The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling

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Title: The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling
Author: Henry Fielding
Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6593]
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Last Updated: March 15, 2018
Language: English
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THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING
By Henry Fielding
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
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 THE READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF
CHILDREN.
Chapter i -- Containing little or nothing.
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.
Chapter iii -- The character of Mr Square the philosopher, and of Mr
Thwackum the divine; with a dispute concerning----
Chapter iv.
Containing a necessary apology for the author; and a childish
incident, which perhaps requires an apology likewise --
Chapter v. -- The opinions of the divine and the philosopher
concerning the two boys; with some reasons for their opinions, and
other matters.
Chapter vi -- Containing a better reason still for the
before-mentioned opinions.
Chapter vii -- In which the author himself makes his appearance on the
stage.
Chapter viii -- A childish incident, in which, however, is seen a
good-natured disposition in Tom Jones.
Chapter ix -- Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with the
comments of Thwackum and Square.
Chapter x -- In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different
lights.
BOOK IV -- CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.
Chapter i -- Containing five pages of paper.
Chapter ii -- A short hint of what we can do in the sublime, and a
description of Miss Sophia Western.
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.
Chapter iv -- Containing such very deep and grave matters, that some
readers, perhaps, may not relish it.
Chapter v -- Containing matter accommodated to every taste.
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.
Chapter vii -- Being the shortest chapter in this book.
Chapter viii -- A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican style, and
which none but the classical reader can taste.
Chapter ix -- Containing matter of no very peaceable colour.
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.
Chapter xi -- The narrow escape of Molly Seagrim, with some
observations for which we have been forced to dive pretty deep into
nature.
Chapter xii -- Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from
the same fountain with those in the preceding 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.
Chapter xiv -- The arrival of a surgeon.--His operations, and a long
dialogue between Sophia and her maid.
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.
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.
Chapter iii -- Which all who have no heart will think to contain much
ado about nothing.
Chapter iv -- A little chapter, in which is contained a little
incident.
Chapter v -- A very long chapter, containing a very great incident.
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.
Chapter vii -- In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed.
Chapter viii -- Containing matter rather natural than pleasing.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
BOOK VI -- CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
Chapter i -- Of love.
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.
Chapter iii -- Containing two defiances to the critics.
Chapter iv -- Containing sundry curious matters.
Chapter v -- In which is related what passed between Sophia and her
aunt.
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.
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.
Chapter viii -- The meeting between Jones and Sophia.
Chapter ix -- Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former.
Chapter x -- In which Mr Western visits Mr Allworthy.
Chapter xi -- A short chapter; but which contains sufficient matter to
affect the good-natured reader.
Chapter xii -- Containing love-letters, &c.
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.
Chapter xiv -- A short chapter, containing a short dialogue between
Squire Western and his sister.
BOOK VII -- CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- A comparison between the world and the stage.
Chapter ii -- Containing a conversation which Mr Jones had with
himself.
Chapter iii -- Containing several dialogues.
Chapter iv -- A picture of a country gentlewoman taken from the life.
Chapter v -- The generous behaviour of Sophia towards her aunt.
Chapter vi -- Containing great variety of matter.
Chapter vii -- A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange
stratagem of Mrs Honour.
Chapter viii -- Containing scenes of altercation, of no very uncommon
kind.
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.
Chapter x -- Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but
low.
Chapter xi -- The adventure of a company of soldiers.
Chapter xii -- The adventure of a company of officers.
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.
Chapter xiv -- A most dreadful chapter indeed; and which few readers
ought to venture upon in an evening, especially when alone.
Chapter xv -- The conclusion of the foregoing adventure.
BOOK VIII -- CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- A wonderful long chapter concerning the marvellous; being
much the longest of all our introductory chapters.
Chapter ii -- In which the landlady pays a visit to Mr Jones.
Chapter iii -- In which the surgeon makes his second appearance.
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.
Chapter v -- A dialogue between Mr Jones and the barber.
Chapter vi -- In which more of the talents of Mr Benjamin will appear,
as well as who this extraordinary person was.
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.
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.
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.
Chapter x -- In which our travellers meet with a very extraordinary
adventure.
Chapter xi -- In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his
history.
Chapter xii -- In which the Man of the Hill continues his history.
Chapter xiii -- In which the foregoing story is farther continued.
Chapter xiv -- In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.
Chapter xv -- A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse
between Mr Jones and the Man of the Hill.
BOOK IX -- CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i -- Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not,
write such histories as this.
Chapter ii -- Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr
Jones met with in his walk with the Man of the Hill.
Chapter iii -- The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn; with
a very full description of the battle of Upton.
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.
Chapter v -- An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a
description of a battle of the amorous kind.
Chapter vi -- A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very
common, though not very friendly, conclusion.
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.
BOOK X -- IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i -- Containing instructions very necessary to be perused by
modern critics.
Chapter ii -- Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman, with very
extraordinary adventures which ensued at the inn.
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.
Chapter iv -- Containing infallible nostrums for procuring universal
disesteem and hatred.
