellow
is a villain, and he shall be punished; at least as far as I can punish
him.”

This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think proper to
make any reply; besides, the hour appointed by Mr Western now drew so
near, that he had barely time left to dress himself. Here therefore ended
the present dialogue, and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge
attended, according to order, with his cloaths.

Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery. The poor
fellow was unable either to contain or express his transports. He behaved
like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he was dressing
Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the stage.

His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now
many omens and presages of this happy event, some of which he had remarked
at the time, but many more he now remembered; nor did he omit the dreams
he had dreamt the evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded
with saying, “I always told your honour something boded in my mind
that you would one time or other have it in your power to make my fortune.”
Jones assured him that this boding should as certainly be verified with
regard to him as all the other omens had been to himself; which did not a
little add to all the raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived
on account of his master.

Chapter xii. — Approaching still nearer to the end.

Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr Western’s.
He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld, and his person
alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind; but we hope it
hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when she formed him,
did not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit only, to
recommend her work.

Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best
advantage, for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so
extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not
forbear whispering Western, that he believed she was the finest creature
in the world. To which Western answered, in a whisper, overheard by all
present, “So much the better for Tom;—for d—n me if he
shan’t ha the tousling her.” Sophia was all over scarlet at these
words, while Tom’s countenance was altogether as pale, and he was almost
ready to sink from his chair.

The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out of
the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and must
speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it.

The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange to
many readers, that those who had so much to say to one another when danger
and difficulty attended their conversation, and who seemed so eager to
rush into each other’s arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that
with safety they were at liberty to say or do whatever they pleased,
should both remain for some time silent and motionless; insomuch that a
stranger of moderate sagacity might have well concluded they were mutually
indifferent; but so it was, however strange it may seem; both sat with
their eyes cast downwards on the ground, and for some minutes continued in
perfect silence.

Mr Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but was
absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out, some broken
words; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him, and partly to
turn the discourse from the subject which she knew well enough he was
endeavouring to open, said—

“Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this
discovery.” “And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate,”
said Jones, sighing, “while I have incurred your displeasure?”—“Nay,
sir,” says she, “as to that you best know whether you have
deserved it.” “Indeed, madam,” answered he, “you
yourself are as well apprized of all my demerits. Mrs Miller hath
acquainted you with the whole truth. O! my Sophia, am I never to hope for
forgiveness?”—“I think, Mr Jones,” said she,
“I may almost depend on your own justice, and leave it to yourself
to pass sentence on your own conduct.”—“Alas! madam,”
answered he, “it is mercy, and not justice, which I implore at your
hands. Justice I know must condemn me.—Yet not for the letter I sent
to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most solemnly declare you have had a true
account.” He then insisted much on the security given him by
Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off, if, contrary to their
expectations, her ladyship should have accepted his offer; but confest
that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion to put such a letter as
that into her power, “which,” said he, “I have dearly
paid for, in the effect it has upon you.” “I do not, I cannot,”
says she, “believe otherwise of that letter than you would have me.
My conduct, I think, shews you clearly I do not believe there is much in
that. And yet, Mr Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what past at
Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman, while I
fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me? Indeed, you
have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have profest to me to
be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure myself of with a man
capable of so much inconstancy?” “O! my Sophia,” cries
he, “do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion that ever
inflamed a human breast. Think, most adorable creature, of my unhappy
situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia, have flattered myself with
the most distant hopes of being ever permitted to throw myself at your
feet in the manner I do now, it would not have been in the power of any
other woman to have inspired a thought which the severest chastity could
have condemned. Inconstancy to you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness
enough to pardon what is past, do not let any cruel future apprehensions
shut your mercy against me. No repentance was ever more sincere. O! let it
reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom.” “Sincere
repentance, Mr Jones,” answered she, “will obtain the pardon
of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge of that sincerity.
A human mind may be imposed on; nor is there any infallible method to
prevent it. You must expect, however, that if I can be prevailed on by
your repentance to pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest
proof of its sincerity.” “Name any proof in my power,”
answered Jones eagerly. “Time,” replied she; “time
alone, Mr Jones, can convince me that you are a true penitent, and have
resolved to abandon these vicious courses, which I should detest you for,
if I imagined you capable of persevering in them.” “Do not
imagine it,” cries Jones. “On my knees I intreat, I implore
your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the business of my life to
deserve.” “Let it then,” said she, “be the
business of some part of your life to shew me you deserve it. I think I
have been explicit enough in assuring you, that, when I see you merit my
confidence, you will obtain it. After what is past, sir, can you expect I
should take you upon your word?”

