textfiles/etext/NONFICTION/tom_jones

                                      1749
                     THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING
                               by Henry Fielding
                                     BOOK I
        CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING AS IS NECESSARY
     OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY
                                Chapter 1

  The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast

  An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who gives
a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who keeps a
public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for their money.
In the former case, it is well known that the entertainer provides
what fare he pleases; and though this should be very indifferent,
and utterly disagreeable to the taste of his company, they must not
find any fault; nay, on the contrary, good breeding forces them
outwardly to approve and to commend whatever is set before them. Now
the contrary of this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay
for what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however
nice and whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable
to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to
d--n their dinner without controul.
  To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by any such
disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and well-meaning
host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may peruse at their
first entrance into the house; and having thence acquainted themselves
with the entertainment which they may expect, may either stay and
regale with what is provided for them, or may depart to some other
ordinary better accommodated to their taste.
  As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man who is
capable of lending us either, we have condescended to take a hint from
these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general bill
of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall likewise give the reader
particular bills to every course which is to be served up in this
and the ensuing volumes.
  The provision, then, which we have here made is no other than
Human Nature. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most
luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I
have named but one article. The tortise- as the alderman of Bristol,
well learned in eating, knows by much experience- besides the
delicious calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of food;
nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human nature, though
here collected under one general name, is such prodigious variety,
that a cook will have sooner gone through all the several species of
animal and vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to
exhaust so extensive a subject.
  An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more delicate, that
this dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is the subject of
all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with which the stalls
abound? Many exquisite viands might be rejected by the epicure, if
it was a sufficient cause for his contemning of them as common and
vulgar, that something was to be found in the most paltry alleys under
the same name. In reality, true nature is as difficult to be met
with in authors, as the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be
found in the shops.
  But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the
cookery of the author; for, as Mr. Pope tells us-

      True wit is nature to advantage drest;
      What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest.

  The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh
eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part,
and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in
town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the
nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf,
but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting
forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite,
and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.
  In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment
consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well
dressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find
that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to one of the
highest principles of the best cook which the present age, or
perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great man, as is
well known to all lovers of polite eating, begins at first by
setting plain things before his hungry guests, rising afterwards by
degrees as their stomachs may be supposed to decrease, to the very
quintessence of sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall represent
human nature at first to the keen appetite of our reader, in that more
plain and simple manner in which it is found in the country, and shall
hereafter hash and ragoo it with all the high French and Italian
seasoning of affectation and vice which courts and cities afford. By
these means, we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to
read on for ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed
to have made some persons eat.
  Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who like our
bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed directly
to serve up the first course of our history for their entertainment.
                                Chapter 2

  A short description of Squire Allworthy, and a fuller account of
Miss Bridget Allworthy, his sister

  In that part of the western division of this kingdom which is
commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and perhaps lives
still, a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and who might well be
called the favourite of both nature and fortune; for both of these
seem to have contended which should bless and enrich him most. In this
contention, nature may seem to some to have come off victorious, as
she bestowed on him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her
power; but in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others
perhaps may think this single endowment to have been more than
equivalent to all the various blessings which he enjoyed from
nature. From the former of these, he derived an agreeable person, a
sound constitution, a solid understanding, and a benevolent heart;
by the latter, he was decreed to the inheritance of one of the largest
estates in the county.
  This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and
beautiful woman, of whom he had been extremely fond: by her he had
three children, all of whom died in their infancy. He had likewise had
the misfortune of burying this beloved wife herself, about five
years before the time in which this history chuses to set out. This
loss, however great, he bore like a man of sense and constancy, though
it must be confest he would often talk a little whimsically on this
head; for he sometimes said he looked on himself as still married, and
considered his wife as only gone a little before him, a journey
which he should most certainly, sooner or later, take after her; and
that he had not the least doubt of meeting her again in a place
where he should never part with her more- sentiments for which his
sense was arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a
second, and his sincerity by a third.
  He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, with one
sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady was now
somewhat past the age of thirty, an aera at which, in the opinion of
the malicious, the title of old maid may with no impropriety be
assumed. She was of that species of women whom you commend rather
for good qualities than beauty, and who are generally called, by their
own sex, very good sort of women- as good a sort of woman, madam, as
you would wish to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of
beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be
called one, without contempt; and would often thank God she was not as
handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led into errors
which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss Bridget Allworthy (for
that was the name of this lady) very rightly conceived the charms of
person in a woman to be no better than snares for herself, as well
as for others; and yet so discreet was she in her conduct, that her
prudence was as much on the guard as if she had all the snares to
apprehend which were ever laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have
observed, though it may seem unaccountable to the reader, that this
guard of prudence, like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on
duty where there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly
deserts those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing,
dying, and spreading every net in their power; and constantly
attends at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the
other sex have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from
despair, I suppose, of success) they never venture to attack.
  Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, to
acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole history, as
often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better judge than any
pitiful critic whatever; and here I must desire all those critics to
mind their own business, and not to intermeddle with affairs or
works which no ways concern them; for till they produce the
authority by which they are constituted judges, I shall not plead to
their jurisdiction.
                                Chapter 3

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

  I have told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr.
Allworthy inherited a large fortune; that he had a good heart, and
no family. Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many that he
lived like an honest man, owed no one a shilling, took nothing but
what was his own, kept a good house, entertained his neighbours with a
hearty welcome at his table, and was charitable to the poor, i.e.,
to those who had rather beg than work, by giving them the offals
from it; that he died immensely rich and built an hospital.
  And true it is that he did many of these things; but had he done
nothing more I should have left him to have recorded his own merit
on some fair freestone over the door of that hospital. Matters of a
much more extraordinary kind are to be the subject of this history, or
I should grossly mis-spend my time in writing so voluminous a work;
and you, my sagacious friend, might with equal profit and pleasure
travel through some pages which certain droll authors have been
facetiously pleased to call The History of England.
  Mr. Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on
some very particular business, though I know not what it was; but
judge of its importance by its having detained him so long from
home, whence he had not been absent a month at a time during the space
of many years. He came to his house very late in the evening, and
after a short supper with his sister, retired much fatigued to his
chamber. Here, having spent some minutes on his knees- a custom which
he never broke through on any account- he was preparing to step into
bed, when, upon opening the cloathes, to his great surprize he
beheld an infant, wrapt up in some coarse linen, in a sweet and
profound sleep, between his sheets. He stood some time lost in
astonishment at this sight; but, as good nature had always the
ascendant in his mind, he soon began to be touched with sentiments
of compassion for the little wretch before him. He then rang his bell,
and ordered an elderly woman-servant to rise immediately, and come
to him; and in the meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty
of innocence, appearing in those lively colours with which infancy and
sleep always display it, that his thoughts were too much engaged to
reflect that he was in his shirt when the matron came in. She had
indeed given her master sufficient time to dress himself; for out of
respect to him, and regard to decency, she had spent many minutes in
adjusting her hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the hurry
in which she had been summoned by the servant, and though her
master, for aught she knew, lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in some
other fit.
  It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a
regard to decency in her own person, should be shocked at the least
deviation from it in another. She therefore no sooner opened the door,
and saw her master standing by the bedside in his shirt, with a candle
in his hand, than she started back in a most terrible fright, and
might perhaps have swooned away, had he not now recollected his
being undrest, and put an end to her terrors by desiring her to stay
without the door till he had thrown some cloathes over his back, and
was become incapable of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs. Deborah
Wilkins, who, though in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she
had never beheld a man without his coat. Sneerers and prophane wits
may perhaps laugh at her first fright; yet my graver reader, when he
considers the time of night, the summons from her bed, and the
situation in which she found her master, will highly justify and
applaud her conduct, unless the prudence which must be supposed to
attend maidens at that period of life at which Mrs. Deborah had
arrived, should a little lessen his admiration.
  When Mrs. Deborah returned into the room, and was acquainted by
her master with the finding the little infant, her consternation was
rather greater than his had been; nor could she refrain from crying
out, with great horror of accent as well as look, "My good sir! what's
to be done?" Mr. Allworthy answered, she must take care of the child
that evening, and in the morning he would give orders to provide it
a nurse. "Yes, sir," says she; "and I hope your worship will send
out your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be
one of the neighbourhood; and I should be glad to see her committed to
Bridewell, and whipt at the cart's tail. Indeed, such wicked sluts
cannot be too severely punished. I'll warrant 'tis not her first, by
her impudence in laying it to your worship." "In laying it to me,
Deborah!" answered Allworthy: "I can't think she hath any such design.
I suppose she hath only taken this method to provide for her child;
and truly I am glad she hath not done worse." "I don't know what is
worse," cries Deborah, "than for such wicked strumpets to lay their
sins at honest men's doors; and though your worship knows your own
innocence, yet the world is censorious; and it hath been many an
honest man's hap to pass for the father of children he never begot;
and if your worship should provide for the child, it may make the
people the apter to believe; besides, why should your worship
provide for what the parish is obliged to maintain? For my own part,
if it was an honest man's child, indeed- but for my own part, it goes
against me to touch these misbegotten wretches, whom I don't look upon
as my fellow-creatures. Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a
Christian. If I might be so bold to give my advice, I would have it
put in a basket, and sent out and laid at the churchwarden's door.
It is a good night, only a little rainy and windy; and if it was
well wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is two to one but it lives
till it found in the morning. But if it should not, we have discharged
our duty in taking proper care of it; and it is, perhaps, better
such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up and
imitate their mothers; for nothing better can be expected of them."
  There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would have
offended Mr. Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; but he had now
got one of his fingers into the infant's hand, which, by its gentle
pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, had certainly outpleaded
the eloquence of Mrs. Deborah, had it been ten times greater than it
was. He now gave Mrs. Deborah positive orders to take the child to her
own bed, and to call up a maidservant to provide it pap, and other
things, against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper cloathes
should be procured for it early in the morning, and that it should
be brought to himself as soon as he was stirring.
  Such was the discernment of Mrs. Wilkins, and such the respect she
bore her master, under whom she enjoyed a most excellent place, that
her scruples gave way to his peremptory commands; and she took the
child under her arms, without any apparent disgust at the illegality
of its birth; and declaring it was a sweet little infant, walked off
with it to her own chamber.
  Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers which a
heart that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when thoroughly
satisfied. As these are possibly sweeter than what are occasioned by
any other hearty meal, I should take more pains to display them to the
reader, if I knew any air to recommend him to for the procuring such
an appetite.
                                Chapter 4

  The reader's neck brought into danger by a description; his
escape; and the great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy

  The Gothic stile of building could produce nothing nobler than Mr.
Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in it that struck
you with awe, and rivalled the beauties of the best Grecian
architecture; and it was as commodious within as venerable without.
  It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom
than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north-east by a
grove of old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near half
a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming prospect of the
valley beneath.
  In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards
the house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gushing
out of a rock covered with firs, and forming a constant cascade of
about thirty feet, not carried down a regular flight of steps, but
tumbling in a natural fall over the broken and mossy stones till it
came to the bottom of the rock, then running off in a pebly channel,
that with many lesser falls winded along, till it fell into a lake
at the foot of the hill, about a quarter of a mile below the house
on the south side, and which was seen from every room in the front.
Out of this lake, which filled the center of a beautiful plain,
embellished with groups of beeches and elms, and fed with sheep,
issued a river, that for several miles was seen to meander through
an amazing variety of meadows and woods till it emptied itself into
the sea, with a large arm of which, and an island beyond it, the
prospect was closed.
  On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, adorned
with several villages, and terminated by one of the towers of an old
ruined abby, grown over with ivy, and part of the front, which
remained still entire.
  The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, composed
of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all the diversity
that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with admirable taste, but
owing less to art than to nature, could give. Beyond this, the country
gradually rose into a ridge of wild mountains, the tops of which
were above the clouds.
  It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably serene,
when Mr. Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, where the dawn
opened every minute that lovely prospect we have before described to
his eye; and now having sent forth streams of light, which ascended
the blue firmament before him, as harbingers preceding his pomp, in
the full blaze of his majesty rose the sun, than which one object
alone in this lower creation could be more glorious, and that Mr.
Allworthy himself presented- a human being replete with benevolence,
meditating in what manner he might render himself most acceptable to
his Creator, by doing most good to his creatures.
  Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of as high
a hill as Mr. Allworthy and how to get thee down without breaking
thy neck, I do not well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide
down together; for Miss Bridget rings her bell, and Mr. Allworthy is
summoned to breakfast, where I must attend, and, if you please,
shall be glad of your company.
  The usual compliments having past between Mr. Allworthy and Miss
Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs. Wilkins, and
told his sister he had a present for her, for which she thanked
him- imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or some ornament for
her person. Indeed, he very often made her such presents; and she, in
complacence to him, spent much time in adorning herself. I say in
complacence to him, because she always exprest the greatest contempt
for dress, and for those ladies who made it their study.
  But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed when
Mrs. Wilkins, according to the order she had received from her master,
produced the little infant? Great surprizes, as hath been observed,
are apt to be silent; and so was Miss Bridget, till her brother began,
and told her the whole story, which, as the reader knows it already,
we shall not repeat.
  Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the
ladies are pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained such a
severity of character, that it was expected, especially by Wilkins,
that she would have vented much bitterness on this occasion, and would
have voted for sending the child, as a kind of noxious animal,
immediately out of the house; but, on the contrary, she rather took
the good-natured side of the question, intimated some compassion for
the helpless little creature, and commended her brother's charity in
what he had done.
  Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her
condescension to Mr. Allworthy, when we have informed him that the
good man had ended his narrative with owning a resolution to take care
of the child, and to breed him up as his own; for, to acknowledge
the truth, she was always ready to oblige her brother, and very
seldom, if ever, contradicted his sentiments. She would, indeed,
sometimes make a few observations, as that men were headstrong, and
must have their own way, and would wish she had been blest with an
independent fortune; but these were always vented in a low voice,
and at the most amounted only to what is called muttering.
  However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed with the
utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, whom she called an
impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a
vile strumpet, with every other appellation with which the tongue of
virtue never fails to lash those who bring a disgrace on the sex.
  A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in order to
discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into the characters
of the female servants of the house, who were all acquitted by Mrs.
Wilkins, and with apparent merit; for she had collected them
herself, and perhaps it would be difficult to find such another set of
scarecrows.
  The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the parish;
and this was referred to Mrs. Wilkins, who was to enquire with all
imaginable diligence, and to make her report in the afternoon.
  Matters being thus settled, Mr. Allworthy withdrew to his study,
as was his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, at his
desire, had undertaken the care of it.
                                Chapter 5

  Containing a few common matters, with a very uncommon observation
upon them

  When her master was departed, Mrs. Deborah stood silent, expecting
her cue from Miss Bridget; for as to what had past before her
master, the prudent housekeeper by no means relied upon it, as she had
often known the sentiments of the lady in her brother's absence to
differ greatly from those which she had expressed in his presence.
Miss Bridget did not, however, suffer her to continue long in this
doubtful situation; for having looked some time earnestly at the
child, as it lay asleep in the lap of Mrs. Deborah, the good lady
could not forbear giving it a hearty kiss, at the same time
declaring herself wonderfully pleased with its beauty and innocence.
Mrs. Deborah no sooner observed this than she fell to squeezing and
kissing, with as great raptures as sometimes inspire the sage dame
of forty and five towards a youthful and vigorous bridegroom, crying
out, in a shrill voice, "O, the dear little creature!- The dear,
sweet, pretty creature! Well, I vow it is as fine a boy as ever was
seen!"
  These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the lady,
who now proceeded to execute the commission given her by her
brother, and gave orders for providing all necessaries for the
child, appointing a very good room in the house for his nursery. Her
orders were indeed so liberal, that, had it been a child of her own,
she could not have exceeded them; but, lest the virtuous reader may
condemn her for showing too great regard to a base-born infant, to
which all charity is condemned by law as irreligious, we think
proper to observe that she concluded the whole with saying, "Since
it was her brother's whim to adopt the little brat, she supposed
little master must be treated with great tenderness. For her part, she
could not help thinking it was an encouragement to vice; but that
she knew too much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their
ridiculous humours."
  With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted,
accompanied every act of compliance with her brother's inclinations;
and surely nothing could more contribute to heighten the merit of this
compliance than a declaration that she knew, at the same time, the
folly and unreasonableness of those inclinations to which she
submitted. Tacit obedience implies no force upon the will, and
consequently may be easily, and without any pains, preserved; but when
a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, performs what we desire,
with grumbling and reluctance, with expressions of dislike and
dissatisfaction, the manifest difficulty which they undergo must
greatly enhance the obligation.
  As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can
be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to
lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in
the course of my work; Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him,
unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration
with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to
make the discovery.
                                Chapter 6

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

  Mrs. Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the will
of her master, now prepared to visit those habitations which were
supposed to conceal its mother.
  Not otherwise than when a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld by the
feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their heads, the
amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, spread wide the alarm,
and fly trembling to their hiding-places. He proudly beats the air,
conscious of his dignity, and meditates intended mischief.
  So when the approach of Mrs. Deborah was proclaimed through the
street, all the inhabitants ran trembling into their houses, each
matron dreading lest the visit should fall to her lot. She with
stately steps proudly advances over the field: aloft she bears her
towering head, filled with conceit of her own preeminence, and schemes
to effect her intended discovery.
  The sagacious reader will not from this simile imagine these poor
people had any apprehension of the design with which Mrs. Wilkins
was now coming towards them; but as the great beauty of the simile may
possibly sleep these hundred years, till some future commentator shall
take this work in hand, I think proper to lend the reader a little
assistance in this place.
  It is my intention, therefore, to signify, that, as it is the nature
of a kite to devour little birds, so is it the nature of such
persons as Mrs. Wilkins to insult and tyrannize over little people.
This being indeed the means which they use to recompense to themselves
their extreme servility and condescension to their superiors; for
nothing can be more reasonable, than that slaves and flatterers should
exact the same taxes on all below them, which they themselves pay to
all above them.
  Whenever Mrs. Deborah had occasion to exert any extraordinary
condescension to Miss Bridget, and by that means had a little soured
her natural disposition, it was usual with her to walk forth among
these people, in order to refine her temper, by venting, and, as it
were, purging off all ill humours; on which account she was by no
means a welcome visitant: to say the truth, she was universally
dreaded and hated by them all.
  On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the habitation
of an elderly matron; to whom, as this matron had the good fortune
to resemble herself in the comeliness of her person, as well as in her
age, she had generally been more favourable than to any of the rest.
To this woman she imparted what had happened, and the design upon
which she was come thither that morning. These two began presently
to scrutinize the characters of the several young girls who lived in
any of those houses, and at last fixed their strongest suspicion on
one Jenny Jones, who, they both agreed, was the likeliest person to
have committed this fact.
  This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face or
person; but nature had somewhat compensated the want of beauty with
what is generally more esteemed by those ladies whose judgment is
arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she had given her a very
uncommon share of understanding. This gift Jenny had a good deal
improved by erudition. She had lived several years a servant with a
schoolmaster, who, discovering a great quickness of parts in the girl,
and an extraordinary desire of learning- for every leisure hour she
was always found reading in the books of the scholars- had the
good-nature, or folly- just as the reader pleases to call it- to
instruct her so far, that she obtained a competent skill in the Latin
language, and was, perhaps, as good a scholar as most of the young men
of quality of the age. This advantage, however, like most others of an
extraordinary kind, was attended with some small inconveniences: for
as it is not to be wondered at, that a young woman so well
accomplished should have little relish for the society of those whom
fortune had made her equals, but whom education had rendered so much
her inferiors; so it is matter of no greater astonishment, that this
superiority in Jenny, together with that behaviour which is its
certain consequence, should produce among the rest some little envy
and ill-will towards her; and these had, perhaps, secretly burnt in
the bosoms of her neighbours ever since her return from her service.
  Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor Jenny,
to the surprize of everybody, and to the vexation of all the young
women in these parts, had publickly shone forth on a Sunday in a new
silk gown, with a laced cap, and other proper appendages to these.
  The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. Jenny
had, by her learning, increased her own pride, which none of her
neighbours were kind enough to feed with the honour she seemed to
demand; and now, instead of respect and adoration, she gained
nothing but hatred and abuse by her finery. The whole parish
declared she could not come honestly by such things; and parents,
instead of wishing their daughters the same, felicitated themselves
that their children had them not.
  Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned the name
of this poor girl to Mrs. Wilkins; but there was another
circumstance that confirmed the latter in her suspicion; for Jenny had
lately been often at Mr. Allworthy's house. She had officiated as
nurse to Miss Bridget, in a violent fit of illness, and had sat up
many nights with that lady; besides which, she had been seen there the
very day before Mr. Allworthy's return, by Mrs. Wilkins herself,
though that sagacious person had not at first conceived any
suspicion of her on that account; for, as she herself said, "She had
always esteemed Jenny as a very sober girl (though indeed she knew
very little of her), and had rather suspected some of those wanton
trollops, who gave themselves airs, because, forsooth, they thought
themselves handsome."
  Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs. Deborah,
which she immediately did. When Mrs. Deborah, putting on the gravity
of a judge, with somewhat more than his austerity, began an oration
with the words, "You audacious strumpet!" in which she proceeded
rather to pass sentence on the prisoner than to accuse her.
  Though Mrs. Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny,
from the reasons above shown, it is possible Mr. Allworthy might
have required some stronger evidence to have convicted her; but she
saved her accusers any such trouble, by freely confessing the whole
fact with which she was charged.
  This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contrition,
as it appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs. Deborah, who now
pronounced a second judgment against her, in more opprobrious language
than before; nor had it any better success with the bystanders, who
were now grown very numerous. Many of them cried out, "They thought
what madam's silk gown would end in"; others spoke sarcastically of
her learning. Not a single female was present but found some means
of expressing her abhorrence of poor Jenny, who bore all very
patiently, except the malice of one woman, who reflected upon her
person, and tossing up her nose, said, "The man must have a good
stomach who would give silk gowns for such sort of trumpery!" Jenny
replied to this with a bitterness which might have surprized a
judicious person, who had observed the tranquillity with which she
bore all the affronts to her chastity; but her patience was perhaps
tired out, for this is a virtue which is very apt to be fatigued by
exercise.
  Mrs. Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her inquiry,
returned with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, made a
faithful report to Mr. Allworthy, who was much surprized at the
relation; for he had heard of the extraordinary parts and improvements
of this girl, whom he intended to have given in marriage, together
with a small living, to a neighbouring curate. His concern, therefore,
on this occasion, was at least equal to the satisfaction which
appeared in Mrs. Deborah, and to many readers may seem much more
reasonable.
  Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, "For her part, she should
never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman." For Jenny
before this had the happiness of being much in her good graces also.
  The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy
culprit before Mr. Allworthy, in order, not as it was hoped by some,
and expected by all, to be sent to the House of Correction, but to
receive wholesome admonition and reproof; which those who relish
that kind of instructive writing may peruse in the next chapter.
                                Chapter 7

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

  When Jenny appeared, Mr. Allworthy took her into his study, and
spoke to her as follows: "You know, child, it is in my power as a
magistrate, to punish you very rigorously for what you have done;
and you will, perhaps, be the more apt to fear I should execute that
power, because you have in a manner laid your sins at my door.
  "But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me to act in
a milder manner with you: for, as no private resentment should ever
influence a magistrate, I will be so far from considering your
having deposited the infant in my house as an aggravation of your
offence, that I will suppose, in your favour, this to have proceeded
from a natural affection to your child, since you might have some
hopes to see it thus better provided for than was in the power of
yourself, or its wicked father, to provide for it. I should indeed
have been highly offended with you had you exposed the little wretch
in the manner of some inhuman mothers, who seem no less to have
abandoned their humanity, than to have parted with their chastity.
It is the other part of your offence, therefore, upon which I intend
to admonish you, I mean the violation of your chastity;- a crime,
however lightly it may be treated by debauched persons, very heinous
in itself, and very dreadful in its consequences.
  "The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently apparent to
every Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in defiance of the laws
of our religion, and of the express commands of Him who founded that
religion.
  "And here its consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for
what can be more so, than to incur the divine displeasure, by the
breach of the divine commands; and that in an instance against which
the highest vengeance is specifically denounced?
  "But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, are
so plain, that mankind, however they may want to be reminded, can
never need information on this head. A hint, therefore, to awaken your
sense of this matter, shall suffice; for I would inspire you with
repentance, and not drive you to desperation.
  "There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or replete
with horror as this; and yet such, as, if attentively considered,
must, one would think, deter all of your sex at least from the
commission of this crime.
  "For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers of
old, out of society; at least, from the society of all but wicked
and reprobate persons; for no others will associate with you.
  "If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable of enjoying
them; if you have none, you are disabled from acquiring any, nay
almost of procuring your sustenance; for no persons of character
will receive you into their houses. Thus you are often driven by
necessity itself into a state of shame and misery, which unavoidably
ends in the destruction of both body and soul.
  "Can any pleasure compensate these evils? Can any temptation have
sophistry and delusion strong enough to persuade you to so simple a
bargain? Or can any carnal appetite so overpower your reason, or so
totally lay it asleep, as to prevent your flying with affright and
terror from a crime which carries such punishment always with it?
  "How base and mean must that woman be, how void of that dignity of
mind, and decent pride, without which we are not worthy the name of
human creatures, who can bear to level herself with the lowest animal,
and to sacrifice all that is great and noble in her, all her
heavenly part, to an appetite which she hath in common with the vilest
branch of the creation! For no woman, sure, will plead the passion
of love for an excuse. This would be to own herself the mere tool
and bubble of the man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and
pervert its meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, and
can never be violent but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture
bids us love our enemies, it means not with that fervent love which we
naturally beat towards our friends; much less that we should sacrifice
to them our lives, and what ought to be dearer to us, our innocence.
Now in what light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable woman regard
the man who solicits her to entail on herself all the misery I have
described to you, and who would purchase to himself a short,
trivial, contemptible pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the
laws of custom, the whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences,
falls intirely upon her. Can love, which always seeks the good of
its object, attempt to betray a woman into a bargain where she is so
greatly to be the loser? If such corrupter, therefore, should have the
impudence to pretend a real affection for her, ought not the woman
to regard him not only as an enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a
false, designing, treacherous, pretended friend, who intends not
only to debauch her body, but her understanding at the same time?"
  Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a moment,
and then proceeded: "I have talked thus to you, child, not to insult
you for what is past and irrevocable, but to caution and strengthen
you for the future. Nor should I have taken this trouble, but from
some opinion of your good sense, notwithstanding the dreadful slip you
have made; and from some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are
founded on the openness and sincerity of your confession. If these
do not deceive me, I will take care to convey you from this scene of
your shame, where you shall, by being unknown, avoid the punishment
which, as I have said, is allotted to your crime in this world; and
I hope, by repentance, you will avoid the much heavier sentence
denounced against it in the other. Be a good girl the rest of your
days, and want shall be no motive to your going astray; and, believe
me, there is more pleasure, even in this world, in an innocent and
virtuous life, than in one debauched and vicious.
  "As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; I
will provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. And now
nothing remains but that you inform me who was the wicked man that
seduced you; for my anger against him will be much greater than you
have experienced on this occasion."
  Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a modest look
and decent voice thus began:-
  "To know you, sir, and not love your goodness, would be an
argument of total want of sense or goodness in any one. In me it would
amount to the highest ingratitude, not to feel, in the most sensible
manner, the great degree of goodness you have been pleased to exert on
this occasion. As to my concern for what is past, I know you will
spare my blushes the repetition. My future conduct will much better
declare my sentiments than any professions I can now make. I beg leave
to assure you, sir, that I take your advice much kinder than your
generous offer with which you concluded it; for, as you are pleased to
say, sir, it is an instance of your opinion of my understanding."-
Here her tears flowing apace, she stopped a few moments, and then
proceeded thus:- "Indeed, sir, your kindness overcomes me; but I will
endeavour to deserve this good opinion: for if I have the
understanding you are so kindly pleased to allow me, such advice
cannot be thrown away upon me. I thank you, sir, heartily, for your
intended kindness to my poor helpless child: he is innocent, and I
hope will live to be grateful for all the favours you shall show him.
But now, sir, I must on my knees entreat you not to persist in asking
me to declare the father of my infant. I promise you faithfully you
shall one day know; but I am under the most solemn ties and
engagements of honour, as well as the most religious vows and
protestations, to conceal his name at this time. And I know you too
well, to think you would desire I should sacrifice either my honour or
my religion."
  Mr. Allworthy, whom the least mention of those sacred words was
sufficient to stagger, hesitated a moment before he replied, and
then told her, she had done wrong to enter into such engagements to
a villain; but since she had, he could not insist on her breaking
them. He said, it was not from a motive of vain curiosity he had
inquired, but in order to punish the fellow; at least, that he might
not ignorantly confer favours on the undeserving.
  As to these points, Jenny satisfied him by the most solemn
assurances, that the man was entirely out of his reach; and was
neither subject to his power, nor in any probability of becoming an
object of his goodness.
  The ingenuity of this behaviour had gained Jenny so much credit with
this worthy man, that he easily believed what she told him; for as she
had disdained to excuse herself by a lie, and had hazarded his further
displeasure in her present situation, rather than she would forfeit
her honour or integrity by betraying another, he had but little
apprehensions that she would be guilty of falsehood towards himself.
  He therefore dismissed her with assurances that he would very soon
remove her out of the reach of that obloquy she had incurred;
concluding with some additional documents, in which he recommended
repentance, saying, "Consider, child, there is One still to
reconcile yourself to, whose favour is of much greater importance to
you than mine."
                                Chapter 8