Chapter v -- Showing who the amiable lady, and her unamiable maid,
were.
Chapter vi -- Containing, among other things, the ingenuity of
Partridge, the madness of Jones, and the folly of Fitzpatrick.
Chapter vii -- In which are concluded the adventures that happened at
the inn at Upton.
Chapter viii -- In which the history goes backward.
Chapter ix -- The escape of Sophia.
BOOK XI -- CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- A crust for the critics.
Chapter ii -- The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving
Upton.
Chapter iii -- A very short chapter, in which however is a sun, a
moon, a star, and an angel.
Chapter iv -- The history of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter v -- In which the history of Mrs Fitzpatrick is continued.
Chapter vi -- In which the mistake of the landlord throws Sophia into
a dreadful consternation.
Chapter vii -- In which Mrs Fitzpatrick concludes her history.
Chapter viii -- A dreadful alarm in the inn, with the arrival of an
unexpected friend of Mrs Fitzpatrick.
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.
Chapter x -- Containing a hint or two concerning virtue, and a few
more concerning suspicion.
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.
Chapter ii -- In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter,
something is found which puts an end to his pursuit.
Chapter iii -- The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed
between him and Partridge on the road.
Chapter iv -- The adventure of a beggar-man.
Chapter v -- Containing more adventures which Mr Jones and his
companion met on the road.
Chapter vi -- From which it may be inferred that the best things are
liable to be misunderstood and misinterpreted.
Chapter vii -- Containing a remark or two of our own and many more of
the good company assembled in the kitchen.
Chapter viii -- In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour
with Jones than we have hitherto seen her.
Chapter ix -- Containing little more than a few odd observations.
Chapter x -- In which Mr Jones and Mr Dowling drink a bottle together.
Chapter xi -- The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for
Coventry; with the sage remarks of Partridge.
Chapter xii -- Relates that Mr Jones continued his journey, contrary
to the advice of Partridge, with what happened on that occasion.
Chapter xiii -- A dialogue between Jones and Partridge.
Chapter xiv -- What happened to Mr Jones in his journey from St
Albans.
BOOK XIII -- CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.
Chapter i -- An Invocation.
Chapter ii -- What befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London.
Chapter iii -- A project of Mrs Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady
Bellaston.
Chapter iv -- Which consists of visiting.
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.
Chapter vi -- What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with
some hints concerning the government of daughters.
Chapter vii -- Containing the whole humours of a masquerade.
Chapter viii -- Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very
extraordinary to most of our readers.
Chapter ix -- Which treats of matters of a very different kind from
those in the preceding chapter.
Chapter x -- A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some
eyes.
Chapter xi -- In which the reader will be surprized.
Chapter xii -- In which the thirteenth book is concluded.
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.
Chapter ii -- Containing letters and other matters which attend
amours.
Chapter iii -- Containing various matters.
Chapter iv -- Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young
people of both sexes.
Chapter v -- A short account of the history of Mrs Miller.
Chapter vi -- Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all
our readers.
Chapter vii -- The interview between Mr Jones and Mr Nightingale.
Chapter viii -- What passed between Jones and old Mr Nightingale; with
the arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history.
Chapter ix -- Containing strange matters.
Chapter x -- A short chapter, which concludes the book.
BOOK XV -- IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
Chapter i -- Too short to need a preface.
Chapter ii -- In which is opened a very black design against Sophia.
Chapter iii -- A further explanation of the foregoing design.
Chapter iv -- By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady
is when she applies her eloquence to an ill purpose.
Chapter v -- Containing some matters which may affect, and others
which may surprize, the reader.
Chapter vi -- By what means the squire came to discover his daughter.
Chapter vii -- In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones.
Chapter viii -- Short and sweet.
Chapter ix -- Containing love-letters of several sorts.
Chapter x -- Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations
upon them.
Chapter xi -- Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter.
Chapter xii -- A discovery made by Partridge.
BOOK XVI -- CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.
Chapter i -- Of prologues.
Chapter ii -- A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the
distressed situation of Sophia.
Chapter iii -- What happened to Sophia during her confinement.
Chapter iv -- In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement.
Chapter v -- In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to
a play with Mrs Miller and Partridge.
Chapter vi -- In which the history is obliged to look back.
Chapter vii -- In which Mr Western pays a visit to his sister, in
company with Mr Blifil.
Chapter viii -- Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones.
Chapter ix -- In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Chapter x -- The consequence of the preceding visit.
BOOK XVII -- CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
Chapter i -- Containing a portion of introductory writing.
Chapter ii -- The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller.
Chapter iii -- The arrival of Mr Western, with some matters concerning
the paternal authority.
Chapter iv -- An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt.
Chapter v -- Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale visit Jones in the prison.
Chapter vi -- In which Mrs Miller pays a visit to Sophia.
Chapter vii -- A pathetic scene between Mr Allworthy and Mrs Miller.
Chapter viii -- Containing various matters.
