"The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling"
CONTENTS
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.
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.
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.
BOOK IV — CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR.
BOOK V — CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN
HALF A YEAR.
BOOK VI — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE WEEKS.
BOOK VII — CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
BOOK VIII — CONTAINING ABOUT TWO DAYS.
BOOK IX — CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
BOOK X — IN WHICH THE HISTORY GOES FORWARD ABOUT TWELVE
HOURS.
BOOK XI — CONTAINING ABOUT THREE DAYS.
BOOK XII — CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE
FORMER.
BOOK XIII — CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS.
BOOK XIV — CONTAINING TWO DAYS.
BOOK XV — IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS.
BOOK XVI — CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS.
BOOK XVII — CONTAINING THREE DAYS.
BOOK XVIII — CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS.

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 ą 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 ą 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 aėrial
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 Naļades; 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 Naļades 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.