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

  When Mr. Allworthy had retired to his study with Jenny Jones, as
hath been seen, Mrs. Bridget, with the good housekeeper, had betaken
themselves to a post next adjoining to the said study; whence, through
the conveyance of a keyhole, they sucked in at their ears the
instructive lecture delivered by Mr. Allworthy, together with the
answers of Jenny, and indeed every other particular which passed in
the last chapter.
  This hole in her brother's study-door was indeed as well known to
Mrs. Bridget, and had been as frequently applied to by her, as the
famous hole in the wall was by Thisbe of old. This served to many good
purposes. For by such means Mrs. Bridget became often acquainted
with her brother's inclinations, without giving him the trouble of
repeating them to her. It is true, some inconveniences attended this
intercourse, and she had sometimes reason to cry out with Thisbe, in
Shakespear, "O, wicked, wicked wall!" For as Mr. Allworthy was a
justice of peace, certain things occurred in examinations concerning
bastards, and such like, which are apt to give great offence to the
chaste ears of virgins, especially when they approach the age of
forty, as was the case of Miss Bridget. However, she had, on such
occasions, the advantage of concealing her blushes from the eyes of
men; and De non apparentibus, et non existentibus eadem est
ratio*- in English, "When a woman is not seen to blush, she doth not
blush at all."

  *Things which do not appear are to be treated the same as those
which do not exist.- COKE

  Both the good women kept strict silence during the whole scene
between Mr. Allworthy and the girl; but as soon as it was ended, and
that gentleman was out of hearing, Mrs. Deborah could not help
exclaiming against the clemency of her master, and especially
against his suffering her to conceal the father of the child, which
she swore she would have out of her before the sun set.
  At these words Miss Bridget discomposed her features with a smile (a
thing very unusual to her). Not that I would have my reader imagine,
that this was one of those wanton smiles which Homer would have you
conceive came from Venus, when he calls her the laughter-loving
goddess; nor was it one of those smiles which Lady Seraphina shoots
from the stage-box, and which Venus would quit her immortality to be
able to equal. No, this was rather one of those smiles which might
be supposed to have come from the dimpled cheeks of the august
Tisiphone, or from one of the misses, her sisters.
  With such a smile then, and with a voice sweet as the evening breeze
of Boreas in the pleasant month of November, Miss Bridget gently
reproved the curiosity of Mrs. Deborah; a vice with which it seems the
latter was too much tainted, and which the former inveighed against
with great bitterness, adding, "That, among all her faults, she
thanked Heaven her enemies could not accuse her of prying into the
affairs of other people."
  She then proceeded to commend the honour and spirit with which Jenny
had acted. She said, she could not help agreeing with her brother,
that there was some merit in the sincerity of her confession, and in
her integrity to her lover: that she had always thought her a very
good girl, and doubted not but she had been seduced by some rascal,
who had been infinitely more to blame than herself, and very
probably had prevailed with her by a promise of marriage, or some
other treacherous proceeding.
  This behaviour of Miss Bridget greatly surprised Mrs. Deborah; for
this well-bred woman seldom opened her lips, either to her master or
his sister, till she had first sounded their inclinations, with
which her sentiments were always consonant. Here, however, she thought
she might have launched forth with safety; and the sagacious reader
will not perhaps accuse her of want of sufficient forecast in so
doing, but will rather admire with what wonderful celerity she
tacked about, when she found herself steering a wrong course.
  "Nay, madam," said this able woman, and truly great politician, "I
must own I cannot help admiring the girl's spirit, as well as your
ladyship. And, as your ladyship says, if she was deceived by some
wicked man, the poor wretch is to be pitied. And to be sure, as your
ladyship says, the girl hath always appeared like a good, honest,
plain girl, and not vain of her face, forsooth, as some wanton husseys
in the neighbourhood are."
  "You say true, Deborah," said Miss Bridget. "If the girl had been
one of those vain trollops, of which we have too many in the parish, I
should have condemned my brother for his lenity towards her. I saw two
farmers' daughters at church, the other day, with bare necks. I
protest they shocked me. If wenches will hang out lures for fellows,
it is no matter what they suffer. I detest such creatures; and it
would be much better for them that their faces had been seamed with
the smallpox; but I must confess, I never saw any of this wanton
behaviour in poor Jenny: some artful villain, I am convinced, hath
betrayed, nay perhaps forced her; and I pity the poor wretch with
all my heart."
  Mrs. Deborah approved all these sentiments, and the dialogue
concluded with a general and bitter invective against beauty, and with
many compassionate considerations for all honest, plain girls who
are deluded by the wicked arts of deceitful men.
                                Chapter 9

  Containing matters which will surprize the reader

  Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she had met with
from Mr. Allworthy, whose indulgence to her she industriously made
public; partly perhaps as a sacrifice to her own pride, and partly
from the more prudent motive of reconciling her neighbours to her, and
silencing their clamours.
  But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may appear
reasonable enough, yet the event did not answer her expectation; for
when she was convened before the justice, and it was universally
apprehended that the House of Correction would have been her fate,
though some of the young women cryed out "It was good enough for her,"
and diverted themselves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a
silk gown; yet there were many others who began to pity her condition:
but when it was known in what manner Mr. Allworthy had behaved, the
tide turned against her. One said, "I'll assure you, madam hath had
good luck." A second cryed, "See what it is to be a favourite!" A
third, "Ay, this comes of her learning." Every person made some
malicious comment or other on the occasion, and reflected on the
partiality of the justice.
  The behaviour of these people may appear impolitic and ungrateful to
the reader, who considers the power and benevolence of Mr.
Allworthy. But as to his power, he never used it; and as to his
benevolence, he exerted so much, that he had thereby disobliged all
his neighbours; for it is a secret well known to great men, that, by
conferring an obligation, they do not always procure a friend, but are
certain of creating many enemies.
  Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr. Allworthy,
soon removed out of the reach of reproach; when malice being no longer
able to vent its rage on her, began to seek another object of its
bitterness, and this was no less than Mr. Allworthy, himself; for a
whisper soon went abroad, that he himself was the father of the
foundling child.
  This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the general
opinion, that it met with universal assent; and the outcry against his
lenity soon began to take another turn, and was changed into an
invective against his cruelty to the poor girl. Very grave and good
women exclaimed against men who begot children, and then disowned
them. Nor were there wanting some, who, after the departure of
Jenny, insinuated that she was spirited away with a design too black
to be mentioned, and who gave frequent hints that a legal inquiry
ought to be made into the whole matter, and that some people should be
forced to produce the girl.
  These calumnies might have probably produced ill consequences, at
the least might gave occasioned some trouble, to a person of a more
doubtful and suspicious character than Mr. Allworthy was blessed with;
but in his case they had no such effect; and, being heartily
despised by him, they served only to afford an innocent amusement to
the good gossips of the neighbourhood.
  But as we cannot possibly divine what complection our reader may
be of, and as it will be some time before he will hear any more of
Jenny, we think proper to give him a very early intimation, that Mr.
Allworthy was, and will hereafter appear to be, absolutely innocent of
any criminal intention whatever. He had indeed committed no other than
an error in politics, by tempering justice with mercy, and by refusing
to gratify the good-natured disposition of the mob,* with an object
for their compassion to work on in the person of poor Jenny, whom,
in order to pity, they desired to have seen sacrificed to ruin and
infamy, by a shameful correction in Bridewell.

  *Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends persons
without virtue or sense, in all stations; and many of the highest rank
are often meant by it.

  So far from complying with this their inclination, by which all
hopes of reformation would have been abolished, and even the gate shut
against her if her own inclinations should ever hereafter lead her
to chuse the road of virtue, Mr. Allworthy rather chose to encourage
the girl to return thither by the only possible means; for too true
I am afraid it is, that many women have become abandoned, and have
sunk to the last degree of vice, by being unable to retrieve the first
slip. This will be, I am afraid, always the case while they remain
among their former acquaintance; it was therefore wisely done by Mr.
Allworthy, to remove Jenny to a place where she might enjoy the
pleasure of reputation, after having tasted the ill consequences of
losing it.
  To this place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a good
journey, and for the present take leave of her, and of the little
foundling her child, having matters of much higher importance to
communicate to the reader.
                                Chapter 10

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

  Neither Mr. Allworthy's house, nor his heart, were shut against
any part of mankind, but they were both more particularly open to
men of merit. To say the truth, this was the only house in the kingdom
where you was sure to gain a dinner by deserving it.
  Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the principal
place in his favour; and in these he had much discernment: for
though he had missed the advantage of a learned education, yet,
being blest with vast natural abilities, he had so well profited by
a vigorous though late application to letters, and by much
conversation with men of eminence in this way, that he was himself a
very competent judge in most kinds of literature.
  It is no wonder that in an age when this kind of merit is so
little in fashion, and so slenderly provided for, persons possessed of
it should very eagerly flock to a place where they were sure of
being received with great complaisance; indeed, where they might enjoy
almost the same advantages of a liberal fortune as if they were
entitled to it in their own right; for Mr. Allworthy was not one of
those generous persons who are ready most bountifully to bestow
meat, drink, and lodging on men of wit and learning, for which they
expect no other return but entertainment, instruction, flattery, and
subserviency; in a word, that such persons should be enrolled in the
number of domestics, without wearing their master's cloathes, or
receiving wages.
  On the contrary, every person in this house was perfect master of
his own time: and as he might at his pleasure satisfy all his
appetites within the restrictions only of law, virtue, and religion;
so he might, if his health required, or his inclination prompted him
to temperance, or even to abstinence, absent himself from any meals,
or retire from them, whenever he was so disposed, without even a
sollicitation to the contrary: for, indeed, such sollicitations from
superiors always savour very strongly of commands. But all here were
free from such impertinence, not only those whose company is in all
other places esteemed a favour from their equality of fortune, but
even those whose indigent circumstances make such an eleemosynary
abode convenient to them, and who are therefore less welcome to a
great man's table because they stand in need of it.
  Among others of this kind was Dr. Blifil, a gentleman who had the
misfortune of losing the advantage of great talents by the obstinacy
of a father, who would breed him to a profession he disliked. In
obedience to this obstinacy the doctor had in his youth been obliged
to study physic, or rather to say he studied it; for in reality
books of this kind were almost the only ones with which he was
unacquainted; and unfortunately for him, the doctor was master of
almost every other science but that by which he was to get his
bread; the consequence of which was, that the doctor at the age of
forty had no bread to eat.
  Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr.
Allworthy's table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recommendation,
when they were derived from the folly or villany of others, and not of
the unfortunate person himself. Besides this negative merit, the
doctor had one positive recommendation;- this was a great appearance
of religion. Whether his religion was real, or consisted only in
appearance, I shall not presume to say, as I am not possessed of any
touchstone which can distinguish the true from the false.
  If this part of his character pleased Mr. Allworthy, it delighted
Miss Bridget. She engaged him in many religious controversies; on
which occasions she constantly expressed great satisfaction in the
doctor's knowledge, and not much less in the compliments which he
frequently bestowed on her own. To say the truth, she had read much
English divinity, and had puzzled more than one of the neighbouring
curates. Indeed, her conversation was so pure, her looks so sage,
and her whole deportment so grave and solemn, that she seemed to
deserve the name of saint equally with her namesake, or with any other
female in the Roman kalendar.
  As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so experience
teaches us that none have a more direct tendency this way than those
of a religious kind between persons of different sexes. The doctor
found himself so agreeable to Miss Bridget, that he now began to
lament an unfortunate accident which had happened to him about ten
years before; namely, his marriage with another woman, who was not
only still alive, but, what was worse, known to be so by Mr.
Allworthy. This was a fatal bar to that happiness which he otherwise
saw sufficient probability of obtaining with this young lady; for as
to criminal indulgences, he certainly never thought of them. This
was owing either to his religion, as is most probable, or to the
purity of his passion, which was fixed on those things which matrimony
only, and not criminal correspondence, could put him in possession of,
or could give him any title to.
  He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it occurred to
his memory that he had a brother who was under no such unhappy
incapacity. This brother he made no doubt would succeed; for he
discerned, as he thought, an inclination to marriage in the lady;
and the reader perhaps, when he hears the brother's qualifications,
will not blame the confidence which he entertained of his success.
  This gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He was of a
middle size, and what is called well-built. He had a scar on his
forehead, which did not so much injure his beauty as it denoted his
valour (for he was a half-pay officer). He had good teeth, and
something affable, when he pleased, in his smile; though naturally his
countenance, as well as his air and voice, had much of roughness in
it: yet he could at any time deposit this, and appear all gentleness
and good humour. He was not ungenteel, nor entirely devoid of wit, and
in his youth had abounded in sprightliness, which, though he had
lately put on a more serious character, he could, when he pleased,
resume.
  He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education; for his father
had, with the same paternal authority we have mentioned before,
decreed him for holy orders; but as the old gentleman died before he
was ordained, he chose the church military, and preferred the king's
commission to the bishop's.
  He had purchased the post of lieutenant of dragoons, and
afterwards came to be a captain; but having quarrelled with his
colonel, was by his interest obliged to sell; from which time he had
entirely rusticated himself, had betaken himself to studying the
Scriptures, and was not a little suspected of an inclination to
methodism.
  It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should succeed
with a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose inclinations
were no otherwise engaged than to the marriage state in general; but
why the doctor, who certainly had no great friendship for his brother,
should for his sake think of making so ill a return to the hospitality
of Allworthy, is a matter not so easy to be accounted for.
  Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to
delight in virtue? Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to a
theft when we cannot commit it ourselves? Or lastly (which
experience seems to make probable), have we a satisfaction in
aggrandizing our families, even though we have not the least love or
respect for them?
  Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we will not
determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his brother, and easily
found means to introduce him at Allworthy's as a person who intended
only a short visit to himself.
  The captain had not been in the house a week before the doctor had
reason to felicitate himself on his discernment. The captain was
indeed as great a master of the art of love as Ovid was formerly. He
had besides received proper hints from his brother, which he failed
not to improve to the best advantage.
                                Chapter 11

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

  It hath been observed, by wise men or women, I forget which, that
all persons are doomed to be in love once in their lives. No
particular season is, as I remember, assigned for this; but the age at
which Miss Bridget was arrived, seems to me as proper a period as
any to be fixed on for this purpose: it often, indeed, happens much
earlier; but when it doth not, I have observed it seldom or never
fails about this time. Moreover, we may remark that at this season
love is of a more serious and steady nature than what sometimes
shows itself in the younger parts of life. The love of girls is
uncertain, capricious, and so foolish that we cannot always discover
what the young lady would be at; nay, it may almost be doubted whether
she always knows this herself.
  Now we are never at a loss to discern this in women about forty; for
as such grave, serious, and experienced ladies well know their own
meaning, so it is always very easy for a man of the least sagacity
to discover it with the utmost certainty.
  Miss Bridget is an example of all these observations. She had not
been many times in the captain's company before she was seized with
this passion. Nor did she go pining and moping about the house, like a
puny, foolish girl, ignorant of her distemper: she felt, she knew, and
she enjoyed, the pleasing sensation, of which, as she was certain it
was not only innocent but laudable, she was neither afraid nor
ashamed.
  And to say the truth, there is, in all points, great difference
between the reasonable passion which women at this age conceive
towards men, and the idle and childish liking of a girl to a boy,
which is often fixed on the outside only, and on things of little
value and no duration; as on cherry-cheeks, small, lily-white hands,
sloe-black eyes, flowing locks, downy chins, dapper shapes; nay,
sometimes on charms more worthless than these, and less the party's
own; such are the outward ornaments of the person, for which men are
beholden to the taylor, the laceman, the periwig-maker, the hatter,
and the milliner, and not to nature. Such a passion girls may well
be ashamed, as they generally are, to own either to themselves or
others.
  The love of Miss Bridget was of another kind. The captain owed
nothing to any of these fop-makers in his dress, nor was his person
much more beholden to nature. Both his dress and person were such
as, had they appeared in an assembly or a drawing-room, would have
been the contempt and ridicule of all the fine ladies there. The
former of these was indeed neat, but plain, coarse, ill-fancied, and
out of fashion. As for the latter, we have expressly described it
above. So far was the skin on his cheeks from being cherry-coloured,
that you could not discern what the natural colour of his cheeks
was, they being totally overgrown by a black beard, which ascended
to his eyes. His shape and limbs were indeed exactly proportioned, but
so large that they denoted the strength rather of a ploughman than any
other. His shoulders were broad beyond all size, and the calves of his
legs larger than those of a common chairman. In short, his whole
person wanted all that elegance and beauty which is the very reverse
of clumsy strength, and which so agreeably sets off most of our fine
gentlemen; being partly owing to the high blood of their ancestors,
viz., blood made of rich sauces and generous wines, and partly to an
early town education.
  Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy of taste,
yet such were the charms of the captain's conversation, that she
totally overlooked the defects of his person. She imagined, and
perhaps very wisely, that she should enjoy more agreeable minutes with
the captain than with a much prettier fellow; and forewent the
consideration of pleasing her eyes, in order to procure herself much
more solid satisfaction.
  The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, in
which discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully returned
it. The lady, no more than her lover, was remarkable for beauty. I
would attempt to draw her picture, but that is done already by a
more able master, Mr. Hogarth himself, to whom she sat many years ago,
and hath been lately exhibited by that gentleman in his print of a
winter's morning, of which she was no improper emblem, and may be seen
walking (for walk she doth in the print) to Covent Garden church, with
a starved foot-boy behind carrying her prayer-book.
  The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid enjoyments
he expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of person. He was
one of those wise men who regard beauty in the other sex as a very
worthless and superficial qualification; or, to speak more truly,
who rather chuse to possess every convenience of life with an ugly
woman, than a handsome one without any of those conveniences. And
having a very good appetite, and but little nicety, he fancied he
should play his part very well at the matrimonial banquet, without the
sauce of beauty.
  To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his
arrival, at least from the moment his brother had proposed the match
to him, long before he had discovered any flattering symptoms in
Miss Bridget, had been greatly enamoured; that is to say, of Mr.
Allworthy's house and gardens, and of his lands, tenements, and
hereditaments; of all which the captain was passionately fond, that he
would most probably have contracted marriage with had he been
obliged to have taken the witch of Endor into the bargain.
  As Mr. Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor that he
never intended to take a second wife, as his sister was his nearest
relation, and as the doctor had fished out that his intentions were to
make any child of hers his heir, which indeed the law, without his
interposition, would have done for him; the doctor and his brother
thought it an act of benevolence to give being to a human creature,
who would be so plentifully provided with the most essential means
of happiness. The whole thoughts, therefore, of both the brothers were
how to engage the affections of this amiable lady.
  But fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more for her
favourite offspring than either they deserve or wish, had been so
industrious for the captain, that whilst he was laying schemes to
execute his purpose, the lady conceived the same desires with himself,
and was on her side contriving how to give the captain proper
encouragement, without appearing too forward; for she was a strict
observer of all rules of decorum. In this, however, she easily
succeeded; for as the captain was always on the look-out, no glance,
gesture, or word escaped him.
  The satisfaction which the captain received from the kind
behaviour of Miss Bridget, was not a little abated by his
apprehensions of Mr. Allworthy; for, notwithstanding his disinterested
professions, the captain imagined he would, when he came to act,
follow the example of the rest of the world, and refuse his consent to
a match so disadvantageous, in point of interest, to his sister.
From what oracle he received this opinion, I shall leave the reader to
determine: but however he came by it, it strangely perplexed him how
to regulate his conduct so as at once to convey his affection to the
lady, and to conceal it from her brother. He at length resolved to
take all private opportunities of making his addresses; but in the
presence of Mr. Allworthy to be as reserved and as much upon his guard
as was possible; and this conduct was highly approved by the brother.
  He soon found means to make his addresses, in express terms, to
his mistress, from whom he received an answer in the proper form,
viz.: the answer which was first made some thousands of years ago, and
which hath been handed down by tradition from mother to daughter
ever since. If I was to translate this into Latin, I should render
it by these two words, Nolo Episcopari: a phrase likewise of
immemorial use on another occasion.
  The captain, however he came by his knowledge, perfectly well
understood the lady, and very soon after repeated his application with
more warmth and earnestness than before, and was again, according to
due form, rejected; but as he had increased in the eagerness of his
desires, so the lady, with the same propriety, decreased in the
violence of her refusal.
  Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene of this
courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain great author,
it is the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is, perhaps, as dull
and tiresome as any whatever to the audience), the captain made his
advances in form, the citadel was defended in form, and at length,
in proper form, surrendered at discretion.
  During this whole time, which filled the space of near a month,
the captain preserved great distance of behaviour to his lady in the
presence of the brother; and the more he succeeded with her in
private, the more reserved was he in public. And as for the lady,
she had no sooner secured her lover than she behaved to him before
company with the highest degree of indifference; so that Mr. Allworthy
must have had the insight of the devil (or perhaps some of his worse
qualities) to have entertained the least suspicion of what was going
forward.
                                Chapter 12

  Containing what the reader may, perhaps, expect to find in it

  In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning any
other such business, little previous ceremony is required to bring the
matter to an issue when both parties are really in earnest. This was
the case at present, and in less than a month the captain and his lady
were man and wife.
  The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr. Allworthy;
and this was undertaken by the doctor.
  One day, then, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the doctor
came to him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all the concern
which he could possibly affect in his countenance, said, "I am come,
sir, to impart an affair to you of the utmost consequence; but how
shall I mention to you what it almost distracts me to think of!" He
then launched forth into the most bitter invectives both against men
and women; accusing the former of having no attachment but to their
interest, and the latter of being so addicted to vicious
inclinations that they could never be safely trusted with one of the
other sex. "Could I," said he, "sir, have suspected that a lady of
such prudence, such judgment, such learning, should indulge so
indiscreet a passion! or could I have imagined that my brother- why
do I call him so? he is no longer a brother of mine-"
  "Indeed but he is," said Allworthy, "and a brother of mine too."
  "Bless me, sir!" said the doctor, "do you know the shocking affair?"
  "Look'ee, Mr. Blifil," answered the good man, "it hath been my
constant maxim in life to make the best of all matters which happen.
My sister, though many years younger than I, is at least old enough to
be at the age of discretion. Had he imposed on a child, I should
have been more averse to have forgiven him; but a woman upwards of
thirty must certainly be supposed to know what will make her most
happy. She hath married a gentleman, though perhaps not quite her
equal in fortune; and if he hath any perfections in her eye which
can make up that deficiency, I see no reason why I should object to
her choice of her own happiness; which I, no more than herself,
imagine to consist only in immense wealth. I might, perhaps, from
the many declarations I have made of complying with almost any
proposal, have expected to have been consulted on this occasion; but
these matters are of a very delicate nature, and the scruples of
modesty, perhaps, are not to be overcome. As to your brother, I have
really no anger against him at all. He hath no obligations to me,
nor do I think he was under any necessity of asking my consent,
since the woman is, as I have said, sui juris,* and of a proper age to
be entirely answerable only to herself for her conduct."

  *Of her own right.