Chapter ix -- What happened to Mr Jones in the prison.
BOOK XVIII -- CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.
Chapter i -- A farewel to the reader.
Chapter ii -- Containing a very tragical incident.
Chapter iii -- Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange
discovery that he made on that occasion.
Chapter iv -- Containing two letters in very different stiles.
Chapter v -- In which the history is continued.
Chapter vi -- In which the history is farther continued.
Chapter vii -- Continuation of the history.
Chapter viii -- Further continuation.
Chapter ix -- A further continuation.
Chapter x -- Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion.
Chapter xi -- The history draws nearer to a conclusion.
Chapter xii -- Approaching still nearer to the end.
Chapter the last -- In which the history is concluded.
To the Honourable
GEORGE LYTTLETON, ESQ;
One of the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury.
Sir,
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
_Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame_.
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--
“True wit is nature to advantage drest;
What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest.”
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.
[*]Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons
without virtue or sense, in all stations; and many of the highest
rank are often meant by it.
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--
_Ad confligendum venientibus undique poenis,
Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris;
In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique._
Of which we wish we could give our readers a more adequate translation
than that by Mr Creech--
When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms,
And all the world was shook with fierce alarms;
Whilst undecided yet, which part should fall,
Which nation rise the glorious lord of all.
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
To make a life of jealousy
And follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions--
With her, as well as him,
--To be once in doubt,
Was once to be resolvd--
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
--_Leve fit quod bene fertur onus_
in English:
A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne--
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:
_Tu secanda marmora
Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri
Immemor, struis domos._
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.
HERE LIES,
IN EXPECTATION OF A JOYFUL RISING,
THE BODY OF
CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL.
LONDON
HAD THE HONOUR OF HIS BIRTH,
OXFORD
OF HIS EDUCATION.
HIS PARTS
WERE AN HONOUR TO HIS PROFESSION
AND TO HIS COUNTRY:
HIS LIFE, TO HIS RELIGION
AND HUMAN NATURE.
HE WAS A DUTIFUL SON,
A TENDER HUSBAND,
AN AFFECTIONATE FATHER,
A MOST KIND BROTHER,
A SINCERE FRIEND,
A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN,
AND A GOOD MAN.
HIS INCONSOLABLE WIDOW
HATH ERECTED THIS STONE,
THE MONUMENT OF
HIS VIRTUES
AND OF HER AFFECTION.
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
_Fruges consumere nati,_
“Born to consume the fruits of the earth;” so I make no manner of
doubt but that there are others
_Feras consumere nati,_
“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--
While--history with her comrade ale,
Soothes the sad series of her serious tale
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 lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin.
Some bee had stung it newly.
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 pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
That one might almost say her body thought.
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,
_Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius_.
A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble.
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
_Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno._
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
_Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris._
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.[*]
[*] The English reader will not find this in the poem; for the
sentiment is entirely left out in the translation.
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.”
[*] This is the second person of low condition whom we have recorded
in this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped
such instances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for
the families of the inferior clergy, appear stranger than they can
be thought at present.
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
_Inventas qui vitam excoluere per artes._
Who by invented arts have life improved.
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:
_Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus;
Verum opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum._
I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep,
Yet slumbers on long works have right to creep.
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,
Sleepless himself to give his readers sleep.
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--
_--Captique dolis lachrymisque coacti
Quos neque Tydides, nec Larissaeus Achilles,
Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinae._
What Diomede or Thetis' greater son,
A thousand ships, nor ten years' siege had done
False tears and fawning words the city won.
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--
Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them;
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die.
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
_Si nullus erit, tamen excute nullum,_
If there be none, then wipe away that none,
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.”
_Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam chari capitis?_[*]
[*] “What modesty or measure can set bounds to our desire of so dear
a friend?” The word _desiderium_ here cannot be easily translated.
It includes our desire of enjoying our friend again, and the grief
which attends that desire.
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
_Speluncam_ Blifil _dux et divinus eandem
Deveniunt--_
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),
_--Procul, o procul este, profani;
Proclamat vates, totoque absistite luco._
--Far hence be souls profane,
The sibyl cry'd, and from the grove abstain.--DRYDEN.
[*] This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.
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:--
“MADAM,
“When you reflect on the situation in which I write, I am sure your
good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or absurdity which my
letter contains; for everything here flows from a heart so full,
that no language can express its dictates.
“I have resolved, madam, to obey your commands, in flying for ever
from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those commands are;
but it is a cruelty which proceeds from fortune, not from my Sophia.
Fortune hath made it necessary, necessary to your preservation, to
forget there ever was such a wretch as I am.
“Believe me, I would not hint all my sufferings to you, if I
imagined they could possibly escape your ears. I know the goodness
and tenderness of your heart, and would avoid giving you any of
those pains which you always feel for the miserable. O let nothing,
which you shall hear of my hard fortune, cause a moment's concern;
for, after the loss of you, everything is to me a trifle.