He replied, “Don’t believe me upon my word; I have a better
security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to see and to
doubt.” “What is that?” said Sophia, a little surprized.
“I will show you, my charming angel,” cried Jones, seizing her
hand and carrying her to the glass. “There, behold it there in that
lovely figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which
shines through these eyes; can the man who shall be in possession of these
be inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord
Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any eyes
but your own.” Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing again
her brow into a frown—“If I am to judge,” said she,
“of the future by the past, my image will no more remain in your
heart when I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am
out of the room.” “By heaven, by all that is sacred!”
said Jones, “it never was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex
cannot conceive the grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour
has to do with the heart.” “I will never marry a man,”
replied Sophia, very gravely, “who shall not learn refinement enough
to be as incapable as I am myself of making such a distinction.”
“I will learn it,” said Jones. “I have learnt it
already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife taught
it me at once; and all the rest of her sex from that moment became as
little the objects of desire to my sense as of passion to my heart.”
“Well,” says Sophia, “the proof of this must be from
time. Your situation, Mr Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I have
great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want no opportunity of
being near me, and convincing me that your mind is altered too.”
“O! my angel,” cries Jones, “how shall I thank thy
goodness! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction in my
prosperity?——Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone
have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear hope——O!
my Sophia, let it not be a distant one.—I will be all obedience to
your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you permit
me. Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short trial. O! tell me when I may
expect you will be convinced of what is most solemnly true.” “When
I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr Jones,” said she, “I
expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not.”—“O! don’t
look unkindly thus, my Sophia,” cries he. “I do not, I dare
not press you.—Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix
the period. O! consider the impatience of love.”—“A
twelvemonth, perhaps,” said she. “O! my Sophia,” cries
he, “you have named an eternity.”—“Perhaps it may
be something sooner,” says she; “I will not be teazed. If your
passion for me be what I would have it, I think you may now be easy.”—“Easy!
Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as mine by so cold a name.——O!
transporting thought! am I not assured that the blessed day will come,
when I shall call you mine; when fears shall be no more; when I shall have
that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my Sophia
happy?”—“Indeed, sir,” said she, “that day
is in your own power.”—“O! my dear, my divine angel,”
cried he, “these words have made me mad with joy.——But I
must, I will thank those dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my
bliss.” He then caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an
ardour he had never ventured before.

At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst into the
room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out, “To her,
boy, to her, go to her.——That’s it, little honeys, O that’s
it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What,
shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan’t be put off a minute longer
than next day, I am resolved.” “Let me beseech you, sir,”
says Jones, “don’t let me be the occasion”——“Beseech
mine a——,” cries Western. “I thought thou hadst
been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to a parcel of maidenish
tricks.——I tell thee ’tis all flimflam. Zoodikers! she’d have
the wedding to-night with all her heart. Would’st not, Sophy? Come,
confess, and be an honest girl for once. What, art dumb? Why dost not
speak?” “Why should I confess, sir,” says Sophia,
“since it seems you are so well acquainted with my thoughts?”——“That’s
a good girl,” cries he, “and dost consent then?” “No,
indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have given no such consent.”—-“And
wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?” says Western.—“Indeed,
sir,” says she, “I have no such intention.” “But I
can tell thee,” replied he, “why hast nut; only because thou
dost love to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father.”
“Pray, sir,” said Jones, interfering——“I
tell thee thou art a puppy,” cries he. “When I vorbid her,
then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and languishing and
writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee. All the spirit of
contrary, that’s all. She is above being guided and governed by her
father, that is the whole truth on’t. It is only to disoblige and
contradict me.” “What would my papa have me do?” cries
Sophia. “What would I ha thee do?” says he, “why, gi’ un
thy hand this moment.”—“Well, sir,” says Sophia,
“I will obey you.—There is my hand, Mr Jones.” “Well,
and will you consent to ha un to-morrow morning?” says Western.—“I
will be obedient to you, sir,” cries she.—“Why then
to-morrow morning be the day,” cries he. “Why then to-morrow
morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so,” says
Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an agony of
joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room, presently
crying out—“Where the devil is Allworthy? He is without now, a
talking with that d—d lawyer Dowling, when he should be minding
other matters.” He then sallied out in quest of him, and very
opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone.