  The doctor accused Mr. Allworthy of too great lenity, repeated his
accusations against his brother, and declared that he should never
more be brought either to see, or to own him for his relation. He then
launched forth into a panegyric on Allworthy's goodness; into the
highest encomiums on his friendship; and concluded by saying, he
should never forgive his brother for having put the place which he
bore in that friendship to a hazard.
  Allworthy thus answered: "Had I conceived any displeasure against
your brother, I should never have carried that resentment to the
innocent: but I assure you I have no such displeasure. Your brother
appears to me to be a man of sense and honour. I do not disapprove the
taste of my sister; nor will I doubt but that she is equally the
object of his inclinations. I have always thought love the only
foundation of happiness in a married state, as it can only produce
that high and tender friendship which should always be the cement of
this union; and, in my opinion, all those marriages which are
contracted from other motives are greatly criminal; they are a
profanation of a most holy ceremony, and generally end in disquiet and
misery: for surely we may call it a profanation to convert this most
sacred institution into a wicked sacrifice to lust or avarice: and
what better can be said of those matches to which men are induced
merely by the consideration of a beautiful person, or a great fortune?
  "To deny that beauty is an agreeable object to the eye, and even
worthy some admiration, would be false and foolish. Beautiful is an
epithet often used in Scripture, and always mentioned with honour.
It was my own fortune to marry a woman whom the world thought
handsome, and I can truly say I liked her the better on that
account. But to make this the sole consideration of marriage, to
lust after it so violently as to overlook all imperfections for its
sake, or to require it so absolutely as to reject and disdain
religion, virtue, and sense, which are qualities in their nature of
much higher perfection, only because an elegance of person is wanting:
this is surely inconsistent, either with a wise man or a good
Christian. And it is, perhaps, being too charitable to conclude that
such persons mean anything more by their marriage than to please their
carnal appetites; for the satisfaction of which, we are taught, it was
not ordained.
  "In the next place, with respect to fortune. Worldly prudence
perhaps, exacts some consideration on this head; nor will I absolutely
and altogether condemn it. As the world is constituted, the demands of
a married state, and the care of posterity, require some little regard
to what we call circumstances. Yet this provision is greatly
increased, beyond what is really necessary, by folly and vanity, which
create abundantly more wants than nature. Equipage for the wife, and
large fortunes for the children, are by custom enrolled in the list of
necessaries; and to procure these, everything truly solid and sweet,
and virtuous and religious, are neglected and overlooked.
  "And this in many degrees; the last and greatest of which seems
scarce distinguishable from madness;- I mean where persons of immense
fortunes contract themselves to those who are, and must be,
disagreeable to them- to fools and knaves- in order to increase an
estate already larger even than the demands of their pleasures. Surely
such persons, if they will not be thought mad, must own, either that
they are incapable of tasting the sweets of the tenderest
friendship, or that they sacrifice the greatest happiness of which
they are capable to the vain, uncertain, and senseless laws of
vulgar opinion, which owe as well their force as their foundation to
folly."
  Here Allworthy concluded his sermon, to which Blifil had listened
with the profoundest attention, though it cost him some pains to
prevent now and then a small discomposure of his muscles. He now
praised every period of what he had heard with the warmth of a young
divine, who hath the honour to dine with a bishop the same day in
which his lordship hath mounted the pulpit.
                                Chapter 13

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

  The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the
reconciliation (if indeed it could be so called) was only matter of
form; we shall therefore pass it over, and hasten to what must
surely be thought matter of substance.
  The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had past between Mr.
Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, "I promise you I paid you
off; nay, I absolutely desired the good gentleman not to forgive
you: for you know after he had made a declaration in your favour, I
might with safety venture on such a request with a person of his
temper; and I was willing, as well for your sake as for my own, to
prevent the least possibility of a suspicion."
  Captain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time;
but he afterwards made a very notable use of it.
  One of the maxims which the devil, in a late visit upon earth,
left to his disciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the stool
from under you. In plain English, when you have made your fortune by
the good offices of a friend, you are advised to discard him as soon
as you can.
  Whether the captain acted by this maxim, I will not positively
determine: so far we may confidently say, that his actions may be
fairly derived from this diabolical principle; and indeed it is
difficult to assign any other motive to them: for no sooner was he
possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled to Allworthy, than he
began to show a coldness to his brother which increased daily; till at
length it grew into rudeness, and became very visible to every one.
 The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this behaviour,
but could obtain no other satisfaction than the following plain
declaration: "If you dislike anything in my brother's house, sir,
you know you are at liberty to quit it." This strange, cruel, and
almost unaccountable ingratitude in the captain, absolutely broke
the poor doctor's heart; for ingratitude never so thoroughly pierces
the human breast as when it proceeds from those in whose behalf we
have been guilty of transgressions. Reflections on great and good
actions, however they are received or returned by those in whose
favour they are performed, always administer some comfort to us; but
what consolation shall we receive under so biting a calamity as the
ungrateful behaviour of our friend, when our wounded conscience at the
same time flies in our face, and upbraids us with having spotted it in
the service of one so worthless!
  Mr. Allworthy himself spoke to the captain in his brother's
behalf, and desired to know what offence the doctor had committed;
when the hard-hearted villain had the baseness to say that he should
never forgive him for the injury which he had endeavoured to do him in
his favour; which, he said, he had pumped out of him, and was such a
cruelty that it ought not to be forgiven.
  Allworthy spoke in very high terms upon this declaration, which,
he said, became not a human creature. He expressed, indeed, so much
resentment against an unforgiving temper, that the captain at last
pretended to be convinced by his arguments, and outwardly professed to
be reconciled.
  As for the bride, she was now in her honeymoon, and so
passionately fond of her new husband that he never appeared to her
to be in the wrong; and his displeasure against any person was a
sufficient reason for her dislike to the same.
  The captain, at Mr. Allworthy's instance, was outwardly, as we
have said, reconciled to his brother; yet the same rancour remained in
his heart; and he found so many opportunities of giving him private
hints of this, that the house at last grew insupportable to the poor
doctor; and he chose rather to submit to any inconveniences which he
might encounter in the world, than longer to bear these cruel and
ungrateful insults from a brother for whom he had done so much.
  He once intended to acquaint Allworthy with the whole; but he
could not bring himself to submit to the confession, by which he
must take to his share so great a portion of guilt. Besides, by how
much the worse man he represented his brother to be, so much the
greater would his own offence appear to Allworthy, and so much the
greater, he had reason to imagine, would be his resentment.
  He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his departure,
and promised to return soon again; and took leave of his brother
with so well-dissembled content, that, as the captain played his
part to the same perfection, Allworthy remained well satisfied with
the truth of the reconciliation.
  The doctor went directly to London, where he died soon after of a
broken heart; a distemper which kills many more than is generally
imagined, and would have a fair title to a place in the bill of
mortality, did it not differ in one instance from all other
diseases- viz., that no physician can cure it.
  Now, upon the most diligent enquiry into the former lives of these
two brothers, I find, besides the cursed and hellish maxim of policy
above mentioned, another reason for the captain's conduct: the
captain, besides what we have before said of him, was a man of great
pride and fierceness, and had always treated his brother, who was of a
different complexion, and greatly deficient in both these qualities,
with the utmost air of superiority. The doctor, however, had much
the larger share of learning, and was by many reputed to have the
better understanding. This the captain knew, and could not bear; for
though envy is at best a very malignant passion, yet is its bitterness
greatly heightened by mixing with contempt towards the same object;
and very much afraid I am, that whenever an obligation is joined to
these two, indignation and not gratitude will be the product of all
three.
                                    BOOK II
       CONTAINING SCENES OF MATRIMONIAL FELICITY IN DIFFERENT DEGREES OF
        LIFE; AND VARIOUS OTHER TRANSACTIONS DURING THE FIRST TWO YEARS
      AFTER THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CAPTAIN BLIFIL AND MISS BRIDGET ALLWORTHY
                                Chapter 1

  Showing what kind of a history this is; what it is like, and what it
is not like

  Though we have properly enough entitled this our work, a history,
and not a life; nor an apology for a life, as is more in fashion;
yet we intend in it rather to pursue the method of those writers,
who profess to disclose the revolutions of countries, than to
imitate the painful and voluminous historian, who, to preserve the
regularity of his series, thinks himself obliged to fill up as much
paper with the detail of months and years in which nothing
remarkable happened, as he employs upon those notable aeras when the
greatest scenes have been transacted on the human stage.
  Such histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a
newspaper, which consists of just the same number of words, whether
there be any news in it or not. They may likewise be compared to a
stage coach, which performs constantly the same course, empty as
well as full. The writer, indeed, seems to think himself obliged to
keep even pace with time, whose amanuensis he is; and, like his
master, travels as slowly through centuries of monkish dulness, when
the world seems to have been asleep, as through that bright and busy
age so nobly distinguished by the excellent Latin poet-

     Ad confligendum venientibus undique poenis,
     Omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
     Horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris;
     In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
     Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique.

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

     When dreadful Carthage frighted Rome with arms,
     And all the world was shook with fierce alarms;
     Whilst undecided yet, which part should fall,
     Which nation rise the glorious lord of all.

  Now it is our purpose, in the ensuing pages, to pursue a contrary
method. When any extraordinary scene presents itself (as we trust will
often be the case), we shall spare no pains nor paper to open it at
large to our reader; but if whole years should pass without
producing anything worthy his notice, we shall not be afraid of a
chasm in our history; but shall hasten on to matters of consequence,
and leave such periods of time totally unobserved.
  These are indeed to be considered as blanks in the grand lottery
of time. We therefore, who are the registers of that lottery, shall
imitate those sagacious persons who deal in that which is drawn at
Guildhall, and who never trouble the public with the many blanks
they dispose of; but when a great prize happens to be drawn, the
newspapers are presently filled with it, and the world is sure to be
informed at whose office it was sold: indeed, commonly two or three
different offices lay claim to the honour of having disposed of it; by
which, I suppose, the adventurers are given to understand that certain
brokers are in the secrets of Fortune, and indeed of her cabinet
council.
  My reader then is not to be surprized, if, in the course of this
work, he shall find some chapters very short, and others altogether as
long; some that contain only the time of a single day, and others that
comprise years; in a word, if my history sometimes seems to stand
still, and sometimes to fly. For all which I shall not look on
myself as accountable to any court of critical jurisdiction
whatever: for as I am, in reality, the founder of a new province of
writing, so I am at liberty to make what laws I please therein. And
these laws, my readers, whom I consider as my subjects, are bound to
believe in and to obey; with which that they may readily and
cheerfully comply, I do hereby assure them that I shall principally
regard their ease and advantage in all such institutions: for I do
not, like a jure divino* tyrant, imagine that they are my slaves, or
my commodity. I am, indeed, set over them for their own good only, and
was created for their use, and not they for mine. Nor do I doubt,
while I make their interest the great rule of my writings, they will
unanimously concur in supporting my dignity, and in rendering me all
the honour I shall deserve or desire.

  *By divine right.
                                Chapter 2

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

  Eight months after the celebration of the nuptials between Captain
Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young lady of great beauty,
merit, and fortune, was Miss Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered
of a fine boy. The child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but
the midwife discovered it was born a month before its full time.
  Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a circumstance
of great joy to Mr. Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his
affections from the little foundling, to whom he had been godfather,
had given his own name of Thomas, and whom he had hitherto seldom
failed of visiting, at least once a day, in his nursery.
  He told his sister, if she pleased, the newborn infant should be
bred up together with little Tommy; to which she consented, though
with some little reluctance: for she had truly a great complacence for
her brother; and hence she had always behaved towards the foundling
with rather more kindness than ladies of rigid virtue can sometimes
bring themselves to show to these children, who, however innocent, may
be truly called the living monuments of incontinence.
  The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what he
condemned as a fault in Mr. Allworthy. He gave him frequent hints,
that to adopt the fruits of sin, was to give countenance to it. He
quoted several texts (for he was well read in Scripture), such as,
He visits the sins of the fathers upon the children; and the fathers
have eaten sour grapes, and children's teeth are set on edge, &c.
Whence he argued the legality of punishing the crime of the parent
on the bastard. He said, "Though the law did not positively allow
the destroying such base-born children, yet it held them to be the
children of nobody; that the Church considered them as the children of
nobody; and that at the best, they ought to be brought up to the
lowest and vilest offices of the commonwealth."
  Mr. Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which the captain
had urged on this subject, "That, however guilty the parents might be,
the children were certainly innocent: that as to the texts he had
quoted, the former of them was a particular denunciation against the
jews, for the sin of idolatry, of relinquishing and hating their
heavenly King; and the latter was parabolically spoken, and rather
intended to denote the certain and necessary consequences of sin, than
any express judgment against it. But to represent the Almighty as
avenging the sins of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if
not blasphemous, as it to represent him acting against the first
principles of natural justice, and against the original notions of
right and wrong, which he himself had implanted in our minds; by which
we were to judge not only in all matters which were not revealed,
but even of the truth of revelation itself." He said he knew many held
the same principles with the captain on this head; but he was
himself firmly convinced to the contrary, and would provide in the
same manner for this poor infant, as if a legitimate child had had
fortune to have been found in the same place.
  While the captain was taking all opportunities to press these and
such like arguments, to remove the little foundling from Mr.
Allworthy's, of whose fondness for him he began to be jealous, Mrs.
Deborah had made a discovery, which, in its event, threatened at least
to prove more fatal to poor Tommy than all the reasonings of the
captain.
  Whether the insatiable curiosity of this good woman had carried
her on to that business, or whether she did it to confirm herself in
the good graces of Mrs. Blifil, who, notwithstanding her outward
behaviour to the foundling, frequently abused the infant in private,
and her brother too, for his fondness to it, I will not determine; but
she had now, as she conceived, fully detected the father of the
foundling.
  Now, as this was a discovery of great consequence, it may be
necessary to trace it from the fountain-head. We shall therefore
very minutely lay open those previous matters by which it was
produced; and for that purpose we shall be obliged to reveal all the
secrets of a little family with which my reader is at present entirely
unacquainted; and of which the oeconomy was so rare and extraordinary,
that I fear it will shock the utmost credulity of many married
persons.
                                Chapter 3

  The description of a domestic government founded upon rules directly
contrary to those of Aristotle

  My reader may please to remember he hath been informed that Jenny
Jones had lived some years with a certain schoolmaster, who had, at
her earnest desire, instructed her in Latin, in which, to do justice
to her genius, she had so improved herself, that she was become a
better scholar than her master.
  Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession to which
learning must be allowed necessary, this was the least of his
commendations. He was one of the best-natured fellows in the world,
and was, at the same time, master of so much pleasantry and humour,
that he was reputed the wit of the country; and all the neighbouring
gentlemen were so desirous of his company, that as denying was not his
talent, he spent much time at their houses, which he might, with
more emolument, have spent in his school.
  It may be imagined that a gentleman so qualified and so disposed,
was in no danger of becoming formidable to the learned seminaries of
Eton or Westminster. To speak plainly, his scholars were divided
into two classes: in the upper of which was a young gentleman, the son
of a neighboring squire, who, at the age of seventeen, was just
entered into his Syntaxis; and in the lower was a second son of the
same gentleman, who, together with seven parish-boys, was learning
to read and write.
  The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the
schoolmaster in the luxuries of life, had he not added to this
office those of clerk and barber, and had not Mr. Allworthy added to
the whole an annuity of ten pounds, which the poor man received
every Christmas, and with which he was enabled to cheer his heart
during that sacred festival.
  Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom he had
married out of Mr. Allworthy's kitchen for her fortune, viz., twenty
pounds, which she had there amassed.
  This woman was not very amiable in her person. Whether she sat to my
friend Hogarth, or no, I will not determine; but she exactly resembled
the young woman who is pouring out her mistress's tea in the third
picture of the Harlot's Progress. She was, besides, a profest follower
of that noble sect founded by Xantippe of old; by means of which she
became more formidable in the school than her husband; for, to confess
the truth, he was never master there, or anywhere else, in her
presence.
  Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweetness of
temper, yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a circumstance which
generally poisons matrimonial felicity; for children are rightly
called the pledges of love; and her husband, though they had been
married nine years, had given her no such pledges; a default for which
he had no excuse, either from age or health, being not yet thirty
years old, and what they call a jolly brisk young man.
  Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness to the
poor pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant a jealousy, that he
durst hardly speak to one woman in the parish; for the least degree of
civility, or even correspondence, with any female, was sure to bring
his wife upon her back, and his own.
  In order to guard herself against matrimonial injuries in her own
house, as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care to chuse her
out of that order of females whose faces are taken as a kind of
security for their virtue; of which number Jenny Jones, as the
reader hath been before informed, was one.
  As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good security
of the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour had been always
extremely modest, which is the certain consequence of understanding in
women; she had passed above four years at Mr. Partridge's (for that
was the schoolmaster's name) without creating the least suspicion in
her mistress. Nay, she had been treated with uncommon kindness, and
her mistress had permitted Mr. Partridge to give her those
instructions which have been before commemorated.
  But it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are
in the blood, there is never any security against their breaking
out; and that often on the slightest occasions, and when least
suspected.
  Thus it happened to Mrs. Partridge, who had submitted four years
to her husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often
to neglect her work in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by
one day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the
girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her
chair: and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into
the head of her mistress.
  This did not, however, at that time discover itself, but lay lurking
in her mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a reinforcement
of additional strength before he openly declares himself and
proceeds upon hostile operations: and such additional strength soon
arrived to corroborate her suspicion; for not long after, the
husband and wife being at dinner, the master said to his maid, Da mihi
aliquid potum: upon which the poor girl smiled, perhaps at the badness
of the Latin, and, when her mistress cast her eyes on her, blushed,
possibly with a consciousness of having laughed at her master. Mrs.
Partridge, upon this, immediately fell into a fury, and discharged the
trencher on which she was eating, at the head of poor Jenny, crying
out, "You impudent whore, do you play tricks with my husband before my
face?" and at the same instant rose from her chair with a knife in her
hand, with which, most probably, she would have executed very tragical
vengeance, had not the girl taken the advantage of being nearer the
door than her mistress, and avoided her fury by running away: for,
as to the poor husband, whether surprize had rendered him
motionless, or fear (which is full as probable) had restrained him
from venturing at any opposition, he sat staring and trembling in
his chair; nor did he once offer to move or speak, till his wife,
returning from the pursuit of Jenny, made some defensive measures
necessary for his own preservation; and he likewise was obliged to
retreat, after the example of the maid.
  This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposition

     To make a life of jealousy,
     And follow still the changes of the moon
     With fresh suspicions-

With her, as well as him,

     ----To be once in doubt,
     Was once to be resolv'd-----

she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls and
begone, for that she was determined she should not sleep that night
within her walls.
  Mr. Partridge had profited too much by experience to interpose in
a matter of this nature. He therefore had recourse to his usual
receipt of patience; for, though he was not a great adept in Latin, he
remembered, and well understood, the advice contained in these words:

     ----Leve fit, quod bene fertur onus-

in English:

     A burden becomes lightest when it is well borne-

which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the truth, he
had often occasion to experience the truth.
  Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence; but the
tempest was too strong for her to be heard. She then betook herself to
the business of packing, for which a small quantity of brown paper
sufficed; and, having received her small pittance of wages, she
returned home.
  The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time unpleasantly
enough that evening; but something or other happened before the next
morning, which a little abated the fury of Mrs. Partridge; and she
at length admitted her husband to make his excuses: to which she
gave the readier belief, as he had, instead of desiring her to
recall Jenny, professed a satisfaction in her being dismissed, saying,
she was grown of little use as a servant, spending all her time in
reading, and was become, moreover, very pert and obstinate; for,
indeed, she and her master had lately had frequent disputes in
literature; in which, as hath been said, she was become greatly his
superior. This, however, he would by no means allow; and as he
called her persisting in the right, obstinacy, he began to hate her
with no small inveteracy.
                                Chapter 4

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

  For the reasons mentioned in the preceding chapter, and from some
other matrimonial concessions, well known to most husbands, and which,
like the secrets of freemasonry, should be divulged to none who are
not members of that honourable fraternity, Mrs. Partridge was pretty
well satisfied that she had condemned her husband without cause, and
endeavoured by acts of kindness to make him amends for her false
suspicion. Her passions were indeed equally violent, whichever way
they inclined; for as she could be extremely angry, so could she be
altogether as fond.
  But though these passions ordinarily succeed each other, and
scarce twenty-four hours ever passed in which the pedagogue was not,
in some degree, the object of both; yet, on extraordinary occasions,
when the passion of anger had raged very high, the remission was
usually longer: and so was the case at present; for she continued
longer in a state of affability, after this fit of jealousy was ended,
than her husband had ever known before: and, had it not been for
some little exercises, which all the followers of Xantippe are obliged
to perform daily, Mr. Partridge would have enjoyed a perfect
serenity of several months.
  Perfect calms at sea are always suspected by the experienced mariner
to be the forerunners of a storm: and I know some persons, who,
without being generally the devotees of superstition, are apt to
apprehend that great and unusual peace or tranquillity will be
attended with its opposite. For which reason the antients used, on
such occasions, to sacrifice to the goddess Nemesis, a deity who was
thought by them to look with an invidious eye on human felicity, and
to have a peculiar delight in overturning it.
  As we are very far from believing in any such heathen goddess, or
from encouraging any superstition, so we wish Mr. John Fr--, or some
other such philosopher, would bestir himself a little, in order to
find out the real cause of this sudden transition from good to bad
fortune, which hath been so often remarked, and of which we shall
proceed to give an instance; for it is our province to relate facts,
and we shall leave causes to persons of much higher genius.
  Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and descanting on
the actions of others. Hence there have been, in all ages and nations,
certain places set apart for public rendezvous, where the curious
might meet and satisfy their mutual curiosity. Among these, the
barbers' shops have justly borne the preeminence. Among the Greeks,
barbers' news was a proverbial expression; and Horace, in one of his
epistles, makes honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same
light.
  Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their Greek
or Roman predecessors. You there see foreign affairs discussed in a
manner little inferior to that with which they are handled in the
coffee-houses; and domestic occurrences are much more largely and
freely treated in the former than in the latter. But this serves
only for the men. Now, whereas the females of this country, especially
those of the lower order, do associate themselves much more than those
of other nations, our polity would be highly deficient, if they had
not some place set apart likewise for the indulgence of their
curiosity, seeing they are in this no way inferior to the other half
of the species.
  In enjoying, therefore, such place of rendezvous, the British fair
ought to esteem themselves more happy than any of their foreign
sisters; as I do not remember either to have read in history, or to
have seen in my travels, anything of the like kind.
  This place then is no other than the chandler's shop, the known seat
of all the news; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossiping, in every
parish in England.
  Mrs. Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was
asked by one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately of
Jenny Jones? To which she answered in the negative. Upon this the
other replied, with a smile, That the parish was very much obliged
to her for having turned Jenny away as she did.
  Mrs. Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, was long
since cured, and who had no other quarrel to her maid, answered
boldly, She did not know any obligation the parish had to her on
that account; for she believed Jenny had scarce left her equal
behind her.
  "No, truly," said the gossip, "I hope not, though I fancy we have
sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that she hath
been brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are not born here, my
husband and the other overseer says we shall not be obliged to keep
them."
  "Two bastards!" answered Mrs. Partridge hastily: "you surprize me! I
don't know whether we must keep them; but I am sure they must have
been begotten here, for the wench hath not been nine months gone
away."
  Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the mind,
especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the two others
are but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred instantly to her, that
Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own house while she lived with
her. The leaning over the chair, the sudden starting up, the Latin,
the smile, and many other things, rushed upon her all at once. The
satisfaction her husband expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared
now to be only dissembled; again, in the same instant, to be real; but
yet to confirm her jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred
other bad causes. In a word, she was convinced of her husband's guilt,
and immediately left the assembly in confusion.
  As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline family,
degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of her house,
and though inferior in strength, is equal in fierceness to the noble
tiger himself, when a little mouse, whom it hath long tormented in
sport, escapes from her clutches for a while, frets, scolds, growls,
swears; but if the trunk, or box, behind which the mouse lay hid be
again removed, she flies like lightning on her prey, and, with
envenomed wrath, bites, scratches, mumbles, and tears the little
animal.
  Not with less fury did Mrs. Partridge fly on the poor pedagogue. Her
tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at once. His wig was in an
instant torn from his head, his shirt from his back, and from his face
descended five streams of blood, denoting the number of claws with
which nature had unhappily armed the enemy.
  Mr. Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; indeed he
attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but as he found
that his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he thought he might,
at least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather to confine her arms; in
doing which her cap fell off in the struggle, and her hair being too
short to reach her shoulders, erected itself on her head; her stays
likewise, which were laced through one single hole at the bottom,
burst open; and her breasts, which were much more redundant than her
hair, hung down below her middle; her face was likewise marked with
the blood of her husband: her teeth gnashed with rage; and fire,
such as sparkles from a smith's forge, darted from her eyes. So
that, altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been an object
of terror to a much bolder man than Mr. Partridge.
  He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession of her
arms, to render those weapons which she wore at the ends of her
fingers useless; which she no sooner perceived, than the softness of
her sex prevailed over her rage, and she presently dissolved in tears,
which soon after concluded in a fit.
  That small share of sense which Mr. Partridge had hitherto preserved
through this scene of fury, of the cause of which he was hitherto
ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran instantly into the street,
hallowing out that his wife was in the agonies of death, and
beseeching the neighbours to fly with the utmost haste to her
assistance. Several good women obeyed his summons, who entering his
house, and applying the usual remedies on such occasions, Mrs.
Partridge was at length, to the great joy of her husband, brought to
herself.
  As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and somewhat
composed herself with a cordial, she began to inform the company of
the manifold injuries she had received from her husband; who, she
said, was not contented to injure her in her bed; but, upon her
upbraiding him with it, had treated her in the cruelest manner
imaginable; had tore her cap and hair from her head, and her stays
from her body, giving her, at the same time, several blows, the
marks of which she should carry to the grave.
  The poor man, who bore on his face many more visible marks of the
indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonishment at this
accusation; which the reader will, I believe, bear witness for him,
had greatly exceeded the truth; for indeed he had not struck her once;
and this silence being interpreted to be a confession of the charge by
the whole court, they all began at once, una voce,* to rebuke and
revile him, repeating often, that none but a coward ever struck a
woman.

  *In one voice.