“O Sophia! it is hard to leave you; it is harder still to desire you
to forget me; yet the sincerest love obliges me to both. Pardon my
conceiving that any remembrance of me can give you disquiet; but if
I am so gloriously wretched, sacrifice me every way to your relief.
Think I never loved you; or think truly how little I deserve you;
and learn to scorn me for a presumption which can never be too
severely punished.--I am unable to say more.--May guardian angels
protect you for ever!”
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:--
“SIR,
“It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults from my father,
lays me under an obligation I shall ever own. As you know his
temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid him. I wish I had any
comfort to send you; but believe this, that nothing but the last
violence shall ever give my hand or heart where you would be sorry
to see them bestowed.”
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.”
[*] The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches
for this in Milton.]
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--
--Life's a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
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.
From Thee[*] all human actions take their springs,
The rise of empires and the fall of kings!
See the vast Theatre of Time display'd,
While o'er the scene succeeding heroes tread!
With pomp the shining images succeed,
What leaders triumph, and what monarchs bleed!
Perform the parts thy providence assign'd,
Their pride, their passions, to thy ends inclin'd:
Awhile they glitter in the face of day,
Then at thy nod the phantoms pass away;
No traces left of all the busy scene,
But that remembrance says--_The things have been!_
[*] The Deity.
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:--
“SIR,
“I am commanded by my uncle to acquaint you, that as he did not
proceed to those measures he had taken with you, without the
greatest deliberation, and after the fullest evidence of your
unworthiness, so will it be always out of your power to cause the
least alteration in his resolution. He expresses great surprize at
your presumption in saying you have resigned all pretensions to a
young lady, to whom it is impossible you should ever have had any,
her birth and fortune having made her so infinitely your superior.
Lastly, I am commanded to tell you, that the only instance of your
compliance with my uncle's inclinations which he requires, is, your
immediately quitting this country. I cannot conclude this without
offering you my advice, as a Christian, that you would seriously
think of amending your life. That you may be assisted with grace so
to do, will be always the prayer of
“Your humble servant,
“W. BLIFIL.”
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.
[*] By this word here, and in most other parts of our work, we mean
every reader in the world.
[**] It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.
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,
_--Quis credet? nemo Hercule! nemo;
Vel duo, vel nemo;_
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!”
Angels are painted fair to look like her.
There's in her all that we believe of heav'n,
Amazing brightness, purity, and truth,
Eternal joy and everlasting love.
“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--
_Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus,
Externi ne quid valeat per laeve morari;
In quem manca ruit semper Fortuna._“[*]
[*] Firm in himself, who on himself relies,
Polish'd and round, who runs his proper course
And breaks misfortunes with superior force.--MR FRANCIS.
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.
[*] _The rest of this paragraph and the two following paragraphs
in the first edition were as follows_:
“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, that nothing but the immediate interposition of Providence
seemed capable of preserving it; for King James had indeed declared
war against the Protestant cause. He had brought known papists into
the army and attempted to bring them into the Church and into the
University. Popish priests swarmed through the nation, appeared
publicly in their habits, and boasted that they should shortly walk
in procession through the streets. Our own clergy were forbid to
preach against popery, and bishops were ordered to supend those who
did; and to do the business at once an illegal ecclesiastical
commission was erected, little inferior to an inquisition, of which,
probably, it was intended to be the ringleader. Thus, as our duty to
the king can never be called more than our second duty, he had
discharged us from this by making it incompatible with our
preserving the first, which is surely to heaven. Besides this, he
had dissolved his subjects from their allegiance by breaking his
Coronation Oath, to which their allegiance is annexed; for he had
imprisoned bishops because they would not give up their religion,
and turned out judges because they would not absolutely surrender
the law into his hands; nay, he seized this himself, and when he
claimed a dispensing power, he declared himself, in fact, as
absolute as any tyrant ever was or can be. I have recapitulated
these matters in full lest some of them should have been omitted in
history; and I think nothing less than such provocations as I have
here mentioned, nothing less than certain and imminent danger to
their religion and liberties, can justify or even mitigate the
dreadful sin of rebellion in any people.”
“I promise you, sir,” says Jones, “all these facts, and more, I have
read in history, but I will tell you a fact which is not yet
recorded and of which I suppose you are ignorant. There is actually
now a rebellion on foot in this kingdom in favour of the son of that
very King James, a professed papist, more bigoted, if possible, than
his father, and this carried on by Protestants against a king who
hath never in one single instance made the least invasion on our
liberties.”
“Prodigious indeed!” answered the stranger. “You tell me what would
be incredible of a nation which did not deserve the character that
Virgil gives of a woman, _varium et mutabile semper_. Surely this is
to be unworthy of the care which Providence seems to have taken of
us in the preservation of our religion against the powerful designs
and constant machinations of Popery, a preservation so strange and
unaccountable that I almost think we may appeal to it as to a
miracle for the proof of its holiness. Prodigious indeed! A
Protestant rebellion in favour of a popish prince! The folly of
mankind is as wonderful as their knavery--But to conclude my story:
I resolved to take arms in defence of my country, of my religion,
and my liberty, and Mr. Watson joined in the same resolution. We
soon provided ourselves with an necessaries and joined the Duke at
Bridgewater.”