But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, “If you won’t believe
me, you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be
married to-morrow?” “Such are your commands, sir,” cries
Sophia, “and I dare not be guilty of disobedience.” “I
hope, madam,” cries Allworthy, “my nephew will merit so much
goodness, and will be always as sensible as myself of the great honour you
have done my family. An alliance with so charming and so excellent a young
lady would indeed be an honour to the greatest in England.” “Yes,”
cries Western, “but if I had suffered her to stand shill I shall I,
dilly dally, you might not have had that honour yet a while; I was forced
to use a little fatherly authority to bring her to.” “I hope
not, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I hope there is not the least
constraint.” “Why, there,” cries Western, “you may
bid her unsay all again if you will. Dost repent heartily of thy promise,
dost not, Sophia?” “Indeed, papa,” cries she, “I
do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall, of any promise in favour of
Mr Jones.” “Then, nephew,” cries Allworthy, “I
felicitate you most heartily; for I think you are the happiest of men.
And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful
occasion: indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one who
will be sensible of your great merit, and who will at least use his best
endeavours to deserve it.” “His best endeavours!” cries
Western, “that he will, I warrant un.——Harkee,
Allworthy, I’ll bet thee five pounds to a crown we have a boy to-morrow
nine months; but prithee tell me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne,
or what? for, please Jupiter, we’ll make a night on’t.” “Indeed,
sir,” said Allworthy, “you must excuse me; both my nephew and
I were engaged before I suspected this near approach of his happiness.”—“Engaged!”
quoth the squire, “never tell me.—I won’t part with thee
to-night upon any occasion. Shalt sup here, please the lord Harry.”
“You must pardon me, my dear neighbour!” answered Allworthy;
“I have given a solemn promise, and that you know I never break.”
“Why, prithee, who art engaged to?” cries the squire.——Allworthy
then informed him, as likewise of the company.——“Odzookers!”
answered the squire, “I will go with thee, and so shall Sophy! for I
won’t part with thee to-night; and it would be barbarous to part Tom and
the girl.” This offer was presently embraced by Allworthy, and
Sophia consented, having first obtained a private promise from her father
that he would not mention a syllable concerning her marriage.

Chapter the last.

In which the history is concluded.

Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to wait on his
father, who received him much more kindly than he expected. There likewise
he met his uncle, who was returned to town in quest of his new-married
daughter.

This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to the
young gentleman; for these brothers lived in a constant state of
contention about the government of their children, both heartily despising
the method which each other took. Each of them therefore now endeavoured,
as much as he could, to palliate the offence which his own child had
committed, and to aggravate the match of the other. This desire of
triumphing over his brother, added to the many arguments which Allworthy
had used, so strongly operated on the old gentleman that he met his son
with a smiling countenance, and actually agreed to sup with him that
evening at Mrs Miller’s.

As for the other, who really loved his daughter with the most immoderate
affection, there was little difficulty in inclining him to a
reconciliation. He was no sooner informed by his nephew where his daughter
and her husband were, than he declared he would instantly go to her. And
when he arrived there he scarce suffered her to fall upon her knees before
he took her up, and embraced her with a tenderness which affected all who
saw him; and in less than a quarter of an hour was as well reconciled to
both her and her husband as if he had himself joined their hands.

In this situation were affairs when Mr Allworthy and his company arrived
to complete the happiness of Mrs Miller, who no sooner saw Sophia than she
guessed everything that had happened; and so great was her friendship to
Jones, that it added not a few transports to those she felt on the
happiness of her own daughter.

There have not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people met
together, where every one was so perfectly happy as in this company.
Amongst whom the father of young Nightingale enjoyed the least perfect
content; for, notwithstanding his affection for his son, notwithstanding
the authority and the arguments of Allworthy, together with the other
motive mentioned before, he could not so entirely be satisfied with his
son’s choice; and, perhaps, the presence of Sophia herself tended a little
to aggravate and heighten his concern, as a thought now and then suggested
itself that his son might have had that lady, or some other such. Not that
any of the charms which adorned either the person or mind of Sophia
created the uneasiness; it was the contents of her father’s coffers which
set his heart a longing. These were the charms which he could not bear to
think his son had sacrificed to the daughter of Mrs Miller.

The brides were both very pretty women; but so totally were they eclipsed
by the beauty of Sophia, that, had they not been two of the best-tempered
girls in the world, it would have raised some envy in their breasts; for
neither of their husbands could long keep his eyes from Sophia, who sat at
the table like a queen receiving homage, or, rather, like a superior being
receiving adoration from all around her. But it was an adoration which
they gave, not which she exacted; for she was as much distinguished by her
modesty and affability as by all her other perfections.

The evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, but those the
most who had been most unhappy before. Their former sufferings and fears
gave such a relish to their felicity as even love and fortune, in their
fullest flow, could not have given without the advantage of such a
comparison. Yet, as great joy, especially after a sudden change and
revolution of circumstances, is apt to be silent, and dwells rather in the
heart than on the tongue, Jones and Sophia appeared the least merry of the
whole company; which Western observed with great impatience, often crying
out to them, “Why dost not talk, boy? Why dost look so grave? Hast
lost thy tongue, girl? Drink another glass of wine; sha’t drink another
glass.” And, the more to enliven her, he would sometimes sing a
merry song, which bore some relation to matrimony and the loss of a
maidenhead. Nay, he would have proceeded so far on that topic as to have
driven her out of the room, if Mr Allworthy had not checkt him, sometimes
by looks, and once or twice by a “Fie! Mr Western!” He began,
indeed, once to debate the matter, and assert his right to talk to his own
daughter as he thought fit; but, as nobody seconded him, he was soon
reduced to order.

Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with the
chearfulness and good-humour of the company, that he insisted on their
meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all did so; and the lovely
Sophia, who was now in private become a bride too, officiated as the
mistress of the ceremonies, or, in the polite phrase, did the honours of
the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones, in the chapel at
Doctors’-Commons, where Mr Allworthy, Mr Western, and Mrs Miller, were the
only persons present.

Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the company, who
were that day to dine with him, should be acquainted with her marriage.
The same secrecy was enjoined to Mrs Miller, and Jones undertook for
Allworthy. This somewhat reconciled the delicacy of Sophia to the public
entertainment which, in compliance with her father’s will, she was obliged
to go to, greatly against her own inclinations. In confidence of this
secrecy she went through the day pretty well, till the squire, who was now
advanced into the second bottle, could contain his joy no longer, but,
filling out a bumper, drank a health to the bride. The health was
immediately pledged by all present, to the great confusion of our poor
blushing Sophia, and the great concern of Jones upon her account. To say
truth, there was not a person present made wiser by this discovery; for
Mrs Miller had whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband,
her husband to his sister, and she to all the rest.

Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the ladies, and
the squire sat in to his cups, in which he was, by degrees, deserted by
all the company except the uncle of young Nightingale, who loved his
bottle as well as Western himself. These two, therefore, sat stoutly to it
during the whole evening, and long after that happy hour which had
surrendered the charming Sophia to the eager arms of her enraptured Jones.

Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion, in
which, to our great pleasure, though contrary, perhaps, to thy
expectation, Mr Jones appears to be the happiest of all humankind; for
what happiness this world affords equal to the possession of such a woman
as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never yet discovered.

As to the other persons who have made any considerable figure in this
history, as some may desire to know a little more concerning them, we will
proceed, in as few words as possible, to satisfy their curiosity.

Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he hath
yielded to the importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to settle £200
a-year upon him; to which Jones hath privately added a third. Upon this
income he lives in one of the northern counties, about 200 miles distant
from London, and lays up £200 a-year out of it, in order to purchase a
seat in the next parliament from a neighbouring borough, which he has
bargained for with an attourney there. He is also lately turned Methodist,
in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that sect, whose estate lies in
that part of the kingdom.

Square died soon after he writ the before-mentioned letter; and as to
Thwackum, he continues at his vicarage. He hath made many fruitless
attempts to regain the confidence of Allworthy, or to ingratiate himself
with Jones, both of whom he flatters to their faces, and abuses behind
their backs. But in his stead, Mr Allworthy hath lately taken Mr Abraham
Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is grown immoderately fond, and
declares he shall have the tuition of her children.

Mrs Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the little
remains of her fortune. She lives in reputation at the polite end of the
town, and is so good an economist, that she spends three times the income
of her fortune, without running into debt. She maintains a perfect
intimacy with the lady of the Irish peer; and in acts of friendship to her
repays all obligations she owes her husband.

Mrs Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent two
months together with her in the country. Lady Bellaston made the latter a
formal visit at her return to town, where she behaved to Jones as a
perfect stranger, and, with great civility, wished him joy on his
marriage.

Mr Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the neighbourhood
of Jones, where the young gentleman, his lady, Mrs Miller, and her little
daughter reside, and the most agreeable intercourse subsists between the
two families.

As to those of lower account, Mrs Waters returned into the country, had a
pension of £60 a-year settled upon her by Mr Allworthy, and is married to
Parson Supple, on whom, at the instance of Sophia, Western hath bestowed a
considerable living.

Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away, and was
never since heard of; and Jones bestowed the money on his family, but not
in equal proportions, for Molly had much the greatest share.