  Mr. Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his wife appealed to
the blood on her face, as an evidence of his barbarity, he could not
help laying claim to his own blood, for so it really was; as he
thought it very unnatural, that this should rise up (as we are
taught that of a murdered person often doth) in vengeance against him.
  To this the women made no other answer, than that it was a pity it
had not come from his heart, instead of his face; all declaring, that,
if their husbands should lift their hands against them, they would
have their hearts' bloods out of their bodies.
  After much admonition for what was past, and much good advice to Mr.
Partridge for his future behaviour, the company at length departed,
and left the husband and wife to a personal conference together, in
which Mr. Partridge soon learned the cause of all his sufferings.
                                Chapter 5

  Containing much matter to exercise the judgment and reflection of
the reader

  I believe it is a true observation, that few secrets are divulged to
one person only; but certainly, it would be next to a miracle that a
fact of this kind should be known to a whole parish, and not transpire
any farther.
  And, indeed, a very few days had past, before the country, to use
a common phrase, rung of the schoolmaster of Little Baddington; who
was said to have beaten his wife in the most cruel manner. Nay, in
some places it was reported he had murdered her; in others, that he
had broke her arms; in others, her legs: in short, there was scarce an
injury which can be done to a human creature, but what Mrs.
Partridge was somewhere or other affirmed to have received from her
husband.
  The cause of this quarrel was likewise variously reported; for as
some people said that Mrs. Partridge had caught her husband in bed
with his maid, so many other reasons, of a very different kind, went
abroad. Nay, some transferred the guilt to the wife, and the
jealousy to the husband.
  Mrs. Wilkins had long ago heard of this quarrel; but, as a different
cause from the true one had reached her ears, she thought proper to
conceal it; and the rather, perhaps, as the blame was universally laid
on Mr. Partridge; and his wife, when she was servant to Mr. Allworthy,
had in something offended Mrs. Wilkins, who was not of a very
forgiving temper.
  But Mrs. Wilkins, whose eyes could see objects at a distance, and
who could very well look forward a few years into futurity, had
perceived a strong likelihood of Captain Blifil's being hereafter
her master; and as she plainly discerned that the captain bore no
great goodwill to the little foundling, she fancied it would be
rendering him an agreeable service, if she could make any
discoveries that might lessen the affection which Mr. Allworthy seemed
to have contracted for this child, and which gave visible uneasiness
to the captain, who could not entirely conceal it even before
Allworthy himself; though his wife, who acted her part much better
in public, frequently recommended to him her own example, of conniving
at the folly of her brother, which, she said, she at least as well
perceived, and as much resented, as any other possibly could.
  Mrs. Wilkins having therefore, by accident, gotten a true scent of
the above story, though long after it had happened, failed not to
satisfy herself thoroughly of all the particulars; and then acquainted
the captain, that she had at last discovered the true father of the
little bastard, which she was sorry, she said, to see her master
lose his reputation in the country, by taking so much notice of.
  The captain chid her for the conclusion of her speech, as an
improper assurance in judging of her master's actions: for if his
honour, or his understanding, would have suffered the captain to
make an alliance with Mrs. Wilkins, his pride would by no means have
admitted it. And to say the truth, there is no conduct less politic,
than to enter into any confederacy with your friend's servants against
their master: for by these means you afterwards become the slave of
these very servants; by whom you are constantly liable to be betrayed.
And this consideration, perhaps it was, which prevented Captain Blifil
from being more explicit with Mrs. Wilkins, or from encouraging the
abuse which she had bestowed on Allworthy.
  But though he declared no satisfaction to Mrs. Wilkins at this
discovery, he enjoyed not a little from it in his own mind, and
resolved to make the best use of it he was able.
  He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own breast,
in hopes that Mr. Allworthy might hear it from some other person;
but Mrs. Wilkins, whether she resented the captain's behaviour, or
whether his cunning was beyond her, and she feared the discovery might
displease him, never afterwards opened her lips about the matter.
  I have thought it somewhat strange, upon reflection, that the
housekeeper never acquainted Mrs. Blifil with this news, as women
are more inclined to communicate all pieces of intelligence to their
own sex, than to ours. The only way, as it appears to me, of solving
this difficulty, is, by imputing it to that distance which was now
grown between the lady and the housekeeper: whether this arose from
a jealousy in Mrs. Blifil, that Wilkins showed too great a respect
to the foundling; for while she was endeavouring to ruin the little
infant, in order to ingratiate herself with the captain, she was every
day more and more commending it before Allworthy, as his fondness
for it every day increased. This, notwithstanding all the care she
took at other times to express the direct contrary to Mrs. Blifil,
perhaps offended that delicate lady, who certainly now hated Mrs.
Wilkins; and though she did not, or possibly could not, absolutely
remove her from her place, she found, however, the means of making her
life very uneasy. This Mrs. Wilkins, at length, so resented, that
she very openly showed all manner of respect and fondness to little
Tommy, in opposition to Mrs. Blifil.
  The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perishing, at
last took an opportunity to reveal it himself.
  He was one day engaged with Mr. Allworthy in a discourse on charity:
in which the captain, with great learning, proved to Mr. Allworthy,
that the word charity in Scripture nowhere means beneficence or
generosity.
  "The Christian religion," he said, "was instituted for much nobler
purposes, than to enforce a lesson which many heathen philosophers had
taught us long before, and which, though it might perhaps be called
a moral virtue, savoured but little of that sublime, Christian-like
disposition, that vast elevation of thought, in purity approaching
to angelic perfection, to be attained, expressed, and felt only by
grace. Those," he said, "came nearer to the Scripture meaning, who
understood by it candour, or the forming of a benevolent opinion of
our brethren, and passing a favourable judgment on their actions; a
virtue much higher, and more extensive in its nature, than a pitiful
distribution of alms, which, though we would never so much
prejudice, or even ruin our families, could never reach many;
whereas charity, in the other and truer sense, might be extended to
all mankind."
  He said, "Considering who the disciples were, it would be absurd
to conceive the doctrine of generosity, or giving alms, to have been
preached to them. And, as we could not well imagine this doctrine
should be preached by its Divine Author to men who could not
practise it, much less should we think it understood so by those who
can practise it, and do not.
  "But though," continued he, "there is, I am afraid, little merit
in these benefactions, there would, I must confess, be much pleasure
in them to a good mind, if it was not abated by one consideration. I
mean, that we are liable to be imposed upon, and to confer our
choicest favours often on the undeserving, as you must own was your
case in your bounty to that worthless fellow Partridge: for two or
three such examples must greatly lessen the inward satisfaction
which a good man would otherwise find in generosity; nay, may even
make him timorous in bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting
vice, and encouraging the wicked; a crime of a very black dye, and for
which it will by no means be a sufficient excuse, that we have not
actually intended such an encouragement; unless we have used the
utmost caution in chusing the objects of our beneficence. A
consideration which, I make no doubt, hath greatly checked the
liberality of many a worthy and pious man."
  Mr. Allworthy answered, "He could not dispute with the captain in
the Greek language, and therefore could say nothing as to the true
sense of the word which is translated charity; but that he had
always thought it was interpreted to consist in action, and that
giving alms constituted at least one branch of that virtue.
  "As to the meritorious part," he said, "he readily agreed with the
captain; for where could be the merit of barely discharging a duty?
which," he said, "let the world charity have what construction it
would, it sufficiently appeared to be from the whole tenor of the
New Testament. And as he thought it an indispensable duty, enjoined
both by the Christian law, and by the law of nature itself; so was
it withal so pleasant, that if any duty could be said to be its own
reward, or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this.
  "To confess the truth," said he, "there is one degree of
generosity (of charity I would have called it), which seems to have
some show of merit, and that is, where, from a principle of
benevolence and Christian love, we bestow on another what we really
want ourselves; where, in order to lessen the distresses of another,
we condescend to share some part of them, by giving what even our
own necessities cannot well spare. This is, I think, meritorious;
but to relieve our brethren only with our superfluities; to be
charitable (I must use the word) rather at the expense of our
coffers than ourselves; to save several families from misery rather
than hang up an extraordinary picture in our houses or gratify any
other idle ridiculous vanity- this seems to be only being human
creatures. Nay, I will venture to go farther, it is being in some
degree epicures: for what could the greatest epicure wish rather
than to eat with many mouths instead of one? which I think may be
predicated of any one who knows that the bread of many is owing to his
own largesses.
  "As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as may hereafter
prove unworthy objects, because many have proved such; surely it can
never deter a good man from generosity. I do not think a few or many
examples of ingratitude can justify a man's hardening his heart
against the distresses of his fellow-creatures; nor do I believe it
can ever have such effect on a truly benevolent mind. Nothing less
than a persuasion of universal depravity can lock up the charity of a
good man; and this persuasion must lead him, I think, either into
atheism, or enthusiasm; but surely it is unfair to argue such
universal depravity from a few vicious individuals; nor was this, I
believe, ever done by a man, who, upon searching his own mind, found
one certain exception to the general rule." He then concluded by
asking, "who that Partridge was, whom he had called a worthless
fellow?"
  "I mean," said the captain, "Partridge the barber, the schoolmaster,
what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the little child
which you found in your bed."
  Mr. Allworthy exprest great surprize at this account, and the
captain as great at his ignorance of it; for he said he had known it
above a month: and at length recollected with much difficulty that
he was told it by Mrs. Wilkins.
  Upon this, Wilkins was immediately summoned; who having confirmed
what the captain had said, was by Mr. Allworthy, by and with the
captain's advice, dispatched to Little Baddington, to inform herself
of the truth of the fact: for the captain exprest great dislike at all
hasty proceedings in criminal matters, and said he would by no means
have Mr. Allworthy take any resolution either to the prejudice of
the child or its father, before he was satisfied that the latter was
guilty; for though he had privately satisfied himself of this from one
of Partridge's neighbours, yet he was too generous to give any such
evidence to Mr. Allworthy.
                                Chapter 6

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

  It may be wondered that a story so well known, and which had
furnished so much matter of conversation, should never have been
mentioned to Mr. Allworthy himself, who was perhaps the only person in
that country who had never heard of it.
  To account in some measure for this to the reader, I think proper to
inform him, that there was no one in the kingdom less interested in
opposing that doctrine concerning the meaning of the word charity,
which hath been seen in the preceding chapter, than our good man.
Indeed, he was equally intitled to this virtue in either sense; for as
no man was ever more sensible of the wants, or more ready to relieve
the distresses of others, so none could be more tender of their
characters, or slower to believe anything to their disadvantage.
  Scandal, therefore, never found any access to his table; for as it
hath been long since observed that you may know a man by his
companions, so I will venture to say, that, by attending to the
conversation at a great man's table, you may satisfy yourself of his
religion, his politics, his taste, and indeed of his entire
disposition: for though a few odd fellows will utter their own
sentiments in all places, yet much the greater part of mankind have
enough of the courtier to accommodate their conversation to the
taste and inclination of their superiors.
  But to return to Mrs. Wilkins, who, having executed her commission
with great dispatch, though at fifteen miles distance, brought back
such confirmation of the schoolmaster's guilt, that Mr. Allworthy
determined to send for the criminal, and examine him viva voce. Mr.
Partridge, therefore, was summoned to attend, in order to his
defence (if he could make any) against this accusation.
  At the time appointed, before Mr. Allworthy himself, at
Paradise-hall, came as well the said Partridge, with Anne, his wife,
as Mrs. Wilkins his accuser.
  And now Mr. Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, Mr.
Partridge was brought before him. Having heard his accusation from the
mouth of Mrs. Wilkins, he pleaded not guilty, making many vehement
protestations of his innocence.
  Mrs. Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest apology for
being obliged to speak the truth against her husband, related all
the circumstances with which the reader hath already been
acquainted; and at last concluded with her husband's confession of his
guilt.
  Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to determine;
but it is certain she was an unwilling witness in this cause; and it
is probable from certain other reasons, would never have been
brought to depose as she did, had not Mrs. Wilkins, with great art,
fished all out of her at her own house, and had she not indeed made
promises, in Mr. Allworthy's name, that the punishment of her
husband should not be such as might anywise affect his family.
  Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he
admitted he had made the above-mentioned confession; which he
however endeavoured to account for, by protesting that he was forced
into it by the continued importunity she used: who vowed, that, as she
was sure of his guilt, she would never leave tormenting him till he
had owned it; and faithfully promised, that, in such case, she would
never mention it to him more. Hence, he said, he had been induced
falsely to confess himself guilty, though he was innocent; and that he
believed he should have confest a murder from the same motive.
  Mrs. Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience; and
having no other remedy in the present place but tears, she called
forth a plentiful assistance from them, and then addressing herself to
Mr. Allworthy, she said (or rather cried), "May it please your
worship, there never was any poor woman so injured as I am by that
base man; for this is not the only instance of his falsehood to me.
No, may it please your worship, he hath injured my bed many's the good
time and often. I could have put up with his drunkenness and neglect
of his business, if he had not broke one of the sacred commandments.
Besides, if it had been out of doors I had not mattered it so much;
but with my own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to defile
my own chaste bed, which to be sure he hath, with his beastly stinking
whores. Yes, you villain, you have defiled my own bed, you have; and
then you have charged me with bullocking you into owning the truth. Is
it very likely, an't please your worship, that I should bullock him? I
have marks enow about my body to show of his cruelty to me. If you had
been a man, you villain, you would have scorned to injure a woman in
that manner. But you an't half a man, you know it. Nor have you been
half a husband to me. You need run after whores, you need, when I'm
sure-- And since he provokes me, I am ready, an't please your
worship, to take my bodily oath that I found them a-bed together.
What, you have forgot, I suppose, when you beat me into a fit, and
made the blood run down my forehead, because I only civilly taxed
you with adultery! but I can prove it by all my neighbours. You have
almost broke my heart, you have, you have."
  Here Mr. Allworthy interrupted, and begged her to be pacified,
promising her that she should have justice; then turning to Partridge,
who stood aghast, one half of his wits being hurried away by
surprize and the other half by fear, he said he was sorry to see there
was so wicked a man in the world. He assured him that his
prevaricating and lying backward and forward was a great aggravation
of his guilt; for which the only atonement he could make was by
confession and repentance. He exhorted him, therefore, to begin by
immediately confessing the fact, and not to persist in denying what
was so plainly proved against him even by his own wife.
  Here, reader, I beg your patience a moment, while I make a just
compliment to the great wisdom and sagacity of our law, which
refuses to admit the evidence of a wife for or against her husband.
This, says a certain learned author, who, I believe, was never
quoted before in any but a law-book, would be the means of creating an
eternal dissension between them. It would, indeed, be the means of
much perjury, and of much whipping, fining, imprisoning, transporting,
and hanging.
  Partridge stood a while silent, till, being bid to speak, he said he
had already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven for his
innocence, and lastly to the girl herself, whom he desired his worship
immediately to send for; for he was ignorant, or at least pretended to
be so, that she had left that part of the country.
  Mr. Allworthy, whose natural love of justice, joined to his coolness
of temper, made him always a most patient magistrate in hearing all
the witnesses which an accused person could produce in his defence,
agreed to defer his final determination of this matter till the
arrival of Jenny, for whom he immediately dispatched a messenger;
and then having recommended peace between Partridge and his wife
(though he addressed himself chiefly to the wrong person), he
appointed them to attend again the third day; for he had sent Jenny
a whole day's journey from his own house.
  At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the
messenger returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be found;
for that she had left her habitation a few days before, in company
with a recruiting officer.
  Mr. Allworthy then declared that the evidence of such a slut as
she appeared to be would have deserved no credit; but he said he could
not help thinking that, had she been present, and would have
declared the truth, she must have confirmed what so many
circumstances, together with his own confession, and the declaration
of his wife that she had caught her husband in the fact, did
sufficiently prove. He therefore once more exhorted Partridge to
confess; but he still avowing his innocence, Mr. Allworthy declared
himself satisfied of his guilt, and that he was too bad a man to
receive any encouragement from him. He therefore deprived him of his
annuity, and recommended repentance to him on account of another
world, and industry to maintain himself and his wife in this.
  There were not, perhaps, many more unhappy persons than poor
Partridge. He had lost the best part of his income by the evidence
of his wife, and yet was daily upbraided by her for having, among
other things, been the occasion of depriving her of that benefit;
but such was his fortune, and he was obliged to submit to it.
  Though I called him poor Partridge in the last paragraph, I would
have the reader rather impute that epithet to the compassion in my
temper than conceive it to be any declaration of his innocence.
Whether he was innocent or not will perhaps appear hereafter; but if
the historic muse hath entrusted me with any secrets, I will by no
means be guilty of discovering them till she shall give me leave.
  Here therefore the reader must suspend his curiosity. Certain it
is that, whatever was the truth of the case, there was evidence more
than sufficient to convict him before Allworthy; indeed, much less
would have satisfied a bench of justices on an order of bastardy;
and yet, notwithstanding the positiveness of Mrs. Partridge, who would
have taken the sacrament upon the matter, there is a possibility
that the schoolmaster was entirely innocent: for though it appeared
clear on comparing the time when Jenny departed from Little Baddington
with that of her delivery that she had there conceived this infant,
yet it by no means followed of necessity that Partridge must have been
its father; for, to omit other particulars, there was in the same
house a lad near eighteen, between whom and Jenny there had
subsisted sufficient intimacy to found a reasonable suspicion; and
yet, so blind is jealousy, this circumstance never once entered into
the head of the enraged wife.
  Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr. Allworthy's
advice, is not so apparent. Certain it is that his wife repented
heartily of the evidence she had given against him: especially when
she found Mrs. Deborah had deceived her, and refused to make any
application to Mr. Allworthy on her behalf. She had, however, somewhat
better success with Mrs. Blifil, who was, as the reader must have
perceived, a much better-tempered woman, and very kindly undertook
to solicit her brother to restore the annuity; in which, though
good-nature might have some share, yet a stronger and more natural
motive will appear in the next chapter.
  These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful: for though Mr.
Allworthy did not think, with some late writers, that mercy consists
only in punishing offenders; yet he was as far from thinking that it
is proper to this excellent quality to pardon great criminals
wantonly, without any reason whatever. Any doubtfulness of the fact,
or any circumstance of mitigation, was never disregarded: but the
petitions of an offender, or the intercessions of others, did not in
the least affect him. In a word, he never pardoned because the
offender himself, or his friends, were unwilling that he should be
punished.
  Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit to
their fate; which was indeed severe enough: for so far was he from
doubling his industry on the account of his lessened income, that he
did in a manner abandon himself to despair; and as he was by nature
indolent, that vice now increased upon him, which means he lost the
little school he had; so that neither his wife nor himself would
have had any bread to eat, had not the charity of some good
Christian interposed, and provided them with what was just
sufficient for their sustenance.
  As this support was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, they
imagined, and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr. Allworthy
himself was their secret benefactor; who, though he would not openly
encourage vice, could yet privately relieve the distresses of the
vicious themselves, when these became too exquisite and
disproportionate to their demerit. In which light their wretchedness
appeared now to Fortune herself; for she at length took pity on this
miserable couple, and considerably lessened the wretched state of
Partridge, by putting a final end to that of his wife, who soon
after caught the small-pox, and died.
  The justice which Mr. Allworthy had executed on Partridge at first
met with universal approbation; but no sooner had he felt its
consequences, than his neighbours began to relent, and to
compassionate his case; and presently after, to blame that as rigour
and severity which they before called justice. They now exclaimed
against punishing in cold blood, and sang forth the praises of mercy
and forgiveness.
  These cries were considerably increased by the death of Mrs.
Partridge, which, though owing to the distemper above mentioned, which
is no consequence of poverty or distress, many were not ashamed to
impute to Mr. Allworthy's severity, or, as they now termed it,
cruelty.
  Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his annuity, and
the unknown person having now discontinued the last-mentioned charity,
resolved to change the scene, and left the country, where he was in
danger of starving, with the universal compassion of all his
neighbours.
                                Chapter 7

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

  Though the captain had effectually demolished poor Partridge, yet
had he not reaped the harvest he hoped for, which was to turn the
foundling out of Mr. Allworthy's house.
  On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder of little
Tommy, as if he intended to counterbalance his severity to the
father with extraordinary fondness and affection towards the son.
  This a good deal soured the captain's temper, as did all the other
daily instances of Mr. Allworthy's generosity; for he looked on all
such largesses to be diminutions of his own wealth.
  In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife; nor,
indeed, in anything else: for though an affection placed on the
understanding is, by many wise persons, thought more durable than that
which is founded on beauty, yet it happened otherwise in the present
case. Nay, the understandings of this couple were their principal bone
of contention, and one great cause of many quarrels, which from time
to time arose between them; and which at last ended, on the side of
the lady, in a sovereign contempt for her husband; and on the
husband's, in an utter abhorrence of his wife.
  As these had both exercised their talents chiefly in the study of
divinity, this was, from their first acquaintance, the most common
topic of conversation between them. The captain, like a well-bred man,
had, before marriage, always given up his opinion to that of the lady;
and this, not in the clumsy awkward manner of a conceited blockhead,
who, while he civilly yields to a superior in an argument, is desirous
of being still known to think himself in the right. The captain, on
the contrary, though one of the proudest fellows in the world, so
absolutely yielded the victory to his antagonist, that she, who had
not the least doubt of his sincerity, retired always from the
dispute with an admiration of her own understanding and a love for
his.
  But though this complacence to one whom the captain thoroughly
despised, was not so uneasy to him as it would have been had any hopes
of preferment made it necessary to show the same submission to a
Hoadley, or to some other of great reputation in the science, yet even
this cost him too much to be endured without some motive. Matrimony,
therefore, having removed all such motives, he grew weary of this
condescension, and began to treat the opinions of his wife with that
haughtiness and insolence, which none but those who deserve some
contempt themselves can bestow, and those only who deserve no contempt
can bear.
  When the first torrent of tenderness was over, and when, in the calm
and long interval between the fits, reason began to open the eyes of
the lady, and she saw this alteration of behaviour in the captain, who
at length answered all her arguments only with pish and pshaw, she was
far from enduring the indignity with a tame submission. Indeed, it
at first so highly provoked her, that it might have produced some
tragical event, had it not taken a more harmless turn, by filling
her with the utmost contempt for her husband's understanding, which
somewhat qualified her hatred towards him; though of this likewise she
had a pretty moderate share.
  The captain's hatred to her was of a purer kind: for as to any
imperfections in her knowledge or understanding, he no more despised
her for them, than for her not being six feet high. In his opinion
of the female sex, he exceeded the moroseness of Aristotle himself: he
looked on a woman as on an animal of domestic use, of somewhat
higher consideration than a cat, since her offices were of rather more
importance; but the difference between these two was, in his
estimation, so small, that, in his marriage contracted with Mr.
Allworthy's lands and tenements, it would have been pretty equal which
of them he had taken into the bargain. And yet so tender was his
pride, that it felt the contempt which his wife now began to express
towards him; and this, added to the surfeit he had before taken of her
love, created in him a degree of disgust and abhorrence, perhaps
hardly to be exceeded.
  One situation only of the married state is excluded from pleasure:
and that is, a state of indifference: but as many of my readers, I
hope, know what an exquisite delight there is in conveying pleasure to
a beloved object, so some few, I am afraid, may have experienced the
satisfaction of tormenting one we hate. It is, I apprehend, to come at
this latter pleasure, that we see both sexes often give up that ease
in marriage which they might otherwise possess, though their mate
was never so disagreeable to them. Hence the wife often puts on fits
of love and jealousy, nay, even denies herself any pleasure, to
disturb and prevent those of her husband; and he again, in return,
puts frequent restraints on himself, and stays at home in company
which he dislikes, in order to confine his wife to what she equally
detests. Hence, too, must flow those tears which a widow sometimes
so plentifully sheds over the ashes of a husband with whom she led a
life of constant disquiet and turbulency, and whom now she can never
hope to torment any more.
  But if ever any couple enjoyed this pleasure, it was at present
experienced by the captain and his lady. It was always a sufficient
reason to either of them to be obstinate in any opinion, that the
other had previously asserted the contrary. If the one proposed any
amusement, the other constantly objected to it: they never loved or
hated, commended or abused, the same person. And for this reason, as
the captain looked with an evil eye on the little foundling, his
wife began now to caress it almost equally with her own child.
  The reader will be apt to conceive, that this behaviour between
the husband and wife did not greatly contribute to Mr. Allworthy's
repose, as it tended so little to that serene happiness which he had
designed for all three from this alliance; but the truth is, though he
might be a little disappointed in his sanguine expectations, yet he
was far from being acquainted with the whole matter; for, as the
captain was, from certain obvious reasons, much on his guard before
him, the lady was obliged, for fear of her brother's displeasure, to
pursue the same conduct. In fact, it is possible for a third person to
be very intimate, nay even to live long in the same house, with a
married couple, who have any tolerable discretion, and not even
guess at the sour sentiments which they bear to each other: for though
the whole day may be sometimes too short for hatred, as well as for
love; yet the many hours which they naturally spend together, apart
from all observers, furnish people of tolerable moderation with such
ample opportunity for the enjoyment of either passion, that, if they
love, they can support being a few hours in company without toying, or
if they hate, without spitting in each other's faces.
  It is possible, however, that Mr. Allworthy saw enough to render him
a little uneasy; for we are not always to conclude, that a wise man is
not hurt, because he doth not cry out and lament himself, like those
of a childish or effeminate temper. But indeed it is possible he might
see some faults in the captain without any uneasiness at all; for
men of true wisdom and goodness are contented to take persons and
things as they are, without complaining of their imperfections, or
attempting to amend them. They can see a fault in a friend, a
relation, or an acquaintance, without ever mentioning it to the
parties themselves, or to any others; and this often without lessening
their affection. Indeed, unless great discernment be tempered with
this overlooking disposition, we ought never to contract friendship
but with a degree of folly which we can deceive; for I hope my friends
will pardon me when I declare, I know none of them without a fault;
and I should be sorry if I could imagine I had any friend who could
not see mine. Forgiveness of this kind we give and demand in turn.
It is an exercise of friendship, and perhaps none of the least
pleasant. And this forgiveness we must bestow, without desire of
amendment. There is, perhaps, no surer mark of folly, than an
attempt to correct the natural infirmities of those we love. The
finest composition of human nature, as well as the finest china, may
have a flaw in it; and this, I am afraid, in either case, is equally
incurable; though, nevertheless, the pattern may remain of the highest
value.
  Upon the whole, then, Mr. Allworthy certainly saw some imperfections
in the captain; but as this was a very artful man, and eternally
upon his guard before him, these appeared to him no more than
blemishes in a good character, which his goodness made him overlook,
and his wisdom prevented him from discovering to the captain
himself. Very different would have been his sentiments had he
discovered the whole; which perhaps would in time have been the
case, had the husband and wife long continued this kind of behaviour
to each other; but this kind Fortune took effectual means to
prevent, by forcing the captain to do that which rendered him again
dear to his wife, and restored all her tenderness and affection
towards him.
                                Chapter 8

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

  The captain was made large amends for the unpleasant minutes which
he passed in the conversation of his wife (and which were as few as he
could contrive to make them), by the pleasant meditations he enjoyed
when alone.
  These meditations were entirely employed on Mr. Allworthy's fortune;
for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, as well as he
could, the exact value of the whole: which calculations he often saw
occasion to alter in his own favour: and, secondly and chiefly, he
pleased himself with intended alterations in the house and gardens,
and in projecting many other schemes, as well for the improvement of
the estate as of the grandeur of the place: for this purpose he
applied himself to the studies of architecture and gardening, and read
over many books on both these subjects; for these sciences, indeed,
employed his whole time, and formed his only amusement. He at last
completed a most excellent plan: and very sorry we are, that it is not
in our power to present it to our reader, since even the luxury of the
present age, I believe, would hardly match it. It had, indeed, in a
superlative degree, the two principal ingredients which serve to
recommend all great and noble designs of this nature; for it
required an immoderate expense to execute, and a vast length of time
to bring it to any sort of perfection. The former of these, the
immense wealth of which the captain supposed Mr. Allworthy
possessed, and which he thought himself sure of inheriting, promised
very effectually to supply; and the latter, the soundness of his own
constitution, and his time of life, which was only what is called
middle-age, removed all apprehension of his not living to accomplish.
  Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the immediate
execution of this plan, but the death of Mr. Allworthy; in calculating
which he had employed much of his own algebra, besides purchasing
every book extant that treats of the value of lives, reversions, &c.
From all which he satisfied himself, that as he had every day a chance
of this happening, so had he more than an even chance of its happening
within a few years.
  But while the captain was one day busied in deep contemplations of
this kind, one of the most unlucky as well as unseasonable accidents
happened to him. The utmost malice of Fortune could, indeed, have
contrived nothing so cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely destructive
to all his schemes. In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense,
just at the very instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on
the happiness which would accrue to him by Mr. Allworthy's death, he
himself- died of an apoplexy.
  This unfortunately befel the captain as he was taking his evening
walk by himself, so that nobody was present to lend him any
assistance, if indeed, any assistance could have preserved him. He
took, therefore, measure of that proportion of soil which was now
become adequate to all his future purposes, and he lay dead on the
ground, a great (though not a living) example of the truth of that
observation of Horace:

     Tu secanda marmora
       Locas sub ipsum funus; et sepulchri
     Immemor, struis domos.