“The unfortunate event of this enterprise you are perhaps better
acquainted with than myself. I escaped together with Mr. Watson from
the battle at Sedgemore,...
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.”
[*] the rest of this paragraph is omitted in the third edition
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.
_Scribimus indocti doctique passim_,[*]
[*] --Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the trade of every living wight.--FRANCIS.
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.
[*] There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor,
and these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as
they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not
on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to
excel all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the
servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at.
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.
[*] This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an affront,
is a term in logic, and means that the conclusion does not follow
from the premises.
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
_----nulla virtute redemptum
A vitiis_----[*]
[*] Whose vices are not allayed with a single virtue
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.
[*] A celebrated mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off
the shapes of women.
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,
(E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam's curtains in the dead of night,
And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd)
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.
[*] Possibly Circassian.
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.
[*] This was the village where Jones met the Quaker.
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--
“Who steals my purse steals trash; 't is something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and hath been slave to thousands:
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that WHICH NOT ENRICHES HIM,
BUT MAKES ME POOR INDEED.”
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:
_Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis
Offendor maculis, quas aut incuria fudit,
Aut humana parum cavit natura----_
But where the beauties, more in number, shine,
I am not angry, when a casual line
(That with some trivial faults unequal flows)
A careless hand or human frailty shows.--MR FRANCIS.
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:
_'To Mr Brian Fitzpatrick._
'SIR,
'YOURS received, and am surprized you should use me in this manner,
as have never seen any of your cash, unless for one linsey-woolsey
coat, and your bill now is upwards of £150. Consider, sir, how often
you have fobbed me off with your being shortly to be married to this
lady and t'other lady; but I can neither live on hopes or promises,
nor will my woollen-draper take any such in payment. You tell me you
are secure of having either the aunt or the niece, and that you
might have married the aunt before this, whose jointure you say is
immense, but that you prefer the niece on account of her ready
money. Pray, sir, take a fool's advice for once, and marry the first
you can get. You will pardon my offering my advice, as you know I
sincerely wish you well. Shall draw on you per next post, in favour
of Messieurs John Drugget and company, at fourteen days, which doubt
not your honouring, and am,
Sir, your humble servant, 'SAM. COSGRAVE.'
“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.
`_Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
Mors et fugacem persequitur virum
Nec parcit imbellis juventae
Poplitibus, timidoque tergo._'”
“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.
------Even from his boyish years,
To th' very moment he was bad to tell:
the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;
He swore 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wonderous pitiful.
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,
_Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor aestiva recreatur aura,
Quod latus mundi nebulae, malusque
Jupiter urget.
Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
Solis in terra dominibus negata;
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem._[*]
[*] Place me where never summer breeze
Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees:
Where ever-lowering clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th' inclement year.
Place me beneath the burning ray,
Where rolls the rapid car of day;
Love and the nymph shall charm my toils,
The nymph who sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles.
MR FRANCIS.
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.
And here we will make a concession, which would not perhaps have been
expected from us, that no limited form of government is capable of
rising to the same degree of perfection, or of producing the same
benefits to society, with this. Mankind have never been so happy, as
when the greatest part of the then known world was under the dominion
of a single master; and this state of their felicity continued during
the reigns of five successive princes.[*] This was the true aera of
the golden age, and the only golden age which ever had any existence,
unless in the warm imaginations of the poets, from the expulsion from
Eden down to this day.
[*] Nerva, Trajan, Adrian, and the two Antonini.
In reality, I know but of one solid objection to absolute monarchy.
The only defect in which excellent constitution seems to be, the
difficulty of finding any man adequate to the office of an absolute
monarch: for this indispensably requires three qualities very
difficult, as it appears from history, to be found in princely
natures: first, a sufficient quantity of moderation in the prince, to
be contented with all the power which is possible for him to have.
2ndly, Enough of wisdom to know his own happiness. And, 3rdly,
Goodness sufficient to support the happiness of others, when not only
compatible with, but instrumental to his own.
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.
[*] See the 2d Odyssey, ver. 175.
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--
_--Non acuta
Sic geminant Corybantes aera._
The priests of Cybele do not so rattle their sounding brass.
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.
[*] Lest posterity should be puzzled by this epithet, I think proper
to explain it by an advertisement which was published Feb. 1, 1747.
N.B.--Mr Broughton proposes, with proper assistance, to open an
academy at his house in the Haymarket, for the instruction of those
who are willing to be initiated in the mystery of boxing: where the
whole theory and practice of that truly British art, with all the
various stops, blows, cross-buttocks, &c., incident to combatants,
will be fully taught and explained; and that persons of quality and
distinction may not be deterred from entering into _A course of
those lectures_, they will be given with the utmost tenderness and
regard to the delicacy of the frame and constitution of the pupil,
for which reason muffles are provided, that will effectually secure
them from the inconveniency of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody
noses.