As for Partridge, Jones hath settled £50 a-year on him; and he hath again
set up a school, in which he meets with much better encouragement than
formerly, and there is now a treaty of marriage on foot between him and
Miss Molly Seagrim, which, through the mediation of Sophia, is likely to
take effect.

We now return to take leave of Mr Jones and Sophia, who, within two days
after their marriage, attended Mr Western and Mr Allworthy into the
country. Western hath resigned his family seat, and the greater part of
his estate, to his son-in-law, and hath retired to a lesser house of his
in another part of the country, which is better for hunting. Indeed, he is
often as a visitant with Mr Jones, who, as well as his daughter, hath an
infinite delight in doing everything in their power to please him. And
this desire of theirs is attended with such success, that the old
gentleman declares he was never happy in his life till now. He hath here a
parlour and ante-chamber to himself, where he gets drunk with whom he
pleases: and his daughter is still as ready as formerly to play to him
whenever he desires it; for Jones hath assured her that, as, next to
pleasing her, one of his highest satisfactions is to contribute to the
happiness of the old man; so, the great duty which she expresses and
performs to her father, renders her almost equally dear to him with the
love which she bestows on himself.

Sophia hath already produced him two fine children, a boy and a girl, of
whom the old gentleman is so fond, that he spends much of his time in the
nursery, where he declares the tattling of his little grand-daughter, who
is above a year and a half old, is sweeter music than the finest cry of
dogs in England.

Allworthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and hath
omitted no instance of shewing his affection to him and his lady, who love
him as a father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a tendency to vice,
has been corrected by continual conversation with this good man, and by
his union with the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He hath also, by reflection
on his past follies, acquired a discretion and prudence very uncommon in
one of his lively parts.

To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and woman, than
this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more happy. They preserve
the purest and tenderest affection for each other, an affection daily
encreased and confirmed by mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is
their conduct towards their relations and friends less amiable than
towards one another. And such is their condescension, their indulgence,
and their beneficence to those below them, that there is not a neighbour,
a tenant, or a servant, who doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr
Jones was married to his Sophia.

THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING

By Henry Fielding

To the Honourable

GEORGE LYTTLETON, ESQ;

HENRY FIELDING.

THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING.

BOOK I. — CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY.

Chapter i. — The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast.

Chapter ii. — A short description of squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister.

Chapter iii. — An odd accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return home. The decent behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, with some proper animadversions on bastards.

Chapter iv. — The reader’s neck brought into danger by a description; his escape; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.

Chapter v. — Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation upon them.

Chapter vi. — Mrs Deborah is introduced into the parish with a simile. A short account of Jenny Jones, with the difficulties and discouragements which may attend young women in the pursuit of learning.

Chapter vii. — Containing such grave matter, that the reader cannot laugh once through the whole chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh at the author.

Chapter viii. — A dialogue between Mesdames Bridget and Deborah; containing more amusement, but less instruction, than the former.

Chapter ix. — Containing matters which will surprize the reader.

Chapter x. — The hospitality of Allworthy; with a short sketch of the characters of two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were entertained by that gentleman.

Chapter xi. — Containing many rules, and some examples, concerning falling in love: descriptions of beauty, and other more prudential inducements to matrimony.

Chapter xii. — Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find in it.

Chapter xiii. — Which concludes the first book; with an instance of ingratitude, which, we hope, will appear unnatural.

BOOK II. — CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT DEGREES OF LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET ALLWORTHY.

Chapter i. — Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like, and what it is not like.

Chapter ii. — Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bastards; and a great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wilkins.

Chapter iii. — The description of a domestic government founded upon rules directly contrary to those of Aristotle.

Chapter iv. — Containing one of the most bloody battles, or rather duels, that were ever recorded in domestic history.

Chapter v. — Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and reflection of the reader.

Chapter vi. — The trial of Partridge, the schoolmaster, for incontinency; the evidence of his wife; a short reflection on the wisdom of our law; with other grave matters, which those will like best who understand them most.

Chapter vii. — A short sketch of that felicity which prudent couples may extract from hatred: with a short apology for those people who overlook imperfections in their friends.

Chapter viii. — A receipt to regain the lost affections of a wife, which hath never been known to fail in the most desperate cases.

Chapter ix. — A proof of the infallibility of the foregoing receipt, in the lamentations of the widow; with other suitable decorations of death, such as physicians, &c., and an epitaph in the true stile.

BOOK III. — CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN THE FAMILY OF MR ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS BOOK