Which sentiment I shall thus give to the English reader: "You
provide the noblest materials for building, when a pickaxe and a spade
are only necessary: and build houses of five hundred by a hundred
feet, forgetting that of six by two."
                                Chapter 9

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

  Mr. Allworthy, his sister, and another lady, were assembled at the
accustomed hour in the supper-room, where, having waited a
considerable time longer than usual, Mr. Allworthy first declared he
began to grow uneasy at the captain's stay (for he was always most
punctual at his meals); and gave orders that the bell should be rung
without the doors, and especially towards those walks which the
captain was wont to use.
  All these summons proving ineffectual (for the captain had, by
perverse accident, betaken himself to a new walk that evening), Mrs.
Blifil declared she was seriously frightened. Upon which the other
lady, who was one of her most intimate acquaintance, and who well knew
the true state of her affections, endeavoured all she could to
pacify her, telling her- To be sure she could not help being uneasy;
but that she should hope the best. That, perhaps the sweetness of
the evening had inticed the captain to go farther than his usual walk:
or he might be detained at some neighbour's. Mrs. Blifil answered, No;
she was sure some accident had befallen him; for that he would never
stay out without sending her word, as he must know how uneasy it would
make her. The other lady, having no other arguments to use, betook
herself to the entreaties usual on such occasions, and begged her
not to frighten herself, for it might be of very ill consequence to
her own health; and, filling out a very large glass of wine,
advised, and at last prevailed with her to drink it.
  Mr. Allworthy now returned into the parlour; for he had been himself
in search after the captain. His countenance sufficiently showed the
consternation he was under, which, indeed, had a good deal deprived
him of speech; but as grief operates variously on different minds,
so the same apprehension which depressed his voice, elevated that of
Mrs. Blifil. She now began to bewail herself in very bitter terms, and
floods of tears accompanied her lamentations; which the lady, her
companion, declared she could not blame, but at the same time
dissuaded her from indulging; attempting to moderate the grief of
her friend by philosophical observations on the many disappointments
to which human life is daily subject, which, she said, was a
sufficient consideration to fortify our minds against any accidents,
how sudden or terrible soever. She said her brother's example ought to
teach her patience, who, though indeed he could not be supposed as
much concerned as herself, yet was, doubtless, very uneasy, though his
resignation to the Divine will had restrained his grief within due
bounds.
  "Mention not my brother," said Mrs. Blifil; "I alone am the object
of your pity. What are the terrors of friendship to what a wife
feels on these occasions? Oh, he is lost! Somebody hath murdered him-
I shall never see him more!"- Here a torrent of tears had the same
consequence with what the suppression had occasioned to Mr. Allworthy,
and she remained silent.
  At this interval a servant came running in, out of breath, and cried
out, The captain was found; and, before he could proceed farther, he
was followed by two more, bearing the dead body between them.
  Here the curious reader may observe another diversity in the
operations of grief: for as Mr. Allworthy had been before silent, from
the same cause which had made his sister vociferous; so did the
present sight, which drew tears from the gentleman, put an entire stop
to those of the lady; who first gave a violent scream, and presently
after fell into a fit.
  The room was soon full of servants, some of whom, with the lady
visitant, were employed in care of the wife; and others, with Mr.
Allworthy, assisted in carrying off the captain to a warm bed; where
every method was tried, in order to restore him to life.
  And glad should we be, could we inform the reader that both these
bodies had been attended with equal success; for those who undertook
the care of the lady succeeded so well, that, after the fit had
continued a decent time, she again revived, to their great
satisfaction: but as to the captain, all experiments of bleeding,
chafing, dropping, &c., proved ineffectual. Death, that inexorable
judge, had passed sentence on him, and refused to grant him a
reprieve, though two doctors who arrived, and were fee'd at one and
the same instant, were his counsel.
  These two doctors, whom, to avoid any malicious applications, we
shall distinguish by the names of Dr. Y. and Dr. Z., having felt his
pulse; to wit, Dr. Y. his right arm, and Dr. Z. his left; both
agreed that he was absolutely dead; but as to the distemper, or
cause of his death, they differed; Dr. Y. holding that he died of an
apoplexy, and Dr. Z. of an epilepsy.
  Hence arose a dispute between the learned men, in which each
delivered the reasons of their several opinions. These were of such
equal force, that they served both to confirm either doctor in his own
sentiments, and made not the least impression on his adversary.
  To say the truth, every physician almost hath his favourite disease,
to which he ascribes all the victories obtained over human nature. The
gout, the rheumatism, the stone, the gravel, and the consumption, have
all their several patrons in the faculty; and none more than the
nervous fever, or the fever on the spirits. And here we may account
for those disagreements in opinion, concerning the cause of a
patient's death, which sometimes occur, between the most learned of
the college; and which have greatly surprized that part of the world
who have been ignorant of the fact we have above asserted.
  The reader may perhaps be surprized, that, instead of endeavouring
to revive the patient, the learned gentlemen should fall immediately
into a dispute on the occasion of his death; but in reality all such
experiments had been made before their arrival: for the captain was
put into a warm bed, had his veins scarified, his forehead chafed, and
all sorts of strong drops applied to his lips and nostrils.
  The physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in
everything they ordered, were at a loss how to apply that portion of
time which it is usual and decent to remain for their fee, and were
therefore necessitated to find some subject or other for discourse;
and what could more naturally present itself than that before
mentioned?
  Our doctors were about to take their leave, when Mr. Allworthy,
having given over the captain, and acquiesced in the Divine will,
began to enquire after his sister, whom he desired them to visit
before their departure.
  This lady was now recovered of her fit, and, to use the common
phrase, as well as could be expected for one in her condition. The
doctors, therefore, all previous ceremonies being complied with, as
this was a new patient, attended, according to desire, and laid hold
on each of her hands, as they had before done on those of the corpse.
  The case of the lady was in the other extreme from that of her
husband: for as he was past all the assistance of physic, so in
reality she required none.
  There is nothing more unjust than the vulgar opinion, by which
physicians are misrepresented, as friends to death. On the contrary, I
believe, if the number of those who recover by physic could be opposed
to that of the martyrs to it, the former would rather exceed the
latter. Nay, some are so cautious on this head, that, to avoid a
possibility of killing the patient, they abstain from all methods of
curing, and prescribe nothing but what can neither do good nor harm. I
have heard some of these, with great gravity, deliver it as a maxim,
"That Nature should be left to do her own work, while the physician
stands by as it were to clap her on the back, and encourage her when
she doth well."
  So little then did our doctors delight in death, that they
discharged the corpse after a single fee; but they were not so
disgusted with their living patient; concerning whose case they
immediately agreed, and fell to prescribing with great diligence.
  Whether, as the lady had at first persuaded her physicians to
believe her ill, they had now, in return, persuaded her to believe
herself so, I will not determine; but she continued a whole month with
all the decorations of sickness. During this time she was visited by
physicians, attended by nurses, and received constant messages from
her acquaintance to enquire after her health.
  At length the decent time for sickness and immoderate grief being
expired, the doctors were discharged, and the lady began to see
company; being altered only from what she was before, by that colour
of sadness in which she had dressed her person and countenance.
  The captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already
made a large progress towards oblivion, had not the friendship of
Mr. Allworthy taken care to preserve his memory, by the following
epitaph, which was written by a man of as great genius as integrity,
and one who perfectly well knew the captain.

                                HERE LIES,
                    IN EXPECTATION OF A JOYFUL RISING,
                               THE BODY OF
                           CAPTAIN JOHN BLIFIL.
                                  LONDON
                       HAD THE HONOUR OF HIS BIRTH,
                                  OXFORD
                            OF HIS EDUCATION.

                                HIS PARTS
                     WERE AN HONOUR TO HIS PROFESSION
                            AND TO HIS COUNTRY
                        HIS LIFE, TO HIS RELIGION
                            AND HUMAN NATURE.

                          HE WAS A DUTIFUL SON,
                            A TENDER HUSBAND,
                         AN AFFECTIONATE FATHER,
                           A MOST KIND BROTHER,
                            A SINCERE FRIEND,
                           A DEVOUT CHRISTIAN,
                             AND A GOOD MAN.

                          HIS INCONSOLABLE WIDOW
                         HATH ERECTED THIS STONE,
                             THE MONUMENT OF
                               HER VIRTUES
                          AND OF HER AFFECTION.
                                    BOOK III
         CONTAINING THE MOST MEMORABLE TRANSACTIONS WHICH PASSED IN THE
     FAMILY OF MR. ALLWORTHY, FROM THE TIME WHEN TOMMY JONES ARRIVED AT THE
      AGE OF FOURTEEN, TILL HE ATTAINED THE AGE OF NINETEEN. IN THIS BOOK
     THE READER MAY PICK UP SOME HINTS CONCERNING THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN
                                Chapter 1

  Containing little or nothing

  The reader will be pleased to remember, that, at the beginning of
the second book of this history, we gave him a hint of our intention
to pass over several large periods of time, in which nothing
happened worthy of being recorded in a chronicle of this kind.
  In so doing, we do not only consult our own dignity and ease, but
the good and advantage of the reader: for besides that by these
means we prevent him from throwing away his time, in reading without
either pleasure or emolument, we give him, at all such seasons, an
opportunity of employing that wonderful sagacity, of which he is
master, by filling up these vacant spaces of time with his
conjectures; for which purpose we have taken care to qualify him in
the preceding pages.
  For instance, what reader but knows that Mr. Allworthy felt, at
first, for the loss of his friend, those emotions of grief, which on
such occasions enter into all men whose hearts are not composed of
flint, or their heads of as solid materials? Again, what reader doth
not know that philosophy and religion in time moderated, and at last
extinguished, this grief? The former of these teaching the folly and
vanity of it, and the latter correcting it as unlawful, and at the
same time assuaging it, by raising future hopes and assurances,
which enable a strong and religious mind to take leave of a friend, on
his deathbed, with little less indifference than if he was preparing
for a long journey; and, indeed, with little less hope of seeing him
again.
  Nor can the judicious reader be at a greater loss on account of Mrs.
Bridget Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted herself through
the whole season in which grief is to make its appearance on the
outside of the body, with the strictest regard to all the rules of
custom and decency, suiting the alterations of her countenance to
the several alterations of her habit: for as this changed from weeds
to black, from black to grey, from grey to white, so did her
countenance change from dismal to sorrowful, from sorrowful to sad,
and from sad to serious, till the day came in which she was allowed to
return to her former serenity.
  We have mentioned these two, as examples only of the task which
may be imposed on readers of the lowest class. Much higher and
harder exercises of judgment and penetration may reasonably be
expected from the upper graduates in criticism. Many notable
discoveries will, I doubt not, be made by such, of the transactions
which happened in the family of our worthy man, during all the years
which we have thought proper to pass over: for though nothing worthy
of a place in this history occurred within that period, yet did
several incidents happen of equal importance with those reported by
the daily and weekly historians of the age; in reading which great
numbers of persons consume a considerable part of their time, very
little, I am afraid, to their emolument. Now, in the conjectures
here proposed, some of the most excellent faculties of the mind may be
employed to much advantage, since it is a more useful capacity to be
able to foretel the actions of men, in any circumstance, from their
characters, than to judge of their characters from their actions.
The former, I own, requires the greater penetration; but may be
accomplished by true sagacity with no less certainty than the latter.
  As we are sensible that much the greatest part of our readers are
very eminently possessed of this quality, we have left them a space of
twelve years to exert it in; and shall now bring forth our heroe, at
about fourteen years of age, not questioning that many have been
long impatient to be introduced to his acquaintance.
                                Chapter 2

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

  As we determined, when we first sat down to write this history, to
flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the directions of
truth, we are obliged to bring our heroe on the stage in a much more
disadvantageous manner than we could wish; and to declare honestly,
even at his first appearance, that it was the universal opinion of all
Mr. Allworthy's family that he was certainly born to be hanged.
  Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this
conjecture; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a
propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as direct a
tendency as any other to that fate which we have just now observed
to have been prophetically denounced against him: he had been
already convicted of three robberies, viz., of robbing an orchard,
of stealing a duck out of a farmer's yard, and of picking Master
Blifil's pocket of a ball.
  The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by the
disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed to the
virtues of Master Blifil, his companion; a youth of so different a
cast from little Jones, that not only the family but all the
neighbourhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a lad of a
remarkable disposition; sober, discreet, and pious beyond his age;
qualities which gained him the love of every one who knew him: while
Tom Jones was universally disliked; and many expressed their wonder
that Mr. Allworthy would suffer such a lad to be educated with his
nephew, lest the morals of the latter should be corrupted by his
example.
  An incident which happened about this time will set the characters
of these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader than is
in the power of the longest dissertation.
  Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the heroe of this
history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family; for
as to Mrs. Wilkins, she had long since given him up, and was perfectly
reconciled to her mistress. This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow
of a loose kind of disposition, and who was thought not to entertain
much stricter notions concerning the difference of meum and tuum
than the young gentleman himself. And hence this friendship gave
occasion to many sarcastical remarks among the domestics, most of
which were either proverbs before, or at least are become so now; and,
indeed, the wit of them all may be comprised in that short Latin
proverb, "Noscitur a socio"; which, I think, is thus expressed in
English, "You may know him by the company he keeps."
  To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, of
which we have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps be
derived from the encouragement he had received from this fellow who,
in two or three instances, had been what the law calls an accessary
after the fact: for the whole duck, and great part of the apples, were
converted to the use of the gamekeeper and his family; though, as
Jones alone was discovered, the poor lad bore not only the whole
smart, but the whole blame; both which fell again to his lot on the
following occasion.
  Contiguous to Mr. Allworthy's estate was the manor of one of those
gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This species of
men, from the great severity with which they revenge the death of a
hare or partridge, might be thought to cultivate the same superstition
with the Bannians in India; many of whom, we are told, dedicate
their whole lives to the preservation and protection of certain
animals; was it not that our English Bannians, while they preserve
them from other enemies, will most unmercifully slaughter whole
horseloads themselves; so that they stand clearly acquitted of any
such heathenish superstition.
  I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men than is
entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order of Nature, and
the good purposes for which they were ordained, in a more ample manner
than many others. Now, as Horace tells us that there are a set of
human beings

     Fruges consumere nati,

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

     Feras consumere nati,

"Born to consume the beasts of the field"; or, as it is commonly
called, the game; and none, I believe, will deny but that those
squires fulfil this end of their creation.
  Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; when
happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border of that
manor over which Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of Nature, had
planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew into it, and were
marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen, in some furze bushes,
about two or three hundred paces beyond Mr. Allworthy's dominions.
  Mr. Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of
forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours; no
more on those who were less rigid in this matter than on the lord of
this manor. With regard to others, indeed, these orders had not been
always very scrupulously kept; but as the disposition of the gentleman
with whom the partridges had taken sanctuary was well known, the
gamekeeper had never yet attempted to invade his territories. Nor
had he done it now, had not the younger sportsman, who was excessively
eager to pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him; but Jones being
very importunate, the other, who was himself keen enough after the
sport, yielded to his persuasions, entered the manor, and shot one
of the partridges.
  The gentleman himself was at that time on horse-back, at a little
distance from them; and hearing the gun go off, he immediately made
towards the place, and discovered poor Tom; for the gamekeeper had
leapt into the thickest part of the furze-brake, where he had
happily concealed himself.
  The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the partridge
upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would acquaint Mr.
Allworthy. He was as good as his word: for he rode immediately to
his house, and complained of the trespass on his manor in as high
terms and as bitter language as if his house had been broken open, and
the most valuable furniture stole out of it. He added, that some other
person was in his company, though he could not discover him; for
that two guns had been discharged almost in the same instant. And,
says he, "We have found only this partridge, but the Lord knows what
mischief they have done."
  At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr. Allworthy.
He owned the fact, and alledged no other excuse but what was really
true, viz., that the covey was originally sprung in Mr. Allworthy's
own manor.
  Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr. Allworthy
declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the culprit with the
circumstance of the two guns, which had been deposed by the squire and
both his servants; but Tom stoutly persisted in asserting that he
was alone; yet, to say the truth, he hesitated a little at first,
which would have confirmed Mr. Allworthy's belief, had what the squire
and his servants said wanted any further confirmation.
  The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent for, and
the question put to him; but he, relying on the promise which Tom
had made him, to take all upon himself, very resolutely denied being
in company with the young gentleman, or indeed having seen him the
whole afternoon.
  Mr. Allworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than usual anger in
his countenance, and advised him to confess who was with him;
repeating, that he was resolved to know. The lad, however, still
maintained his resolution, and was dismissed with much wrath by Mr.
Allworthy, who told him he should have to the next morning to consider
of it, when he should be questioned by another person, and in
another manner.
  Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night; and the more so, as he was
without his usual companion; for Master Blifil was gone abroad on a
visit with his mother. Fear of the punishment he was to suffer was
on this occasion his least evil; his chief anxiety being, lest his
constancy should fail him, and he should be brought to betray the
gamekeeper, whose ruin he knew must now be the consequence.
  Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had the same
apprehensions with the youth; for whose honour he had likewise a
much tenderer regard than for his skin.
  In the morning, when Tom attended the reverend Mr. Thwackum, the
person to whom Mr. Allworthy had committed the instruction of the
two boys, he had the same questions put to him by that gentleman which
he been asked the evening before, to which he returned the same
answers. The consequence of this was, so severe a whipping, that it
possibly fell little short of the torture with which confessions are
in some countries extorted from criminals.
  Tom bore his punishment with great resolution; and though his master
asked him, between every stroke, whether he would not confess, he
was contented to be flead rather than betray his friend, or break
the promise he had made.
  The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr.
Allworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings: for
besides that Mr. Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was not able
to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had carried his
severity much beyond the good man's intention, this latter began now
to suspect that the squire had been mistaken; which his extreme
eagerness and anger seemed to make probable; and as for what the
servants had said in confirmation of their master's account, he laid
no great stress upon that. Now, as cruelty and injustice were two
ideas of which Mr. Allworthy could by no means support the
consciousness a single moment, he sent for Tom, and after many kind
and friendly exhortations, said, "I am convinced, my dear child,
that my suspicions have wronged you; I am sorry that you have been
so severely punished on this account." And at last gave him a little
horse to make him amends; again repeating his sorrow for what had
past.
  Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could make
it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum, than the
generosity of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, and he fell
upon his knees, crying, "Oh, sir, you are too good to me. Indeed you
are. Indeed I don't deserve it." And at that very instant, from the
fulness of his heart, had almost betrayed the secret; but the good
genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him what might be the
consequence to the poor fellow, and this consideration sealed his
lips.
  Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from showing any
compassion or kindness to the boy, saying, "He had persisted in an
untruth"; and gave some hints, that a second whipping might probably
bring the matter to light.
  But Mr. Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the experiment.
He said, the boy had suffered enough already for concealing the truth,
even if he was guilty, seeing that he could have no motive but a
mistaken point of honour for so doing.
  "Honour!" cryed Thwackum, with some warmth, "mere stubbornness and
obstinacy! Can honour teach any one to tell a lie, or can any honour
exist independent of religion?"
  This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended; and
there were present Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Thwackum, and a third gentleman,
who now entered into the debate, and whom, before we proceed any
further, we shall briefly introduce to our reader's acquaintance.
                                Chapter 3

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

  The name of this gentleman, who had then resided some time at Mr.
Allworthy's house, was Mr. Square. His natural parts were not of the
first rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned education.
He was deeply read in the antients, and a profest master of all the
works of Plato and Aristotle. Upon which great models he had
principally formed himself; sometimes according with the opinion of
the one, and sometimes with that of the other. In morals he was a
profest Platonist, and in religion he inclined to be an Aristotelian.
  But though he had, as we have said, formed his morals on the
Platonic model, yet he perfectly agreed with the opinion of Aristotle,
in considering that great man rather in the quality of a philosopher
or a speculatist, than as a legislator. This sentiment he carried a
great way; indeed, so far, as to regard all virtue as matter of theory
only. This, it is true, he never affirmed, as I have heard, to any
one; and yet upon the least attention to his conduct, I cannot help
thinking it was his real opinion, as it will perfectly reconcile
some contradictions which might otherwise appear in his character.
  This gentleman and Mr. Thwackum scarce ever met without a
disputation; for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite to
each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection of all
virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature, in the same
manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, on the contrary,
maintained that the human mind, since the fall, was nothing but a sink
of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by grace. In one point only
they agreed, which was, in all their discourses on morality never to
mention the word goodness. The favourite phrase of the former, was the
natural beauty of virtue; that of the latter, was the divine power
of grace. The former measured all actions by the unalterable rule of
right, and the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all
matters by authority; but in doing this, he always used the scriptures
and their commentators, as the lawyer doth his Coke upon Lyttleton,
where the comment is of equal authority with the text.
  After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to
remember, that the parson had concluded his speech with a triumphant
question, to which he had apprehended no answer; viz., Can any
honour exist independent of religion?
  To this Square answered; that it was impossible to discourse
philosophically concerning words, till their meaning was first
established: that there were scarce any two words of a more vague
and uncertain signification, than the two he had mentioned; for that
there were almost as many different opinions concerning honour, as
concerning religion. "But," says he, "if by honour you mean the true
natural beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may exist independent
of any religion whatever. Nay," added he, "you yourself will allow
it may exist independent of all but one: so will a Mahometan, a Jew,
and all the maintainers of all the different sects in the world."
  Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice of all
the enemies to the true Church. He said, he doubted not but that all
the infidels and hereticks in the world would, if they could,
confine honour to their own absurd errors and damnable deceptions;
"but honour," says he, "is not therefore manifold, because there are
many absurd opinions about it; nor is religion manifold, because there
are various sects and heresies in the world. When I mention
religion, I mean the Christian religion; and not only the Christian
religion, but the Protestant religion; and not only the Protestant
religion, but the Church of England. And when I mention honour, I mean
that mode of Divine grace which is not only consistent with, but
dependent upon, this religion; and is consistent with and dependent
upon no other. Now to say that the honour I here mean, and which
was, I thought, all the honour I could be supposed to mean, will
uphold, must less dictate an untruth, is to assert an absurdity too
shocking to be conceived."
  "I purposely avoided," says Square, "drawing a conclusion which I
thought evident from what I have said; but if you perceived it, I am
sure you have not attempted to answer it. However, to drop the article
of religion, I think it is plain, from what you have said, that we
have different ideas of honour; or why do we not agree in the same
terms of its explanation? I have asserted, that true honour and true
virtue are almost synonymous terms, and they are both founded on the
unalterable rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which
an untruth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that
true honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I think
we are agreed; but that this honour can be said to be founded on
religion, to which it is antecedent, if by religion be meant any
positive law--"
  "I agree," answered Thwackum, with great warmth, "with a man who
asserts honour to be antecedent to religion! Mr. Allworthy, did I
agree--?"
  He was proceeding when Mr. Allworthy interposed, telling them very
coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning; for that he had said
nothing of true honour.- It is possible, however, he would not have
easily quieted the disputants, who were growing equally warm, had
not another matter now fallen out, which put a final end to the
conversation at present.
                                Chapter 4