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:--
To MR JONES.
The queen of the fairies sends you this;
Use her favours not amiss.
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:--
“A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since
our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more
at the usual place. I will, if possible, contrive some other place
by to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu.”
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:--
“I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are no
stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder at. I
am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house, whatever
may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine abroad,
but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that
sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.
“If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them
show you into the drawing-room.”
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:--
“I was never more surprized than when I found you was gone. When you
left the room I little imagined you intended to have left the house
without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece, and
convinces me how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon
an idiot; though I know not whether I should not admire her cunning
more than her simplicity: wonderful both! For though she understood
not a word of what passed between us, yet she had the skill, the
assurance, the----what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she
knows you, or ever saw you before.----Was this a scheme laid between
you, and have you been base enough to betray me?----O how I despise
her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for----I dare not
write what I should afterwards run mad to read; but remember, I can
detest as violently as I have loved.”
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.
“When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ,
you cannot be surprized at any expressions in my former note.--Yet,
perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would,
if possible, think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the
impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my
appointment.----How easy is it to think well of those we
love!----Perhaps you desire I should think so. I have resolved to
see you to-night; so come to me immediately.
“_P.S._--I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself.
“_P.S._--Mr Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence;
for I believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to
impose on myself.
“_P.S._--Come immediately.”
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:--
“Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you
left this house; and as I have reason to think you intend coming
here again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, as she
tells me she knows your lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by
all the regard you have for me, not to think of visiting here; for
it will certainly be discovered; nay, I almost doubt, from some
things which have dropt from her ladyship, that she is not already
without some suspicion. Something favourable perhaps may happen; we
must wait with patience; but I once more entreat you, if you have
any concern for my ease, do not think of returning hither.”
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:--
“I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but more
concerned for the occasion; take great care of yourself, and have
the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger.--I am so
tormented all this morning with fools, that I have scarce a moment's
time to write to you. Adieu.
“_P.S._--I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine.--Be
sure to be alone.”
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----
When every eye was closed, and the pale moon,
And silent stars, shone conscious of the theft.”
“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.
“'Madam,
“'I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which your
own good sense, and the excellent lessons you must have learnt from
the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any advice
which I am capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you, whom I
have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will suffer any
immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your
duty to those poor infants, who now alone stand in need of your
tenderness.
“`However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of
much worldly consideration, you will pardon my having ordered a
person to wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg
you will accept till I have the pleasure of seeing you, and believe
me to be, madam, &c.'
“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:
“DEAR NANCY,
“As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this
method to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately
paying my addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath
provided for my--I need not write the detested word. Your own good
understanding will make you sensible, how entirely I am obliged to
an obedience, by which I shall be for ever excluded from your dear
arms. The fondness of your mother may encourage you to trust her
with the unhappy consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a
secret from the world, and for which I will take care to provide, as
I will for you. I wish you may feel less on this account than I have
suffered; but summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and
forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain
ruin could have forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I
mean only as a lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in
your faithful, though unhappy,
“J. N.”
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--
“Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.”----
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.
“HONOURED MADAM,
“The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a letter of mine
agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of her nieces, though
I have little reason to hope it will be so on the account of
another.
“Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my unhappy self at
your feet, I met, by the strangest accident in the world, my cousin
Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted with than myself,
though, alas! I know infinitely too much; enough indeed to satisfy
me, that unless she is immediately prevented, she is in danger of
running into the same fatal mischief, which, by foolishly and
ignorantly refusing your most wise and prudent advice, I have
unfortunately brought on myself.
“In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most part of yesterday in
his company, and a charming young fellow I promise you he is. By
what accident he came acquainted with me is too tedious to tell you
now; but I have this morning changed my lodgings to avoid him, lest
he should by my means discover my cousin; for he doth not yet know
where she is, and it is adviseable he should not, till my uncle hath
secured her.----No time therefore is to be lost; and I need only
inform you, that she is now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen,
and who hath, I find, a design of concealing her from her family.
You know, madam, she is a strange woman; but nothing could misbecome
me more than to presume to give any hint to one of your great
understanding and great knowledge of the world, besides barely
informing you of the matter of fact.
“I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for the
good of my family will recommend me again to the favour of a lady
who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true
interest of us all; and that it may be a means of restoring me to
your friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former, and
is so necessary to my future happiness.
“I am,
with the utmost respect,
honoured madam,
your most dutiful obliged niece,
and most obedient humble
servant,
HARRIET FITZPATRICK.”
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.
LETTER I.
“Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my
resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last
night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to
hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know
that to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you
can invent.----Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come
to me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an
excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too----I will
think no more.----Come to me directly.----This is the third letter I
have writ, the two former are burnt----I am almost inclined to burn
this too----I wish I may preserve my senses.----Come to me
presently.”
LETTER II.
“If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my
doors, come to me this instant.”