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

  Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some
misconstructions into which the zeal of some few readers may lead
them; for I would not willingly give offence to any, especially to men
who are warm in the cause of virtue or religion.
  I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunderstanding
of perversion of my meaning, misrepresent me, as endeavouring to
cast any ridicule on the greatest perfections of human nature; and
which do, indeed, alone purify and ennoble the heart of man, and raise
him above the brute creation. This, reader, I will venture to say (and
by how much the better man you are yourself, by so much the more
will you be inclined to believe me), that I would rather have buried
the sentiments of these two persons in eternal oblivion, than have
done any injury to either of these glorious causes.
  On the contrary, it is with a view to their service, that I have
taken upon me to record the lives and actions of two of their false
and pretended champions. A treacherous friend is the most dangerous
enemy; and I will say boldly, that both religion and virtue have
received more real discredit from hypocrites than the wittiest
profligates or infidels could ever cast upon them: nay, farther, as
these two, in their purity, are rightly called the bands of civil
society, and are indeed the greatest of blessings; so when poisoned
and corrupted with fraud, pretence, and effectation, they have
become the worst of civil curses, and have enabled men to perpetrate
the most cruel mischiefs to their own species.
  Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be allowed: my
chief apprehension is, as many true and just sentiments often came
from the mouths of these persons, lest the whole should be taken
together, and I should be conceived to ridicule all alike. Now the
reader will be pleased to consider, that, as neither of these men were
fools, they could not be supposed to have holden none but wrong
principles, and to have uttered nothing but absurdities; what
injustice, therefore, must I have done to their characters, had I
selected only what was bad! And how horribly wretched and maimed
must their arguments have appeared!
  Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want or
them, which is here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much neglected
virtue, and Square, religion, in the composition of their several
systems, and had not both utterly discarded all natural goodness of
heart, they had never been represented as the objects of derision in
this history; in which we will now proceed.
  This matter then, which put an end to the debate mentioned in the
last chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master Blifil and
Tom Jones, the consequence of which had been a bloody nose to the
former; for though Master Blifil, notwithstanding he was the
younger, was in size above the other's match, yet Tom was much his
superior at the noble art of boxing.
  Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that youth;
for besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad amidst all his
roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr. Thwackum being always the second
of the latter, would have been sufficient to deter him.
  But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours; it is
therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference arising at play
between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom a beggarly bastard.
Upon which the latter, who was somewhat passionate in his disposition,
immediately caused that phenomenon in the face of the former, which we
have above remembered.
  Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and the
tears galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his uncle and the
tremendous Thwackum. In which court an indictment of assault, battery,
and wounding, was instantly preferred against Tom; who in his excuse
only pleaded the provocation, which was indeed all the matter that
Master Blifil had omitted.
  It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped
his memory; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, that he had
made use of no such appellation; adding, "Heaven forbid such naughty
words should ever come out of his mouth!"
  Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance of the
words. Upon which Master Blifil said, "It is no wonder. Those who will
tell one fib, will hardly stick at another. If I had told my master
such a wicked fib as you have done, I should be ashamed to show my
face."
  "What fib, child?" cries Thwackum pretty eagerly.
  "Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting when he killed
the partridge; but he knows" (here he burst into a flood of tears),
"yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that Black George the
gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said- yes you did- deny it if you can,
that you would not have confest the truth, though master had cut you
to pieces."
  At this the fire flashed from Thwackum's eyes, and he cried out in
triumph- "Oh! ho! this is your mistaken notion of honour! This is the
boy who was not to be whipped again!" But Mr. Allworthy, with a more
gentle aspect, turned towards the lad, and said, "Is this true, child?
How came you to persist so obstinately in a falsehood?"
  Tom said, "He scorned a lie as much as any one: but he thought his
honour engaged him to act as he did; for he had promised the poor
fellow to conceal him: which," he said, "he thought himself farther
obliged to, as the gamekeeper had begged him not to go into the
gentleman's manor, and had at last gone himself, in compliance with
his persuasions." He said, "This was the whole truth of the matter,
and he would take his oath of it"; and concluded with very
passionately begging Mr. Allworthy "to have compassion on the poor
fellow's family, especially as he himself only had been guilty, and
the other had been very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did.
Indeed, sir," said he, "it could hardly be called a lie that I told;
for the poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I
should have gone alone after the birds; nay, I did go at first, and he
only followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, pray, sir, let me be
punished; take my little horse away again; but pray, sir, forgive poor
George."
  Mr. Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed the
boys, advising them to live more friendly and peaceably together.
                                Chapter 5

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

  It is probable, that by disclosing this secret, which had been
communicated in the utmost confidence to him, young Blifil preserved
his companion from a good lashing; for the offence of the bloody
nose would have been of itself sufficient cause for Thwackum to have
proceeded to correction; but now this was totally absorbed in the
consideration of the other matter; and with regard to this, Mr.
Allworthy declared privately, he thought the boy deserved reward
rather than punishment, so that Thwackum's hand was withheld by a
general pardon.
  Thwackum, whose meditations were full of birch, exclaimed against
this weak, and, as he said he would venture to call it, wicked lenity.
To remit the punishment of such crimes was, he said, to encourage
them. He enlarged much on the correction of children, and quoted
many texts from Solomon, and others; which being to be found in so
many other books, shall not be found here. He then applied himself
to the vice of lying, on which head he was altogether as learned as he
had been on the other.
  Square said, he had been endeavouring to reconcile the behaviour
of Tom with his idea of perfect virtue, but could not. He owned
there was something which at first sight appeared like fortitude in
the action; but as fortitude was a virtue, and falsehood a vice,
they could by no means agree or unite together. He added, that as this
was in some measure to confound virtue and vice, it might be worth Mr.
Thwackum's consideration, whether a larger castigation might not be
laid on upon the account.
  As both these learned men concurred in censuring Jones, so were they
no less unanimous in applauding Master Blifil. To bring truth to
light, was by the parson asserted to be the duty of every religious
man; and by the philosopher this was declared to be highly conformable
with the rule of right, and the eternal and unalterable fitness of
things.
  All this, however, weighed very little with Mr. Allworthy. He
could not be prevailed on to sign the warrant for the execution of
Jones. There was something within his own breast with which the
invincible fidelity which that youth had preserved, corresponded
much better than it had done with the religion of Thwackum, or with
the virtue of Square. He therefore strictly ordered the former of
these gentlemen to abstain from laying violent hands on Tom for what
had past. The pedagogue was obliged to obey those orders; but not
without great reluctance, and frequent mutterings that the boy would
be certainly spoiled.
  Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more severity. He
presently summoned that poor fellow before him, and after many
bitter remonstrances, paid him his wages, and dismist him from his
service; for Mr. Allworthy rightly observed, that there was a great
difference between being guilty of a falsehood to excuse yourself, and
to excuse another. He likewise urged, as the principal motive to his
inflexible severity against this man, that he had basely suffered
Tom Jones to undergo so heavy a punishment for his sake, whereas he
ought to have prevented it by making the discovery himself.
  When this story became public, many people differed from Square
and Thwackum, in judging the conduct of the two lads on the
occasion. Master Blifil was generally called a sneaking rascal, a
poor-spirited wretch, with other epithets of the like kind; whilst Tom
was honoured with the appellations of a brave lad, a jolly dog, and an
honest fellow. Indeed, his behaviour to Black George much
ingratiated him with all the servants; for though that fellow was
before universally disliked, yet he was no sooner turned away than
he was as universally pitied; and the friendship and gallantry of
Tom Jones was celebrated by them all with the highest applause; and
they condemned Master Blifil as openly as they durst, without
incurring the danger of offending his mother. For all this, however,
poor Tom smarted in the flesh; for though Thwackum had been
inhibited to exercise his arm on the foregoing account, yet, as the
proverb says, It is easy to find a stick, &c. So was it easy to find a
rod; and, indeed, the not being able to find one was the only thing
which could have kept Thwackum any long time from chastising poor
Jones.
  Had the bare delight in the sport been the only inducement to the
pedagogue, it is probable Master Blifil would likewise have had his
share; but though Mr. Allworthy had given him frequent orders to
make no difference between the lads, yet was Thwackum altogether as
kind and gentle to this youth, as he was harsh, nay even barbarous, to
the other. To say the truth, Blifil had greatly gained his master's
affections; partly by the profound respect he always showed his
person, but much more by the decent reverence with which he received
his doctrine; for he had got by heart, and frequently repeated, his
phrases, and maintained all his master's religious principles with a
zeal which was surprizing in one so young, and which greatly
endeared him to the worthy preceptor.
  Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in outward
tokens of respect, often forgetting to pull off his hat, or to bow
at his master's approach; but was altogether as unmindful both of
his master's precepts and example. He was indeed a thoughtless,
giddy youth, with little sobriety in his manners, and less in his
countenance; and would often very impudently and indecently laugh at
his companion for his serious behaviour.
  Mr. Square had the same reason for his preference of the former lad;
for Tom Jones showed no more regard to the learned discourses which
this gentleman would sometimes throw away upon him, than to those of
Thwackum. He once ventured to make a jest of the rule of right; and at
another time said, he believed there was no rule in the world
capable of making such a man as his father (for so Mr. Allworthy
suffered himself to be called).
  Master Blifil, on the contrary, had address enough at sixteen to
recommend himself at one and the same time to both these opposites.
With one he was all religion, with the other he was all virtue. And
when both were present, he was profoundly silent, which both
interpreted in his favour and in their own.
  Nor was Blifil contented with flattering both these gentlemen to
their faces; he took frequent occasions of praising them behind
their backs to Allworthy; before whom, when they two were alone, and
his uncle commended any religious or virtuous sentiment (for many such
came constantly from him) he seldom failed to ascribe it to the good
instructions he had received from either Thwackum or Square; for he
knew his uncle repeated all such compliments to the persons for
whose use they were meant; and he found by experience the great
impressions which they made on the philosopher, as well as on the
divine: for, to say the truth, there is no kind of flattery so
irresistible as this, at second hand.
  The young gentleman, moreover, soon perceived how extremely grateful
all those panegyrics on his instructors were to Mr. Allworthy himself,
as they so loudly resounded the praise of that singular plan of
education which he had laid down; for this worthy man having
observed the imperfect institution of our public schools, and the many
vices which boys were there liable to learn, had resolved to educate
his nephew, as well as the other lad, whom he had in a manner adopted,
in his own house; where he thought their morals would escape all
that danger of being corrupted to which they would be unavoidably
exposed in any public school or university.
  Having, therefore, determined to commit these boys to the tuition of
a private tutor, Mr. Thwackum was recommended to him for that
office, by a very particular friend, of whose understanding Mr.
Allworthy had a great opinion, and in whose integrity he placed much
confidence. This Thwackum was fellow of a college, where he almost
entirely resided; and had a great reputation for learning, religion,
and sobriety of manners. And these were doubtless the qualifications
by which Mr. Allworthy's friend had been induced to recommend him;
though indeed this friend had some obligations to Thwackum's family,
who were the most considerable persons in a borough which that
gentleman represented in parliament.
  Thwackum, at his first arrival, was extremely agreeable to
Allworthy; and indeed he perfectly answered the character which had
been given of him. Upon longer acquaintance, however, and more
intimate conversation, this worthy man saw infirmities in the tutor,
which he could have wished him to have been without; though as those
seemed greatly overbalanced by his good qualities, they did not
incline Mr. Allworthy to part with him: nor would they indeed have
justified such a proceeding; for the reader is greatly mistaken, if he
conceives that Thwackum appeared to Mr. Allworthy in the same light as
he doth to him in this history; and he is as much deceived, if he
imagines that the most intimate acquaintance which he himself could
have had with that divine, would have informed him of those things
which we, from our inspiration, are enabled to open and discover. Of
readers who, from such conceits as these, condemn the wisdom or
penetration of Mr. Allworthy, I shall not scruple to say, that they
make a very bad and ungrateful use of that knowledge which we have
communicated to them.
  These apparent errors in the doctrine of Thwackum served greatly
to palliate the contrary errors in that of Square, which our good
man no less saw and condemned. He thought, indeed, that the
different exuberancies of these gentlemen would correct their
different imperfections; and that from both, especially with his
assistance, the two lads would derive sufficient precepts of true
religion and virtue. If the event happened contrary to his
expectations, this possibly proceeded from some fault in the plan
itself; which the reader hath my leave to discover, if he can: for
we do not pretend to introduce any infallible characters into this
history; where we hope nothing will be found which hath never yet been
seen in human nature.
  To return therefore: the reader will not, I think, wonder that the
different behaviour of the two lads above commemorated, produced the
different effects of which he hath already seen some instance; and
besides this, there was another reason for the conduct of the
philosopher and the pedagogue; but this being matter of great
importance, we shall reveal it in the next chapter.
                                Chapter 6

  Containing a better reason still for the before-mentioned opinions

  It is to be known then, that those two learned personages, who
have lately made a considerable figure on the theatre of this history,
had, from their first arrival at Mr. Allworthy's house, taken so great
an affection, the one to his virtue, the other to his religion, that
they had meditated the closest alliance with him.
  For this purpose they had cast their eyes on that fair widow,
whom, though we have not for some time made any mention of her, the
reader, we trust, hath not forgot. Mrs. Blifil was indeed the object
to which they both aspired.
  It may seem remarkable, that, of four persons whom we have
commemorated at Mr. Allworthy's house, three of them should fix
their inclinations on a lady who was never greatly celebrated for
her beauty, and who was, moreover, now a little descended into the
vale of years; but in reality bosom friends, and intimate
acquaintance, have a kind of natural propensity to particular
females at the house of a friend- viz., to his grandmother, mother,
sister, daughter, aunt, niece, or cousin, when they are rich; and to
his wife, sister, daughter, niece, cousin, mistress, or
servant-maid, if they should be handsome.
  We would not, however, have our reader imagine, that persons of such
characters as were supported by Thwackum and Square, would undertake a
matter of this kind, which hath been a little censured by some rigid
moralists, before they had thoroughly examined it, and considered
whether it was (as Shakespear phrases it) "Stuff o' th' conscience,"
or no. Thwackum was encouraged to the undertaking by reflecting that
to covet your neighbour's sister is nowhere forbidden: and he knew
it was a rule in the construction of all laws, that "Expressum facit
cessare tacitum." The sense of which is, "When a lawgiver sets down
plainly his whole meaning, we are prevented from making him mean
what we please ourselves." As some instances of women, therefore,
are mentioned in the divine law, which forbids us to covet our
neighbour's goods, and that of a sister omitted, he concluded it to be
lawful. And as to Square, who was in his person what is called a jolly
fellow, or a widow's man, he easily reconciled his choice to the
eternal fitness of things.
  Now, as both of these gentlemen were industrious in taking every
opportunity of recommending themselves to the widow, they
apprehended one certain method was, by giving her son the constant
preference to the other lad; and as they conceived the kindness and
affection which Mr. Allworthy showed the latter, must be highly
disagreeable to her, they doubted not but the laying hold on all
occasions to degrade and vilify him, would be highly pleasing to
her; who, as she hated the boy, must love all those who did him any
hurt. In this Thwackum had the advantage; for while Square could
only scarify the poor lad's reputation, he could flea his skin; and,
indeed, he considered every lash he gave him as a compliment paid to
his mistress; so that he could, with the utmost propriety, repeat this
old flogging line, "Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed quod AMEN.
I chastise thee not out of hatred, but out of love." And this, indeed,
he often had in his mouth, or rather, according to the old phrase,
never more properly applied, at his fingers' ends.
  For this reason, principally, the two gentlemen concurred, as we
have seen above, in their opinion concerning the two lads; this being,
indeed, almost the only instance of their concurring on any point;
for, beside the difference of their principles, they had both long ago
strongly suspected each other's design, and hated one another with
no little degree of inveteracy.
  This mutual animosity was a good deal increased by their alternate
successes; for Mrs. Blifil knew what they would be at long before they
imagined it; or, indeed, intended she should: for they proceeded
with great caution, lest she should be offended, and acquaint Mr.
Allworthy. But they had no reason for any such fear; she was well
enough pleased with a passion, of which she intended none should
have any fruits but herself. And the only fruits she designed for
herself were, flattery and courtship; for which purpose she soothed
them by turns, and a long time equally. She was, indeed, rather
inclined to favour the parson's principles; but Square's person was
more agreeable to her eye, for he was a comly man; whereas the
pedagogue did in countenance very nearly resemble that gentleman, who,
in the Harlot's Progress, is seen correcting the ladies in Bridewell.
  Whether Mrs. Blifil had been surfeited with the sweets of
marriage, or disgusted by its bitters, or from what other cause it
proceeded, I will not determine; but she could never be brought to
listen to any second proposals. However, she at last conversed with
Square with such a degree of intimacy that malicious tongues began
to whisper things of her, to which as well for the sake of the lady,
as that they were highly disagreeable to the rule of right and the
fitness of things, we will give no credit, and therefore shall not
blot our paper with them. The pedagogue, 'tis certain, whipped on,
without getting a step nearer to his journey's end.
  Indeed he had committed a great error, and that Square discovered
much sooner than himself. Mrs. Blifil (as, perhaps, the reader may
have formerly guessed) was not over and above pleased with the
behaviour of her husband; nay, to be honest, she absolutely hated him,
till his death at last a little reconciled him to her affections. It
will not be therefore greatly wondered at, if she had not the most
violent regard to the offspring she had by him. And, in fact, she
had so little of this regard, that in his infancy she seldom saw her
son, or took any notice of him; and hence she acquiesced, after a
little reluctance, in all the favours which Mr. Allworthy showered
on the foundling; whom the good man called his own boy, and in all
things put on an entire equality with Master Blifil. This acquiescence
in Mrs. Blifil was considered by the neighbours, and by the family, as
a mark of her condescension to her brother's humour, and she was
imagined by all others, as well as Thwackum and Square, to hate the
foundling in her heart; nay, the more civility she showed him, the
more they conceived she detested him, and the surer schemes she was
laying for his ruin: for as they thought it her interest to hate
him, it was very difficult for her to persuade them she did not.
  Thwackum was the more confirmed in his opinion, as she had more than
once slily caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr. Allworthy, who was
an enemy to this exercise, was abroad; whereas she had never given any
such orders concerning young Blifil. And this had likewise imposed
upon Square. In reality, though she certainly hated her own son- of
which, however monstrous it appears, I am assured she is not a
singular instance- she appeared, notwithstanding all her outward
compliance, to be in her heart sufficiently displeased with all the
favour shown by Mr. Allworthy to the foundling. She frequently
complained of this behind her brother's back, and very sharply
censured him for it, both to Thwackum and Square; nay, she would throw
it in the teeth of Allworthy himself, when a little quarrel, or
miff, as it is vulgarly called, arose between them.
  However, when Tom grew up, and gave tokens of that gallantry of
temper which greatly recommends men to women, this disinclination
which she had discovered to him when a child, by degrees abated, and
at last she so evidently demonstrated her affection to him to be
much stronger than what she bore her own son, that it was impossible
to mistake her any longer. She was so desirous of often seeing him,
and discovered such satisfaction and delight in his company, that
before he was eighteen years old he was become a rival to both
Square and Thwackum; and what is worse, the whole country began to
talk as loudly of her inclination to Tom, as they had before done of
that which she had shown to Square: on which account the philosopher
conceived the most implacable hatred for our poor heroe.
                                Chapter 7

  In which the author himself makes his appearance on the stage

  Though Mr. Allworthy was not of himself hasty to see things in a
disadvantageous light, and was a stranger to the public voice, which
seldom reaches to a brother or a husband, though it rings in the
ears of all the neighbourhood; yet was this affection of Mrs. Blifil
to Tom, and the preference which she too visibly gave him to her own
son, of the utmost disadvantage to that youth.
  For such was the compassion which inhabited Mr. Allworthy's mind,
that nothing but the steel of justice could ever subdue it. To be
unfortunate in any respect was sufficient, if there was no demerit
to counterpoise it, to turn the scale of that good man's pity, and
to engage his friendship and his benefaction.
  When therefore he plainly saw Master Blifil was absolutely
detested (for that he was) by his own mother, he began, on that
account only, to look with an eye of compassion upon him; and what the
effects of compassion are, in good and benevolent minds, I need not
here explain to most of my readers.
  Henceforward he saw every appearance of virtue in the youth
through the magnifying end, and viewed all his faults with the glass
inverted, so that they became scarce perceptible. And this perhaps the
amiable temper of pity may make commendable; but the next step the
weakness of human nature alone must excuse; for he no sooner perceived
that preference which Mrs. Blifil gave to Tom, than that poor youth
(however innocent) began to sink in his affections as he rose in hers.
This, it is true, would of itself alone never have been able to
eradicate Jones from his bosom; but it was greatly injurious to him,
and prepared Mr. Allworthy's mind for those impressions which
afterwards produced the mighty events that will be contained hereafter
in this history; and to which, it must be confest, the unfortunate
lad, by his own wantonness, wildness, and want of caution, too much
contributed.
  In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly
understood, afford a very useful lesson to those well-disposed
youths who shall hereafter be our readers; for they may here find,
that goodness of heart, and openness of temper, though these may
give them great comfort within, and administer to an honest pride in
their own minds, will by no means, alas! do their business in the
world. Prudence and circumspection are necessary even to the best of
men. They are indeed, as it were, a guard to Virtue, without which she
can never be safe. It is not enough that your designs, nay, that
your actions, are intrinsically good; you must take care they shall
appear so. If your inside be never so beautiful, you must preserve a
fair outside also. This must be constantly looked to, or malice and
envy will take care to blacken it so, that the sagacity and goodness
of an Allworthy will not be able to see through it, and to discern the
beauties within. Let this, my young readers, be your constant maxim,
that no man can be good enough to enable him to neglect the rules of
prudence; nor will Virtue herself look beautiful, unless she be
bedecked with the outward ornaments of decency and decorum. And this
precept, my worthy disciples, if you read with due attention, you
will, I hope, find sufficiently enforced by examples in the
following pages.
  I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on the
stage. It is in reality for my own sake, that, while I am
discovering the rocks on which innocence and goodness often split, I
may not be misunderstood to recommend the very means to my worthy
readers, by which I intend to show them they will be undone. And this,
as I could not prevail on any of my actors to speak, I myself was
obliged to declare.
                                Chapter 8

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

  The reader may remember that Mr. Allworthy gave Tom Jones a little
horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punishment which he imagined
he had suffered innocently.
  This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him to a
neighbouring fair, and sold him.
  At his return, being questioned by Thwackum what he had done with
the money for which the horse was sold, he frankly declared he would
not tell him.
  "Oho!" says Thwackum, "you will not! then I will have it out of your
br-h"; that being the place to which he always applied for information
on every doubtful occasion.
  Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and everything
prepared for execution, when Mr. Allworthy, entering the room, gave
the criminal a reprieve, and took him with him into another apartment;
where, being alone with Tom, he put the same question to him which
Thwackum had before asked him.
  Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing; but as for that
tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other answer than
with a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be able to pay him for
all his barbarities.
  Mr. Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his indecent and
disrespectful expressions concerning his master; but much more for his
avowing an intention of revenge. He threatened him with the entire
loss of his favour, if he ever heard such another word from his mouth;
for, he said, he would never support or befriend a reprobate. By these
and the like declarations, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in
which that youth was not over-sincere; for he really meditated some
return for all the smarting favours he had received at the hands of
the pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr. Allworthy to express
a concern for his resentment against Thwackum; and then the good
man, after some wholesome admonition, permitted him to proceed,
which he did as follows:-
  "Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all the world:
I know the great obligations I have to you, and should detest myself
if I thought my heart was capable of ingratitude. Could the little
horse you gave me speak, I am sure he could tell you how fond I was of
your present; for I had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding
him. Indeed, sir, it went to my heart to part with him; nor would I
have sold him upon any other account in the world than what I did. You
yourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done the same:
for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. What would
you feel, dear sir, if you thought yourself the occasion of them?
Indeed, sir, there never was any misery like theirs."
  "Like whose, child?" says Allworthy: "What do you mean?"
  "Oh, sir!" answered Tom, "your poor gamekeeper, with all his large
family, ever since your discarding him, have been perishing with all
the miseries of cold and hunger: I could not bear to see these poor
wretches naked and starving, and at the same time know myself to
have been the occasion of all their sufferings. I could not bear it,
sir; upon my soul, I could not." [Here the tears ran down his
cheeks, and he thus proceeded.] "It was to save them from absolute
destruction I parted with your dear present, notwithstanding all the
value I had for it: I sold the horse for them, and they have every
farthing of the money."
  Mr. Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and before he spoke
the tears started from his eyes. He at length dismissed Tom with a
gentle rebuke, advising him for the future to apply to him in cases of
distress, rather than to use extraordinary means of relieving them
himself.
  This affair was afterwards the subject of much debate between
Thwackum and Square. Thwackum held, that this was flying in Mr.
Allworthy's face, who had intended to punish the fellow for his
disobedience. He said, in some instances, what the world called
charity appeared to him to be opposing the will of the Almighty, which
had marked some particular persons for destruction; and that this
was in like manner acting in opposition to Mr. Allworthy;
concluding, as usual, with a hearty recommendation of birch.
  Square argued strongly on the other side, in opposition perhaps to
Thwackum, or in compliance with Mr. Allworthy, who seemed very much to
approve what Jones had done. As to what he urged on this occasion,
as I am convinced most of my readers will be much abler advocates
for poor Jones, it would be impertinent to relate it. Indeed it was
not difficult to reconcile to the rule of right an action which it
would have been impossible to deduce from the rule of wrong.
                                Chapter 9

  Containing an incident of a more heinous kind, with the comments
of Thwackum and Square

  It hath been observed by some man of much greater reputation for
wisdom than myself, that misfortunes seldom come single. An instance
of this may, I believe, be seen in those gentlemen who have the
misfortune to have any of their rogueries detected; for here discovery
seldom stops till the whole is come out. Thus it happened to poor Tom;
who was no sooner pardoned for selling the horse, than he was
discovered to have some time before sold a fine Bible which Mr.
Allworthy gave him, the money arising from which sale he had
disposed of in the same manner. This Bible Master Blifil had
purchased, though he had already such another of his own, partly out
of respect for the book, and partly out of friendship to Tom, being
unwilling that the Bible should be sold out of the family at
half-price. He therefore deposited the said half-price himself; for he
was a very prudent lad, and so careful of his money, that he had
laid up almost every penny which he had received from Mr. Allworthy.
  Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book but
their own. On the contrary, from the time when Master Blifil was first
possessed of this Bible, he never used any other. Nay, he was seen
reading in it much oftener than he had before been in his own. Now, as
he frequently asked Thwackum to explain difficult passages to him,
that gentleman unfortunately took notice of Tom's name, which was
written in many parts of the book. This brought on an inquiry, which
obliged Master Blifil to discover the whole matter.
  Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called
sacrilege, should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded
immediately to castigation: and not contented with that he
acquainted Mr. Allworthy, at their next meeting, with this monstrous
crime, as it appeared to him: inveighing against Tom in the most
bitter terms, and likening him to the buyers and sellers who were
driven out of the temple.
  Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, he
could not perceive any higher crime in selling one book than in
selling another. That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by all laws
both Divine and human, and consequently there was no unfitness in
it. He told Thwackum, that his great concern on this occasion
brought to his mind the story of a very devout woman, who, out of pure
regard to religion, stole Tillotson's Sermons from a lady of her
acquaintance.
  This story caused a vast quantity of blood to rush into the parson's
face, which of itself was none of the palest; and he was going to
reply with great warmth and anger, had not Mrs. Blifil, who was
present at this debate, interposed. That lady declared herself
absolutely of Mr. Square's side. She argued, indeed, very learnedly in
support of his opinion; and concluded with saying, if Tom had been
guilty of any fault, she must confess her own son appeared to be
equally culpable; for that she could see no difference between the
buyer and the seller; both of whom were alike to be driven out of
the temple.
  Mrs. Blifil having declared her opinion, put an end to the debate.
Square's triumph would almost have stopt his words, had he needed
them; and Thwackum, who, for reasons before-mentioned, durst not
venture at disobliging the lady, was almost choaked with
indignation. As to Mr. Allworthy, he said, since the boy had been
already punished he would not deliver his sentiments on the
occasion; and whether he was or was not angry with the lad, I must
leave to the reader's own conjecture.
  Soon after this, an action was brought against the gamekeeper by
Squire Western (the gentleman in whose manor the partridge was
killed), for depredations of the like kind. This was a most
unfortunate circumstance for the fellow, as it not only of itself
threatened his ruin, but actually prevented Mr. Allworthy from
restoring him to his favour: for as that gentleman was walking out one
evening with Master Blifil and young Jones, the latter slily drew
him to the habitation of Black George; where the family of that poor
wretch, namely, his wife and children, were found in all the misery
with which cold, hunger, and nakedness, can affect human creatures:
for as to the money they had received from Jones, former debts had
consumed almost the whole.
  Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of Mr.
Allworthy. He immediately gave the mother a couple of guineas, with
which he bid her cloath her children. The poor woman burst into
tears at this goodness, and while she was thanking him, could not
refrain from expressing her gratitude to Tom; who had, she said,
long preserved both her and hers from starving. "We have not," says
she, "had a morsel to eat, nor have these poor children had a rag to
put on, but what his goodness hath bestowed on us." For, indeed,
besides the horse and the Bible, Tom had sacrificed a night-gown,
and other things, to the use of this distressed family.
  On their return home, Tom made use of all his eloquence to display
the wretchedness of these people, and the penitence of Black George
himself; and in this he succeeded so well, that Mr. Allworthy said, he
thought the man had suffered enough for what was past; that he would
forgive him, and think of some means of providing for him and his
family.
  Jones was so delighted with this news, that, though it was dark when
they returned home, he could not help going back a mile, in a shower
of rain, to acquaint the poor woman with the glad tidings; but, like
other hasty divulgers of news, he only brought on himself the
trouble of contradicting it: for the ill fortune of Black George
made use of the very opportunity of his friend's absence to overturn
all again.
                                Chapter 10