LETTER III.
“I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your lodgings.
The moment you receive this let me see you;--I shall not stir out;
nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can detain
you long.”
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:--
“MADAM,
“I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement
abroad, I should have missed receiving the honour of your ladyship's
commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer
of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this
misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I been in for fear
your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents! There
is one only way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only
permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so
my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your
feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made
completely happy without you generously bestow on me a legal right
of calling you mine for ever.--I am,
madam,
with most profound respect,
your ladyship's most obliged,
obedient, humble servant,
THOMAS JONES.”
To this she presently returned the following answer:
“SIR,
“When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness
and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you
mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous
animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or
do you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my
senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in
order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are
these the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for--?
but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your
profound respect.
“P.S. I am prevented from revising:----Perhaps I have said more than
I meant.----Come to me at eight this evening.”
Jones, by the advice of his privy-council, replied:
“MADAM,
“It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion
you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have conferred favours on a
man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she
treat the most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine,
madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an unguarded moment,
overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think
of indulging myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could
not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when
discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your
opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning
those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to
receive at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall
ever remain, &c.” And so concluded in the very words with which he
had concluded the former letter.
The lady answered as follows:
“I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you
come here I shall not be at home.”
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
Beyond the fix'd and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law.
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,
“The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him!”
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._
“SIR,
“I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt
itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose
very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such
anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly
to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind
as to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such
thing, to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and
pepil who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare
harts. To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin
thru ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be
a genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,
to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest
respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons
tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee
sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf bin in so
gud a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I
never was a dremd of any such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after
ani other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a
cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs Etoff herself, nor
no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals
in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf
sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't
cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to
miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that
matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and nott mi
one mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and
belive me to be, sir, ure Onur's umble servant to cumand till deth,
“HONOUR BLACKMORE.”
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:--
“SIR,
“From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too
plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue
nor my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the
family where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and
told me such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you
are not only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have
also the satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person,
understanding, or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a
fortune sufficient to make us both happy, but which cannot make me
so without you. In thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur
the censure of the world; but if I did not love you more than I fear
the world, I should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops
me: I am informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a
woman of fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to
the possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and
let this remain an eternal secret between you and
“ARABELLA HUNT.”
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:--
“MADAM,
“It would be but a poor return to the favour you have done me to
sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would
certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,
from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you
think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to
another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,
though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in
return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to
give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather
starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married
to another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely
effaced all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not
more safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and
grateful humble servant,
“T. JONES.”
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:--
“MADAM,
“Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should
endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the
account brought me by Mrs Honour; but as tenderness alone can have
any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,
so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the
most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must
have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance
in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any
misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and
with that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful
consideration that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do
myself too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs
me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a
greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my
presence, my absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any
relief? Can the most perfect admiration, the most watchful
observance, the most ardent love, the most melting tenderness, the
most resigned submission to your will, make you amends for what you
are to sacrifice to my happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel,
to those arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to
which, whether you bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world
with you, is, in my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If,
on the contrary, wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature
reflection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if
there be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace
of your dear mind, but by abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for
ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and let no
compassion for my sufferings bear the least weight in that tender
bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely love you better than
myself, that my great and principal end is your happiness. My first
wish (why would not fortune indulge me in it?) was, and pardon me if
I say, still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; my
second wish is, to hear you are so; but no misery on earth can equal
mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment to him who is,
Madam,
in every sense, and to every purpose,
your devoted,
THOMAS JONES.”
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:
“Sir,
“As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be
pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the
arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am at present, and with whom
I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I
have most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though
she hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the
word conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach
of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what
is expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on
reflection, afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a
comfort to you of this kind; for though there is one thing in which
I can never comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly
resolved never to act in defiance of him, or to take any step of
consequence without his consent. A firm persuasion of this must
teach you to divert your thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps)
made impossible. This your own interest persuades you. This may
reconcile, I hope, Mr Allworthy to you; and if it will, you have my
injunctions to pursue it. Accidents have laid some obligations on
me, and your good intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be
some time kinder to us both than at present. Believe this, that I
shall always think of you as I think you deserve, and am,
Sir,
your obliged humble servant,
Sophia Western.
“I charge you write to me no more--at present at least; and accept
this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
it.”[*]
[*] Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100.
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:--
“You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own
surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to
Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am
convinced it is your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that
it is dated at the very time when you would have me imagine you was
under such concern on my account.--I leave you to comment on this
fact. All I desire is, that your name may never more be mentioned
to
“S. W.”
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:
“SIR,
“Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O, Mr
Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton, the
reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life, who it
was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever
sincerely your unfortunate
“J. WATERS.”
“P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr
Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not
among the number.”
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.
“MY WORTHY FRIEND,--I informed you in my last that I was forbidden
the use of the waters, as they were found by experience rather to
increase than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now
acquaint you with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict my
friends more than it hath afflicted me. Dr Harrington and Dr
Brewster have informed me that there is no hopes of my recovery.