  In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different lights

  Master Blifil fell very short of his companion in the amiable
quality of mercy; but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a much
higher kind, namely, in justice: in which he followed both the
precepts and example of Thwackum and Square; for though they would
both make frequent use of the word mercy, yet it was plain that in
reality Square held it to be inconsistent with the rule of right;
and Thwackum was for doing justice, and leaving mercy to heaven. The
two gentlemen did indeed somewhat differ in opinion concerning the
objects of this sublime virtue; by which Thwackum would probably
have destroyed one half of mankind, and Square the other half.
  Master Blifil then, though he had kept silence in the presence of
Jones, yet, when he had better considered the matter, could by no
means endure the thought of suffering his uncle to confer favours on
the undeserving. He therefore resolved immediately to acquaint him
with the fact which we have above slightly hinted to the reader. The
truth of which was as follows:
  The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from Mr.
Allworthy's service, and before Tom's selling the horse, being in want
of bread, either to fill his own mouth or those of his family, as he
passed through a field belonging to Mr. Western espied a hare
sitting in her form. This hare he had basely and barbarously knocked
on the head, against the laws of the land, and no less against the
laws of sportsmen.
  The higgler to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately taken
many months after with a quantity of game upon him, was obliged to
make his peace with the squire, by becoming evidence against some
poacher. And now Black George was pitched upon by him, as being a
person already obnoxious to Mr. Western, and one of no good fame in
the country. He was, besides, the best sacrifice the higgler could
make, as he had supplied him with no game since; and by this means the
witness had an opportunity of screening his better customers: for
the squire, being charmed with the power of punishing Black George,
whom a single transgression was sufficient to ruin, made no further
enquiry.
  Had this fact been truly laid before Mr. Allworthy, it might
probably have done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But there is
no zeal blinder than that which is inspired with the love of justice
against offenders. Master Blifil had forgot the distance of the
time. He varied likewise in the manner of the fact: and by the hasty
addition of the single letter S he considerably altered the story; for
he said that George had wired hares. These alterations might
probably have been set right, had not Master Blifil unluckily insisted
on a promise of secrecy from Mr. Allworthy before he revealed the
matter to him; but by that means the poor gamekeeper was condemned
without having an opportunity to defend himself: for as the fact of
killing the hare, and of the action brought, were certainly true,
Mr. Allworthy had no doubt concerning the rest.
  Short-lived then was the joy of these poor people; for Mr. Allworthy
the next morning declared he had fresh reason, without assigning it,
for his anger, and strictly forbad Tom to mention George any more:
though as for his family, he said he would endeavour to keep them from
starving; but as to the fellow himself, he would leave him to the
laws, which nothing could keep him from breaking.
  Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr. Allworthy, for of
Master Blifil he had not the least suspicion. However, as his
friendship was to be tired out by no disappointments, he now
determined to try another method of preserving the poor gamekeeper
from ruin.
  Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr. Western. He had so
greatly recommended himself to that gentleman, by leaping over
five-barred gates, and by other acts of sportsmanship, that the squire
had declared Tom would certainly make a great man if he had but
sufficient encouragement. He often wished he had himself a son with
such parts; and one day very solemnly asserted at a drinking bout,
that Tom should hunt a pack of hounds for a thousand pound of his
money, with any huntsman in the whole country.
  By such kind of talents he had so ingratiated himself with the
squire, that he was a most welcome guest at his table, and a favourite
companion in his sport: everything which the squire held most dear, to
wit, his guns, dogs, and horses, were now as much at the command of
Jones, as if they had been his own. He resolved therefore to make
use of this favour on behalf of his friend Black George, whom he hoped
to introduce into Mr. Western's family, in the same capacity in
which he had before served Mr. Allworthy.
  The reader, if he considers that this fellow was already obnoxious
to Mr. Western, and if he considers farther the weighty business by
which that gentleman's displeasure had been incurred, will perhaps
condemn this as a foolish and desperate undertaking; but if he
should totally condemn young Jones on that account, he will greatly
applaud him for strengthening himself with all imaginable interest
on so arduous an occasion.
  For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr. Western's daughter, a
young lady of about seventeen years of age, whom her father, next
after those necessary implements of sport just before mentioned, loved
and esteemed above all the world. Now, as she had some influence on
the squire, so Tom had some little influence on her. But this being
the intended heroine of this work, a lady with whom we ourselves are
greatly in love, and with whom many of our readers will probably be in
love too, before we part, it is by no means proper she should make her
appearance at the end of a book.
                                    BOOK IV
                         CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR
                                Chapter 1

  Containing five pages of paper

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

     While- history with her comrade ale,
     Soothes the sad series of her serious tale.

  For as this is the liquor of modern historians, nay, perhaps their
muse, if we may believe the opinion of Butler, who attributes
inspiration to ale, it ought likewise to be the potation of their
readers, since every book ought to be read with the same spirit and in
the same manner as it is writ. Thus the famous author of
Hurlothrumbo told a learned bishop, that the reason his lordship could
not taste the excellence of his piece was, that he did not read it
with a fiddle in his hand; which instrument he himself had always
had in his own, when he composed it.
  That our work, therefore, might be in no danger of being likened
to the labours of these historians, we have taken every occasion of
interspersing through the whole sundry similes, descriptions, and
other kind of poetical embellishments. These are, indeed, designed
to supply the place of the said ale, and to refresh the mind, whenever
those slumbers, which in a long work are apt to invade the reader as
well as the writer, shall begin to creep upon him. Without
interruptions of this kind, the best narrative of plain matter of fact
must overpower every reader; for nothing but the everlasting
watchfulness, which Homer has ascribed only to Jove himself, can be
proof against a newspaper of many volumes.
  We shall leave to the reader to determine with what judgment we have
chosen the several occasions for inserting those ornamental parts of
our work. Surely it will be allowed that none could be more proper
than the present, where we are about to introduce a considerable
character on the scene; no less, indeed, than the heroine of this
heroic, historical, prosaic poem. Here, therefore, we have thought
proper to prepare the mind of the reader for her reception, by filling
it with every pleasing image which we can draw from the face of
nature. And for this method we plead many precedents. First, this is
an art well known to, and much practised by, our tragick poets, who
seldom fail to prepare their audience for the reception of their
principal characters.
  Thus the heroe is always introduced with a flourish of drums and
trumpets, in order to rouse a martial spirit in the audience, and to
accommodate their ears to bombast and fustian, which Mr. Locke's blind
man would not have grossly erred in likening to the sound of a
trumpet. Again, when lovers are coming forth, soft music often
conducts them on the stage, either to soothe the audience with the
softness of the tender passion, or to lull and prepare them for that
gentle slumber in which they will most probably be composed by the
ensuing scene.
  And not only the poets, but the masters of these poets, the managers
of playhouses, seem to be in this secret; for, besides the aforesaid
kettle-drums, &c., which denote the heroe's approach, he is
generally ushered on the stage by a large troop of half a dozen
scene-shifters; and how necessary these are imagined to his
appearance, may be concluded from the following theatrical story:-
  King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an ale-house bordering on the theatre,
when he was summoned to go on the stage. The heroe, being unwilling to
quit his shoulder of mutton, and as unwilling to draw on himself the
indignation of Mr. Wilks (his brother-manager) for making the audience
wait, had bribed these his harbingers to be out of the way. While
Mr. Wilks, therefore, was thundering out, "Where are the carpenters to
walk on before King Pyrrhus?" that monarch very quietly eat his
mutton, and the audience, however impatient, were obliged to entertain
themselves with music in his absence.
  To be plain, I much question whether the politician, who hath
generally a good nose, hath not scented out somewhat of the utility of
this practice. I am convinced that awful magistrate my lord-mayor
contracts a good deal of that reverence which attends him through
the year, by the several pageants which precede his pomp. Nay, I
must confess, that even I myself, who am not remarkably liable to be
captivated with show, have yielded not a little to the impressions
of much preceding state. When I have seen a man strutting in a
procession, after others whose business was only to walk before him, I
have conceived a higher notion of his dignity than I have felt on
seeing him in a common situation. But there is one instance, which
comes exactly up to my purpose. This is the custom of sending on a
basket-woman, who is to precede the pomp at a coronation, and to strew
the stage with flowers, before the great personages begin their
procession. The antients would certainly have invoked the goddess
Flora for this purpose, and it would have been no difficulty for their
priests, or politicians to have persuaded the people of the real
presence of the deity, though a plain mortal had personated her and
performed her office. But we have no such design of imposing on our
reader; and therefore those who object to the heathen theology, may,
if they please, change our goddess into the above-mentioned
basket-woman. Our intention, in short, is to introduce our heroine
with the utmost solemnity in our power, with an elevation of stile,
and all other circumstances proper to raise the veneration of our
reader. Indeed we would, for certain causes, advise those of our
male readers who have any hearts, to read no farther, were we not well
assured, that how amiable soever the picture of our heroine will
appear, as it is really a copy from nature, many of our fair
country-women will be found worthy to satisfy any passion, and to
answer any idea of female perfection which our pencil will be able
to raise.
  And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our next
chapter.
                                Chapter 2

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

  Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of the winds
confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy Boreas, and the
sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus,
rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those
delicious gales, the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora
from her chamber, perfumed with pearly dews, when on the 1st of
June, her birth-day, the blooming maid, in loose attire, gently
trips it over the verdant mead, where every flower rises to do her
homage, till the whole field becomes enamelled, and colours contend
with sweets which shall ravish her most.
 So charming may she now appear! and you the feathered choristers of
nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can excell, tune your
melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. From love proceeds your
music, and to love it returns. Awaken therefore that gentle passion in
every swain: for lo! adorned with all the charms in which nature can
array her; bedecked with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence,
modesty, and tenderness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and
darting brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes!
  Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus de Medicis.
Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties at Hampton Court.
Thou may'st remember each bright Churchill of the galaxy, and all
the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their reign was before thy times, at
least thou hast seen their daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of
the present age; whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they
would fill the whole volume.
  Now if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude answer
which Lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen many things.
No. If thou hast seen all these without knowing what beauty is, thou
hast no eyes; if without feeling its power, thou hast no heart.
  Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all
these without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia; for she
did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like the picture of
Lady Ranelagh: and, I have heard, more still to the famous dutchess of
Mazarine; but most of all she resembled one whose image never can
depart from my breast, and whom, if thou dost remember, thou hast
then, my friend, an adequate idea of Sophia.
  But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will endeavour
with our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though we are sensible
that our highest abilities are very inadequate to the task.
  Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr. Western, was a middle-sized
woman; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was not only exact, but
extremely delicate: and the nice proportion of her arms promised the
truest symmetry in her limbs. Her hair, which was black, was so
luxuriant, that it reached her middle, before she cut it to comply
with the modern fashion; and it was now curled so gracefully in her
neck, that few could believe it to be her own. If envy could find
any part of the face which demanded less commendation than the rest,
it might possibly think her forehead might have been higher without
prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched beyond
the power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre in them,
which all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose was exactly
regular, and her mouth, in which were two rows of ivory, exactly
answered Sir John Suckling's description in those lines:-

     Her lips were red, and one was thin,
     Compar'd to that was next her chin,
       Some bee had stung it newly.

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

     --Her Pure and eloquent blood
     Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
     That one might almost say her body thought.

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

     Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius.

     A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble.

  Such was the outside of Sophia; nor was this beautiful frame
disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every way
equal to her person; nay, the latter borrowed some charms from the
former; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her temper diffused that
glory over her countenance which no regularity of features can give.
But as there are no perfections of the mind which do not discover
themselves in that perfect intimacy to which we intend to introduce
our reader with this charming young creature, so it is needless to
mention them here: nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our
reader's understanding, and may also rob him of that pleasure which he
will receive in forming his own judgment of her character.
  It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental
accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were somewhat
improved and cultivated by art: for she had been educated under the
care of an aunt, who was a lady of great discretion, and was
thoroughly acquainted with the world, having lived in her youth
about the court, whence she had retired some years since into the
country. By her conversation and instructions, Sophia was perfectly
well bred, though perhaps she wanted a little of that ease in her
behaviour which is to be acquired only by habit, and living within
what is called the polite circle. But this, to say the truth, is often
too dearly purchased; and though it hath charms so inexpressible, that
the French, perhaps, among other qualities, mean to express this, when
they declare they know not what it is; yet its absence is well
compensated by innocence; nor can good sense and a natural gentility
ever stand in need of it.
                                Chapter 3

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

  The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when she is
introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been said, was
fonder of her than of any other human creature. To her, therefore, Tom
Jones applied, in order to engage her interest on the behalf of his
friend the gamekeeper.
  But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation of
some previous matters may be necessary.
  Though the different tempers of Mr. Allworthy and of Mr. Western did
not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet they lived upon
what is called a decent footing together; by which means the young
people of both families had been acquainted from their infancy; and as
they were all near of the same age, had been frequent playmates
together.
  The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia, than the grave
and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the preference which she
gave the former of these, would often appear so plainly, that a lad of
a more passionate turn than Master Blifil was, might have shown some
displeasure at it.
  As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would
be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his
mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of
their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to
discover their poverty and meanness to the world.
  However, as persons who suspect they have given others cause of
offence, are apt to conclude they are offended; so Sophia imputed an
action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the superior sagacity of
Thwackum and Square discerned to have arisen from a much better
principle.
  Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a little bird,
which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, and taught to sing.
  Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so
extremely fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, and
her chief pleasure to play with it. By these means little Tommy, for
so the bird was called, was become so tame, that it would feed out
of the hand of its mistress, would perch upon the finger, and lie
contented in her bosom, where it seemed almost sensible of its own
happiness; though she always kept a small string about its leg, nor
would ever trust it with the liberty of flying away.
  One day, when Mr. Allworthy and his whole family dined at Mr.
Western's, Master Blifil, being in the garden with little Sophia,
and observing the extreme fondness that she showed for her little
bird, desired her to trust it for a moment in his hands. Sophia
presently complied with the young gentleman's request, and after
some previous caution, delivered him her bird; of which he was no
sooner in possession, than he slipt the string from its leg and tossed
it into the air.
  The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than
forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew
directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance.
  Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that Tom
Jones, who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her
assistance.
  He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he cursed
Blifil for a pitiful malicious rascal; and then immediately
stripping off his coat he applied himself to climbing the tree to
which the bird escaped.
  Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the branch on
which it was perched, and that hung over a canal, broke, and the
poor lad plumped over head and ears into the water.
  Sophia's concern now changed its object. And as she apprehended
the boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times louder than
before; and indeed Master Blifil himself now seconded her with all the
vociferation in his power.
  The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, were
instantly alarmed, and came all forth; but just as they reached the
canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shallow in that part)
arrived safely on shore.
  Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping and
shivering before him, when Mr. Allworthy desired him to have patience;
and turning to Master Blifil, said, "Pray, child, what is the reason
of all this disturbance?"
  Master Blifil answered, "Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for what I
have done; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. I had Miss
Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor creature languished
for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving it what it desired;
for I always thought there was something very cruel in confining
anything. It seemed to be against the law of nature, by which
everything hath a right to liberty; nay, it is even unchristian, for
it is not doing what we would be done by; but if I had imagined Miss
Sophia would have been so much concerned at it, I am sure I never
would have done it; nay, if I had known what would have happened to
the bird itself: for when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after
it, fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, and
presently a nasty hawk carried it away."
  Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate (for her
concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when it happened),
shed a shower of tears. These Mr. Allworthy endeavoured to assuage,
promising her a much finer bird: but she declared she would never have
another. Her father chid her for crying so for a foolish bird; but
could not help telling young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his
backside should be well flead.
  Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentlemen were
sent home, and the rest of the company returned to their bottle; where
a conversation ensued on the subject of the bird, so curious, that
we think it deserves a chapter by itself.
                                Chapter 4

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

  Square had no sooner lighted his pipe, than, addressing himself to
Allworthy, he thus began: "Sir, I cannot help congratulating you on
your nephew; who, at an age when few lads have any ideas but of
sensible objects, is arrived at a capacity of distinguishing right
from wrong. To confine anything, seems to me against the law of
nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty. These were his
words; and the impression they have made on me is never to be
eradicated. Can any man have a higher notion of the rule of right, and
the eternal fitness of things? I cannot help promising myself, from
such a dawn, that the meridian of this youth will be equal to that
of either the elder or the younger Brutus."
  Here Thwackum hastily interrupted, and spilling some of his wine,
and swallowing the rest with great eagerness, answered, "From
another expression he made use of, I hope he will resemble much better
men. The law of nature is a jargon of words, which means nothing. I
know not of any such law, nor of any right which can be derived from
it. To do as we would be done by, is indeed a Christian motive, as the
boy well expressed himself; and I am glad to find my instructions have
borne such good fruit."
  "If vanity was a thing fit," says Square, "I might indulge some on
the same occasion; for whence only he can have learnt his notions of
right or wrong, I think is pretty apparent. If there be no law of
nature, there is no right nor wrong."
  "How!" says the parson, "do you then banish revelation? Am I talking
with a deist or an atheist?"
  "Drink about," says Western. "Pox of your laws of nature! I don't
know what you mean, either of you, by right and wrong. To take away my
girl's bird was wrong, in my opinion; and my neighbour Allworthy may
do as he pleases; but to encourage boys in such practices, is to breed
them up to the gallows."
  Allworthy answered, "That he was sorry for what his nephew had done,
but could not consent to punish him, as he acted rather from a
generous than unworthy motive." He said, "If the boy had stolen the
bird, none would have been more ready to vote for a severe
chastisement than himself; but it was plain that was not his
design": and, indeed, it was as apparent to him, that he could have no
other view but what he had himself avowed. (For as to that malicious
purpose which Sophia suspected, it never once entered into the head of
Mr. Allworthy.) He at length concluded with again blaming the action
as inconsiderate, and which, he said, was pardonable only in a child.
  Square had delivered his opinion so openly, that if he was now
silent, he must submit to have his judgment censured. He said,
therefore, with some warmth, "That Mr. Allworthy had too much
respect to the dirty consideration of property. That in passing our
judgments on great and mighty actions, all private regards should be
laid aside; for by adhering to those narrow rules, the younger
Brutus had been condemned of ingratitude, and the elder of parricide."
  "And if they had been hanged too for those crimes," cried
Thwackum, "they would have had no more than their deserts. A couple of
heathenish villains! Heaven be praised we have no Brutuses now-a-days!
I wish, Mr. Square, you would desist from filling the minds of my
pupils with such antichristian stuff; for the consequence must be,
while they are under my care, its being well scourged out of them
again. There is your disciple Tom almost spoiled already. I
overheard him the other day disputing with Master Blifil that there
was no merit in faith without works. I know that is one of your
tenets, and I suppose he had it from you."
  "Don't accuse me of spoiling him," says Square. "Who taught him to
laugh at whatever is virtuous and decent, and fit and right in the
nature of things? He is your own scholar, and I disclaim him. No,
no, Master Blifil is my boy. Young as he is, that lad's notions of
moral rectitude I defy you ever to eradicate."
  Thwackum put on a contemptuous sneer at this, and replied, "Ay,
ay, I will venture him with you. He is too well grounded for all
your philosophical cant to hurt. No, no, I have taken care to instil
such principles into him--"
  "And I have instilled principles into him too," cries Square.
"What but the sublime idea of virtue could inspire a human mind with
the generous thought of giving liberty? And I repeat to you again,
if it was a fit thing to be proud, I might claim the honour of
having infused that idea."-
  "And if pride was not forbidden," said Thwackum, "I might boast of
having taught him that duty which he himself assigned as his motive."
  "So between you both," says the squire, "the young gentleman hath
been taught to rob my daughter of her bird. I find I must take care of
my partridge-mew. I shall have some virtuous religious man or other
set all my partridges at liberty." Then slapping a gentleman of the
law, who was present, on the back, he cried out, "What say you to
this, Mr. Counsellor? Is not this against law?"
  The lawyer with great gravity delivered himself as follows:-
  "If the case be put of a partridge, there can be no doubt but an
action would lie; for though this be ferae naturae, yet being
reclaimed, property vests: but being the case of a singing bird,
though reclaimed, as it is a thing of base nature, it must be
considered as nullius in bonis. In this case, therefore, I conceive
the plaintiff must be non-suited; and I should disadvise the
bringing any such action."
  "Well," says the squire, "if it be nullus bonus, let us drink about,
and talk a little of the state of the nation, or some such discourse
that we all understand; for I am sure I don't understand a word of
this. It may be learning and sense for aught I know: but you shall
never persuade me into it. Pox! you have neither of you mentioned a
word of that poor lad who deserves to be commended: to venture
breaking his neck to oblige my girl was a generous-spirited action:
I have learning enough to see that. D--n me, here's Tom's health! I
shall love the boy for it the longest day I have to live."
  Thus was the debate interrupted; but it would probably have been
soon resumed, had not Mr. Allworthy presently called for his coach,
and carried off the two combatants.
  Such was the conclusion of this adventure of the bird, and of the
dialogue occasioned by it; which we could not help recounting to our
reader, though it happened some years before that stage or period of
time at which our history is now arrived.
                                Chapter 5