“I have somewhere read, that the great use of philosophy is to learn
to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace mine as to shew any
surprize at receiving a lesson which I must be thought to have so
long studied. Yet, to say the truth, one page of the Gospel teaches
this lesson better than all the volumes of antient or modern
philosophers. The assurance it gives us of another life is a much
stronger support to a good mind than all the consolations that are
drawn from the necessity of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our
enjoyments here, or any other topic of those declamations which are
sometimes capable of arming our minds with a stubborn patience in
bearing the thoughts of death, but never of raising them to a real
contempt of it, and much less of making us think it is a real good.
I would not here be understood to throw the horrid censure of
atheism, or even the absolute denial of immortality, on all who are
called philosophers. Many of that sect, as well antient as modern,
have, from the light of reason, discovered some hopes of a future
state; but in reality, that light was so faint and glimmering, and
the hopes were so incertain and precarious, that it may be justly
doubted on which side their belief turned. Plato himself concludes
his Phaedon with declaring that his best arguments amount only to
raise a probability; and Cicero himself seems rather to profess an
inclination to believe, than any actual belief in the doctrines of
immortality. As to myself, to be very sincere with you, I never was
much in earnest in this faith till I was in earnest a Christian.
“You will perhaps wonder at the latter expression; but I assure you
it hath not been till very lately that I could, with truth, call
myself so. The pride of philosophy had intoxicated my reason, and
the sublimest of all wisdom appeared to me, as it did to the Greeks
of old, to be foolishness. God hath, however, been so gracious to
shew me my error in time, and to bring me into the way of truth,
before I sunk into utter darkness forever.
“I find myself beginning to grow weak, I shall therefore hasten to
the main purpose of this letter.
“When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of nothing
which sits heavier upon my conscience than the injustice I have been
guilty of to that poor wretch your adopted son. I have, indeed, not
only connived at the villany of others, but been myself active in
injustice towards him. Believe me, my dear friend, when I tell you,
on the word of a dying man, he hath been basely injured. As to the
principal fact, upon the misrepresentation of which you discarded
him, I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay upon your
supposed deathbed, he was the only person in the house who testified
any real concern; and what happened afterwards arose from the
wildness of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it,
from the baseness of another person (but it is my desire to justify
the innocent, and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this young
man hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most perfect capacity
for friendship, the highest integrity, and indeed every virtue which
can ennoble a man. He hath some faults, but among them is not to be
numbered the least want of duty or gratitude towards you. On the
contrary, I am satisfied, when you dismissed him from your house,
his heart bled for you more than for himself.
“Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my concealing
this from you so long; to reveal it now I can have no inducement but
the desire of serving the cause of truth, of doing right to the
innocent, and of making all the amends in my power for a past
offence. I hope this declaration, therefore, will have the effect
desired, and will restore this deserving young man to your favour;
the hearing of which, while I am yet alive, will afford the utmost
consolation to,
Sir,
Your most obliged,
obedient humble servant,
THOMAS SQUARE.”
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.
“SIR,
“I am not at all surprized at hearing from your worthy nephew a
fresh instance of the villany of Mr Square the atheist's young
pupil. I shall not wonder at any murders he may commit; and I
heartily pray that your own blood may not seal up his final
commitment to the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“Though you cannot want sufficient calls to repentance for the many
unwarrantable weaknesses exemplified in your behaviour to this
wretch, so much to the prejudice of your own lawful family, and of
your character; I say, though these may sufficiently be supposed to
prick and goad your conscience at this season, I should yet be
wanting to my duty, if I spared to give you some admonition in order
to bring you to a due sense of your errors. I therefore pray you
seriously to consider the judgment which is likely to overtake this
wicked villain; and let it serve at least as a warning to you, that
you may not for the future despise the advice of one who is so
indefatigable in his prayers for your welfare.
“Had not my hand been withheld from due correction, I had scourged
much of this diabolical spirit out of a boy, of whom from his
infancy I discovered the devil had taken such entire possession. But
reflections of this kind now come too late.
“I am sorry you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily.
I should have applied on that occasion earlier, had I thought you
would not have acquainted me previous to the disposition.----Your
objection to pluralities is being righteous over-much. If there were
any crime in the practice, so many godly men would not agree to it.
If the vicar of Aldergrove should die (as we hear he is in a
declining way), I hope you will think of me, since I am certain you
must be convinced of my most sincere attachment to your highest
welfare--a welfare to which all worldly considerations are as
trifling as the small tithes mentioned in Scripture are, when
compared to the weighty matters of the law.
I am, sir,
Your faithful humble servant,
ROGER THWACKUM.”
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.
[*] This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in
Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with
the exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single
action, brought afterwards another action on the judgment, as it was
called. A method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring
money into the pockets of attorneys, to the great scandal of the
law, of the nation, of Christianity, and even of human nature
itself.
“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.
_FINIS_.
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