  Containing matter accommodated to every taste

  "Parva leves capiunt animos- Small things affect light minds," was
the sentiment of a great master of the passion of love. And certain it
is, that from this day Sophia began to have some little kindness for
Tom Jones, and no little aversion for his companion.
  Many accidents from time to time improved both these passions in her
breast; which, without our recounting, the reader may well conclude,
from what we have before hinted of the different tempers of these
lads, and how much the one suited with her own inclinations more
than the other. To say the truth, Sophia, when very young, discerned
that Tom, though an idle, thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody's
enemy but his own; and that Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet,
sober young gentleman, was at the same time strongly attached to the
interest only of one single person; and who that single person was the
reader will be able to divine without any assistance of ours.
  These two characters are not always received in the world with the
different regard which seems severally due to either; and which one
would imagine mankind, from self-interest, should show towards them.
But perhaps there may be a political reason for it: in finding one
of a truly benevolent disposition, men may very reasonably suppose
they have found a treasure, and be desirous of keeping it, like all
other good things, to themselves. Hence they may imagine, that to
trumpet forth the praises of such a person, would, in the vulgar
phrase, be crying Roast-meat, and calling in partakers of what they
intend to apply solely to their own use. If this reason does not
satisfy the reader, I know no other means of accounting for the little
respect which I have commonly seen paid to a character which really
does great honour to human nature, and is productive of the highest
good to society. But it was otherwise with Sophia. She honoured Tom
Jones, and scorned Master Blifil, almost as soon as she knew the
meaning of those two words.
  Sophia had been absent upwards of three years with her aunt;
during all which time she had seldom seen either of these young
gentlemen. She dined, however, once, together with her aunt, at Mr.
Allworthy's. This was a few days after the adventure of the partridge,
before commemorated. Sophia heard the whole story at table, where
she said nothing: nor indeed could her aunt get many words from her as
she returned home; but her maid, when undressing her, happening to
say, "Well, miss, I suppose you have seen young Master Blifil
to-day?" she answered with much passion, "I hate the name of Master
Blifil, as I do whatever is base and treacherous: and I wonder Mr.
Allworthy would suffer that old barbarous schoolmaster to punish a
poor boy so cruelly for what was only the effect of his
good-nature." She then recounted the story to her maid, and
concluded with saying, "Don't you think he is a boy of noble spirit?"
  This young lady was now returned to her father; who gave her the
command of his house, and placed her at the upper end of his table,
where Tom (who for his great love of hunting was become a great
favourite of the squire) often dined. Young men of open, generous
dispositions are naturally inclined to gallantry, which, if they
have good understandings, as was in reality Tom's case, exerts
itself in an obliging complacent behaviour to all women in general.
This greatly distinguished Tom from the boisterous brutality of mere
country squires on the one hand, and from the solemn and somewhat
sullen deportment of Master Blifil on the other; and he began now,
at twenty, to have the name of a pretty fellow among all the women
in the neighbourhood.
  Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps by
showing her a higher respect than he paid to any other. This
distinction her beauty, fortune, sense, and amiable carriage, seemed
to demand; but as to design upon her person he had none; for which
we shall at present suffer the reader to condemn him of stupidity; but
perhaps we shall be able indifferently well to account for it
hereafter.
  Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, had a
remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so greatly
increased whenever she was in company with Tom, that had he not been
very young and thoughtless, he must have observed it: or had not Mr.
Western's thoughts been generally either in the field, the stable,
or the dog-kennel, it might have perhaps created some jealousy in him:
but so far was the good gentleman from entertaining any such
suspicions, that he gave Tom every opportunity with his daughter which
any lover could have wished; and this Tom innocently improved to
better advantage, by following only the dictates of his natural
gallantry and good-nature, than he might perhaps have done had he
had the deepest designs on the young lady.
  But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter escaped
the observation of others, since poor Sophia herself never remarked
it; and her heart was irretrievably lost before she suspected it was
in danger.
  Matters were in this situation, when Tom, one afternoon, finding
Sophia alone, began, after a short apology, with a very serious
face, to acquaint her that he had a favour to ask of her which he
hoped her goodness would comply with.
  Though neither the young man's behaviour, nor indeed his manner of
opening this business, were such as could give her any just cause of
suspecting he intended to make love to her; yet whether Nature
whispered something into her ear, or from what cause it arose I will
not determine; certain it is, some idea of that kind must have
intruded itself; for her colour forsook her cheeks, her limbs
trembled, and her tongue would have faltered, had Tom stopped for an
answer; but he soon relieved her from her perplexity, by proceeding to
inform her of his request; which was to solicit her interest on behalf
of the gamekeeper, whose own ruin, and that of a large family, must
be, he said, the consequence of Mr. Western's pursuing his action
against him.
  Sophia presently recovered her confusion, and, with a smile full
of sweetness, said, "Is this the mighty favour you asked with so
much gravity? I will do it with all my heart. I really pity the poor
fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a small matter to his
wife." This small matter was one of her gowns, some linen, and ten
shillings in money, of which Tom had heard, and it had, in reality,
put this solicitation into his head.
  Our youth, now, emboldened with his success, resolved to push the
matter farther, and ventured even to beg her recommendation of him
to her father's service; protesting that he thought him one of the
honestest fellows in the country, and extremely well qualified for the
place of a gamekeeper, which luckily then happened to be vacant.
  Sophia answered, "Well, I will undertake this too; but I cannot
promise you as much success as in the former part, which I assure
you I will not quit my father without obtaining. However, I will do
what I can for the poor fellow; for I sincerely look upon him and
his family as objects of great compassion. And now, Mr. Jones, I
must ask you a favour."
  "A favour, madam!" cries Tom: "if you knew the pleasure you have
given me in the hopes of receiving a command from you, you would think
by mentioning it you did confer the greatest favour on me; for by this
dear hand I would sacrifice my life to oblige you."
  He then snatched her hand, and eagerly kissed it, which was the
first time his lips had ever touched her. The blood, which before
had forsaken her cheeks, now made her sufficient amends, by rushing
all over her face and neck with such violence, that they became all of
a scarlet colour. She now first felt a sensation to which she had been
before a stranger, and which, when she had leisure to reflect on it,
began to acquaint her with some secrets, which the reader, if he
doth not already guess them, will know in due time.
  Sophia, as soon as she could speak (which was not instantly),
informed him that the favour she had to desire of him was, not to lead
her father through so many dangers in hunting; for that, from what she
had heard, she was terribly frightened every time they went out
together, and expected some day or other to see her father brought
home with broken limbs. She therefore begged him, for her sake, to
be more cautious; and as he well knew Mr. Western would follow him,
not to ride so madly, nor to take dangerous leaps for the future.
  Tom promised faithfully to obey her commands; and after thanking her
for her kind compliance with his request, took his leave, and departed
highly charmed with his success.
  Poor Sophia was charmed too, but in a very different way. Her
sensations, however, the reader's heart (if he or she have any) will
better represent than I can, if I had as many mouths as ever poet
wished for, to eat, I suppose, those many dainties with which he was
so plentifully provided.
  It was Mr. Western's custom every afternoon, as soon as he was
drunk, to hear his daughter play on the harpsichord; for he was a
great lover of music, and perhaps, had he lived in town, might have
passed for a connoisseur; for he always excepted against the finest
compositions of Mr. Handel. He never relished any music but what was
light and airy; and indeed his most favourite tunes were Old Sir Simon
the King, St. George he was for England, Bobbing Joan, and some
others.
  His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, and
would never willingly have played any but Handel's, was so devoted
to her father's pleasure, that she learnt all those tunes to oblige
him. However, she would now and then endeavour to lead him into her
own taste; and when he required the repetition of his ballads, would
answer with a "Nay, dear sir"; and would often beg him to suffer her
to play something else.
  This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from his
bottle, she played all his favourites three times over without any
solicitation. This so pleased the good squire, that he started from
his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her hand was greatly
improved. She took this opportunity to execute her promise to Tom;
in which she succeeded so well, that the squire declared, if she would
give him t'other bout of Old Sir Simon, he would give the gamekeeper
his deputation the next morning. Sir Simon was played again and again,
till the charms of the music soothed Mr. Western to sleep. In the
morning Sophia did not fail to remind him of his engagement; and his
attorney was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any further
proceedings in the action, and to make out the deputation.
  Tom's success in this affair soon began to ring over the country,
and various were the censures passed upon it; some greatly
applauding it as an act of good nature; others sneering, and saying,
"No wonder that one idle fellow should love another." Young Blifil was
greatly enraged at it. He had long hated Black George in the same
proportion as Jones delighted in him; not from any offence which he
had ever received, but from his great love to religion and virtue;-
for Black George had the reputation of a loose kind of a fellow.
Blifil therefore represented this as flying in Mr. Allworthy's face;
and declared, with great concern, that it was impossible to find any
other motive for doing good to such a wretch.
  Thwackum and Square likewise sung to the same tune. They were now
(especially the latter) become greatly jealous of young Jones with the
widow; for he now approached the age of twenty, was really a fine
young fellow, and that lady, by her encouragements to him, seemed
daily more and more to think him so.
  Allworthy was not, however, moved with their malice. He declared
himself very well satisfied with what Jones had done. He said the
perseverance and integrity of his friendship was highly commendable,
and he wished he could see more frequent instances of that virtue.
  But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such sparks as my friend
Tom, perhaps because they do not pay more ardent addresses to her,
gave now a very different turn to all his actions, and showed them
to Mr. Allworthy in a light far less agreeable than that gentleman's
goodness had hitherto seen them in.
                                Chapter 6

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

  There are two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have already
conceived some contempt for my heroe, on account of his behaviour to
Sophia. The former of these will blame his prudence in neglecting an
opportunity to possess himself of Mr. Western's fortune; and the
latter will no less despise him his backwardness to so fine a girl,
who seemed ready to fly into his arms, if he would open them to
receive her.
  Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit him
of either of these charges (for want of prudence admits of no
excuse; and what I shall produce against the latter charge will, I
apprehend, be scarce satisfactory); yet, as evidence may sometimes
be offered in mitigation, I shall set forth the plain matter of
fact, and leave the whole to the reader's determination.
  Mr. Jones had somewhat about him, which, though I think writers
are not thoroughly agreed in its name, doth certainly inhabit some
human breasts; whose use is not so properly to distinguish right
from wrong, as to prompt and incite them to the former, and to
restrain and withhold them from the latter.
  This somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous trunk-maker in
the playhouse; for, whenever the person who is possessed of it doth
what is right, no ravished or friendly spectator is so eager or so
loud in his applause: on the contrary, when he doth wrong, no critic
is so apt to hiss and explode him.
  To give a higher idea of the principle I mean, as well as one more
familiar to the present age; it may be considered as sitting on its
throne in the mind, like the Lord High Chancellor of this kingdom in
his court; where it presides, governs, directs, judges, acquits, and
condemns according to merit and justice, with a knowledge which
nothing escapes, a penetration which nothing can deceive, and an
integrity which nothing can corrupt.
  This active principle may perhaps be said to constitute the most
essential barrier between us and our neighbours the brutes; for if
there be some in the human shape who are not under any such
dominion, I choose rather to consider them as deserters from us to our
neighbours; among whom they will have the fate of deserters, and not
be placed in the first rank.
  Our heroe, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square I will
not determine, was very strongly under the guidance of this principle;
for though he did not always act rightly, yet he never did otherwise
without feeling and suffering for it. It was this which taught him,
that to repay the civilities and little friendships of hospitality
by robbing the house where you have received them, is to be the basest
and meanest of thieves. He did not think the baseness of this
offence lessened by the height of the injury committed; on the
contrary, if to steal another's plate deserved death and infamy, it
seemed to him difficult to assign a punishment adequate to the robbing
a man of his whole fortune, and of his child into the bargain.
  This principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought of
making his fortune by such means (for this, as I have said, is an
active principle, and doth not content itself with knowledge or belief
only). Had he been greatly enamoured of Sophia, he possibly might have
thought otherwise; but give me leave to say, there is great difference
between running away with man's daughter from the motive of love,
and doing the same thing from the motive of theft.
  Now, though this young gentleman was not insensible of the charms of
Sophia; though he greatly liked her beauty, and esteemed all her other
qualifications, she had made, however, no deep impression on his
heart; for which, as it renders him liable to the charge of stupidity,
or at least of want of taste, we shall now proceed to account.
  The truth then is, his heart was in the possession of another woman.
Here I question not but the reader will be surprized at our long
taciturnity as to this matter; and quite at a loss to divine who
this woman was, since we have hitherto not dropt a hint of any one
likely to be a rival to Sophia; for as to Mrs. Blifil, though we
have been obliged to mention some suspicions of her affection for Tom,
we have not hitherto given the least latitude for imagining that he
had any for her; and, indeed, I am sorry to say it, but the youth of
both sexes are too apt to be deficient in their gratitude for that
regard with which persons more advanced in years are sometimes so kind
to honour them.
  That the reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be pleased
to remember, that we have often mentioned the family of George Seagrim
(commonly called Black George, the gamekeeper), which consisted at
present of a wife and five children.
  The second of these children was a daughter, whose name was Molly,
and who was esteemed one of the handsomest girls in the whole country.
  Congreve well says there is in true beauty something which vulgar
souls cannot admire; so can no dirt or rags hide this something from
those souls which are not of the vulgar stamp.
  The beauty of this girl made, however, no impression on Tom, till
she grew towards the age of sixteen, when Tom, who was near three
years older, began first to cast the eyes of affection upon her. And
this affection he had fixed on the girl long before he could bring
himself to attempt the possession of her person: for though his
constitution urged him greatly to this his principles no less forcibly
restrained him. To debauch a young woman, however low her condition
was, appeared to him a very heinous crime; and the good-will he bore
the father, with the compassion he had for his family, very strongly
corroborated all such sober reflections; so that he once resolved to
get the better of his inclinations, and he actually abstained three
whole months without ever going to Seagrim's house, or seeing his
daughter.
  Now, though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought a very
fine girl, and in reality she was so, yet her beauty was not of the
most amiable kind. It had, indeed, very little of feminine in it,
and would have become a man at least as well as a woman; for, to say
the truth, youth and florid health had a very considerable share in
the composition.
  Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall
and robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had she of
modesty, that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself.
And as most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when
she perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably
forward; and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she
found means of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a
manner that the youth must have had very much or very little of the
heroe if her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon
triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she
behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to
attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design
which succeeded.
  In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part,
that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered
the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his
passion. He likewise imputed her yielding to the ungovernable force of
her love towards him; and this the reader will allow to have been a
very natural and probable supposition, as we have more than once
mentioned the uncommon comeliness of his person: and, indeed, he was
one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.
  As there are some minds whose affections, like Master Blifil's,
are solely placed on one single person, whose interest and
indulgence alone they consider on every occasion; regarding the good
and ill of all others as merely indifferent, any farther than as
they contribute to the pleasure or advantage of that person: so
there is a different temper of mind which borrows a degree of virtue
even from self-love. Such can never receive any kind of satisfaction
from another, without loving the creature to whom that satisfaction is
owing, and without making its well-being in some sort necessary to
their own ease.
  Of this latter species was our heroe. He considered this poor girl
as one whose happiness or misery he had caused to be dependent on
himself. Her beauty was still the object of desire, though greater
beauty, or a fresher object, might have been more so; but the little
abatement which fruition had occasioned to this was highly
overbalanced by the considerations of the affection which she
visibly bore him, and of the situation into which he had brought
her. The former of these created gratitude, the latter compassion; and
both, together with his desire for her person, raised in him a passion
which might, without any great violence to the word, be called love;
though, perhaps, it was at first not very judiciously placed.
  This, then, was the true reason of that insensibility which he had
shown to the charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in her which might
have been reasonably enough interpreted as an encouragement to his
addresses; for as he could not think of abandoning his Molly, poor and
destitute as she was, so no more could he entertain a notion of
betraying such a creature as Sophia. And surely, had he given the
least encouragement to any passion for that young lady, he must have
been absolutely guilty of one or other of those crimes; either of
which would, in my opinion, have very justly subjected him to that
fate, which, at his first introduction into this history, I
mentioned to have been generally predicted as his certain destiny.
                                Chapter 7

  Being the shortest chapter in this book

  Her mother first perceived the alteration in the shape of Molly; and
in order to hide it from her neighbours, she foolishly clothed her
in that sack which Sophia had sent her; though, indeed, that young
lady had little apprehension that the poor woman would have been
weak enough to let any of her daughters wear it in that form.
  Molly was charmed with the first opportunity she ever had of showing
her beauty to advantage; for though she could very well bear to
contemplate herself in the glass, even when dressed in rags; and
though she had in that dress conquered the heart of Jones, and perhaps
of some others; yet she thought the addition of finery would much
improve her charms, and extend her conquests.
  Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, with a
new laced cap, and some other ornaments which Tom had given her,
repairs to church with her fan in her hand the very next Sunday. The
great are deceived if they imagine they have appropriated ambition and
vanity to themselves. These noble qualities flourish as notably in a
country church and churchyard as in the drawing-room, or in the
closet. Schemes have indeed been laid in the vestry which would hardly
disgrace the conclave. Here is a ministry, and here is an
opposition. Here are plots and circumventions, parties and factions,
equal to those which are to be found in courts.
  Nor are the women here less practised in the highest feminine arts
than their fair superiors in quality and fortune. Here are prudes
and coquettes. Here are dressing and ogling, falsehood, envy,
malice, scandal; in short, everything which is common to the most
splendid assembly, or politest circle. Let those of high life,
therefore, no longer despise the ignorance of their inferiors; nor the
vulgar any longer rail at the vices of their betters.
  Molly had seated herself some time before she was known by her
neighbours. And then a whisper ran through the whole congregation,
"Who is she?" but when she was discovered, such sneering, giggling,
tittering, and laughing ensued among the women, that Mr. Allworthy was
obliged to exert his authority to preserve any decency among them.
                                Chapter 8

  A battle sung by the muse in the Homerican stile, and which none but
the classical reader can taste

  Mr. Western had an estate in this parish; and as his house stood
at little greater distance from this church than from his own, he very
often came to Divine Service here; and both he and the charming Sophia
happened to be present at this time.
  Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom she pitied
for her simplicity in having dressed herself in that manner, as she
saw the envy which it had occasioned among her equals. She no sooner
came home than she sent for the gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring
his daughter to her; saying she would provide for her in the family,
and might possibly place the girl about her own person, when her own
maid, who was now going away, had left her.
  Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no stranger to
the fault in the shape of his daughter. He answered, in a stammering
voice, "That he was afraid Molly would be too awkward to wait on her
ladyship, as she had never been at service." "No matter for that,"
says Sophia; "she will soon improve. I am pleased with the girl, and
am resolved to try her."
  Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent counsel he
depended to extricate him out of this dilemma; but when he came
thither he found his house in some confusion. So great envy had this
sack occasioned, that when Mr. Allworthy and the other gentry were
gone from church, the rage, which had hitherto been confined, burst
into an uproar; and, having vented itself at first in opprobrious
words, laughs, hisses, and gestures, betook itself at last to
certain missile weapons; which, though from their plastic nature
they threatened neither the loss of life or of limb, were however
sufficiently dreadful to a well-dressed lady. Molly had too much
spirit to bear this treatment tamely. Having therefore- but hold, as
we are diffident of our own abilities, let us here invite a superior
power to our assistance.
  Ye Muses, then, whoever ye are, who love to sing battles, and
principally thou who whilom didst recount the slaughter in those
fields where Hudibras and Trulla fought, if thou wert not starved with
thy friend Butler, assist me on this great occasion. All things are
not in the power of all.
  As a vast herd of cows in a rich farmer's yard, if, while they are
milked, they hear their calves at a distance, lamenting the robbery
which is then committing, roar and bellow; so roared forth the
Somersetshire mob an hallaloo, made up of almost as many squalls,
screams, and other different sounds as there were persons, or indeed
passions among them: some were inspired by rage, others alarmed by
fear, and others had nothing in their heads but the love of fun; but
chiefly Envy, the sister of Satan, and his constant companion,
rushed among the crowd, and blew up the fury of the women; who no
sooner came up to Molly than they pelted her with dirt and rubbish.
  Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome retreat,
faced about; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who advanced in the front
of the enemy, she at one blow felled her to the ground. The whole army
of the enemy (though near a hundred in number), seeing the fate of
their general, gave back many paces, and retired behind a new-dug
grave; for the churchyard was the field of battle, where there was
to be a funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and
catching up a skull which lay on the side of the grave, discharged
it with such fury, that having hit a taylor on the head, the two
skulls sent equally forth a hollow sound at their meeting, and the
taylor took presently measure of his length on the ground, where the
skulls lay side by side, and it was doubtful which was the more
valuable of the two. Molly then taking a thigh-bone in her hand,
fell in among the flying ranks, and dealing her blows with great
liberality on either side, overthrew the carcass of many a mighty
heroe and heroine.
  Recount, O Muse, the names of those who fell on this fatal day.
First, Jemmy Tweedle felt on his hinder head the direful bone. Him the
pleasant banks of sweetly-winding Stour had nourished, where he
first learnt the vocal art, with which, wandering up and down at wakes
and fairs, he cheered the rural nymphs and swains, when upon the green
they interweaved the sprightly dance; while he himself stood
fiddling and jumping to his own music. How little now avails his
fiddle! He thumps the verdant floor with his carcass. Next, old
Echepole, the sowgelder, received a blow in his forehead from our
Amazonian heroine, and immediately fell to the ground. He was a
swinging fat fellow, and fell with almost as much noise as a house.
His tobacco-box dropped at the same time from his pocket, which
Molly took up as lawful spoils. Then Kate of the Mill tumbled
unfortunately over a tombstone, which catching hold of her
ungartered stocking inverted the order of nature, and gave her heels
the superiority to her head. Betty Pippin, with young Roger her lover,
fell both to the ground; where, oh perverse fate! she salutes the
earth, and he the sky. Tom Freckle, the smith's son, was the next
victim to her rage. He was an ingenious workman, and made excellent
pattens; nay, the very patten with which he was knocked down was his
own workmanship. Had he been at that time singing psalms in the
church, he would have avoided a broken head. Miss Crow, the daughter
of a farmer; John Giddish, himself a farmer; Nan Slouch, Esther
Codling, Will Spray, Tom Bennet; the three Misses Potter, whose father
keeps the sign of the Red Lion; Betty Chambermaid, Jack Ostler, and
many others of inferior note, lay rolling among the graves.
  Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for many of
them in their flight overthrew each other.
  But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, and had
inclined too long to the same side, especially as it was the right
side, hastily turned about: for now Goody Brown- whom Zekiel Brown
caressed in his arms; nor he alone, but half the parish besides; so
famous was she in the fields of Venus, nor indeed less in those of
Mars. The trophies of both these her husband always bore about on
his head and face; for if ever human head did by its horns display the
amorous glories of a wife, Zekiel's did; nor did his well-scratched
face less denote her talents (or rather talons) of a different kind.
  No longer bore this Amazon the shameful flight of her party. She
stopt short, and, calling aloud to all who fled, spoke as follows: "Ye
Somersetshire men, or rather ye Somersetshire women, are ye not
ashamed thus to fly from a single woman? But if no other will oppose
her, I myself and Joan Top here will have the honour of the
victory." Having thus said, she flew at Molly Seagrim, and easily
wrenched the thigh-bone from her hand, at the same time clawing off
her cap from her head. Then laying hold of the hair of Molly with
her left hand, she attacked her so furiously in the face with the
right, that the blood soon began to trickle from her nose. Molly was
not idle this while. She soon removed the clout from the head of Goody
Brown, and then fastening on her hair with one hand, with the other
she caused another bloody stream to issue forth from the nostrils of
the enemy.
  When each of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils of
hair from the head of her antagonist, the next rage was against the
garments. In this attack they exerted so much violence, that in a very
few minutes they were both naked to the middle.
  It is lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuff war is not
the same with them as among men; but though they may seem a little
to deviate from their sex, when they go forth to battle, yet I have
observed, they never so far forget, as to assail the bosoms of each
other; where a few blows would be fatal to most of them. This, I know,
some derive from their being of a more bloody inclination than the
males. On which account they apply to the nose, as to the part
whence blood may most easily be drawn; but this seems a far-fetched as
well as ill-natured supposition.
  Goody Brown had great advantage of Molly in this particular; for the
former had indeed no breasts, her bosom (if it may be so called), as
well in colour as in many other properties, exactly resembling an
antient piece of parchment, upon which any one might have drummed a
considerable while without doing her any great damage.
  Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was differently
formed in those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted the envy of
Brown to give her a fatal blow, had not the lucky arrival of Tom Jones
at this instant put an immediate end to the bloody scene.
  This accident was luckily owing to Mr. Square; for he, Master
Blifil, and Jones, had mounted their horses, after church, to take the
air, and had ridden about a quarter of a mile, when Square, changing
his mind (not idly, but for a reason which we shall unfold as soon
as we have leisure), desired the young gentlemen to ride with him
another way than they had at first purposed. This motion being
complied with, brought them of necessity back again to the churchyard.
  Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, and
two women in the posture in which we left the combatants, stopt his
horse to enquire what was the matter. A country fellow, scratching his
head, answered him: "I don't know, measter, un't I; an't please your
honour, here hath been a vight, I think, between Goody Brown and
Moll Seagrim."
  "Who, who?" cries Tom; but without waiting for an answer, having
discovered the features of his Molly through all the discomposure in
which they now were, he hastily alighted, turned his horse loose, and,
leaping over the wall, ran to her. She now first bursting into
tears, told him how barbarously she had been treated. Upon which,
forgetting the sex of Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing it in his
rage- for, in reality, she had no feminine appearance but a
petticoat, which he might not observe- he gave her a lash or two with
his horsewhip; and then flying at the mob, who were all accused by
Moll, he dealt his blows so profusely on all sides, that unless I
would again invoke the muse (which the good-natured reader may think a
little too hard upon her, as she hath so lately been violently
sweated), it would be impossible for me to recount the
horse-whipping of that day.
  Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any of
Homer's heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote or any knight-errant in the
world could have done, he returned to Molly, whom he found in a
condition which must give both me and my reader pain, was it to be
described here. Tom raved like a madman, beat his breast, tore his
hair, stamped on the ground, and vowed the utmost vengeance on all who
had been concerned. He then pulled off his coat, and buttoned it round
her, put his hat upon her head, wiped the blood from her face as
well as he could with his handkerchief, and called out to the
servant to ride as fast as possible for a side-saddle, or a pillion,
that he might carry her safe home.
  Master Blifil objected to the sending away the servant, as they
had only one with them; but as Square seconded the order of Jones,
he was obliged to comply.
  The servant returned in a very short time with the pillion, and
Molly, having collected her rags as well as she could, was placed
behind him. In which manner she was carried home, Square, Blifil,
and Jones attending.
  Here Jones having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, and
whispered her, that he would return in the evening, quitted his Molly,
and rode on after his companions.
                                Chapter 9

  Containing matter of no very peaceable colour

  Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed rags,
than her sisters began to fall violently upon her, particularly her
eldest sister, who told her she was well enough served. "How had she
the assurance to wear a gown which young Madam Western had given to
mother! If one of us was to wear it, I think, says she, "I myself have
the best right; but I warrant you think it belongs to your beauty. I
suppose you think yourself more handsomer than any of us."- "Hand her
down the bit of glass from over the cupboard," cries another; "I'd
wash the blood from my face before I talked of my beauty."- "You'd
better have minded what the parson says," cries the eldest, "and not a
harkened after men voke."- "Indeed, child, and so she had," says the
mother, sobbing: "she hath brought a disgrace upon us all. She's the
vurst of the vamily that ever was a whore."
  "You need not upbraid me with that, mother," cried Molly; "you
yourself was brought-to-bed of sister there, within a week after you
was married."
  "Yes, hussy," answered the enraged mother, "so I was, and what was
the mighty matter of that? I was made an honest woman then; and if you
was to be made an honest woman, I should not be angry; but you must
have to doing with a gentleman, you nasty slut; you will have a
bastard, hussy, you will; and that I defy any one to say of me."
  In this situation Black George found his family, when he came home
for the purpose before mentioned. As his wife and three daughters were
all of them talking together, and most of them crying, it was some
time before he could get an opportunity of being heard; but as soon as
such interval occurred, he acquainted the company with what Sophia had
said to him.
  Goody Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. "Here," says
she, "you have brought us into a fine quandary indeed. What will madam
say to that big belly? Oh that ever I should live to see this day!"
  Molly answered with great spirit, "And what is this mighty place
which you have got for me, father?" (for he had not well understood
the phrase used by Sophia of being about her person). "I suppose it is
to be under the cook; but I shan't wash dishes for anybody. My
gentleman will provide better for me. See what he hath given me this
afternoon. He hath promised I shall never want money; and you shan't
want money neither, mother, if you will hold your tongue, and know
when you are well." And so saying, she pulled out several guineas, and
gave her mother one of them.
  The good woman no sooner felt the gold within her palm, than her
temper began (such is the efficacy of that panacea) to be mollified.
"Why, husband," says she, "would any but such a blockhead as you not
have enquired what place this was before he had accepted it?
Perhaps, as Molly says, it may be in the kitchen; and truly I don't
care my daughter should be a scullion wench; for, poor as I am, I am a
gentlewoman. And thof I was obliged, as my father, who was a
clergyman, died worse than nothing, and so could not give me a
shilling of portion, to undervalue myself by marrying a poor man;
yet I would have you to know, I have a spirit above all them things.
Marry come up! it would better become Madam Western to look at home,
and remember who her own grandfather was. Some of my family, for aught
I know, might ride in their coaches, when the grandfathers of some
voke walked a-voot. I warrant she fancies she did a mighty matter,
when she sent us that old gownd; some of my family would not have
picked up such rags in the street; but poor people are always trampled
upon.- The parish need not have been in such a fluster with Molly.
You might have told them, child, your grandmother wore better things
new out of the shop."
  "Well, but consider," cried George, "what answer shall I make to
madam?"
  "I don't know what answer," says she; "you are always bringing
your family into one quandary or other. Do you remember when you
shot the partridge, the occasion of all our misfortunes? Did not I
advise you never to go into Squire Western's manor? Did not I tell you
many a good year ago what would come of it? But you would have your
own headstrong ways; yes, you would, you villain."
  Black George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, and
nothing choleric nor rash; yet did he bear about him something of what
the antients called the irascible, and which his wife, if she had been
endowed with much wisdom, would have feared. He had long
experienced, that when the storm grew very high, arguments were but
wind, which served rather to increase, than to abate it. He was
therefore seldom unprovided with a small switch, a remedy of wonderful
force, as he had often essayed, and which the word villain served as a
hint for his applying.
  No sooner, therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he had
immediate recourse to the said remedy, which though, as it is usual in
all very efficacious medicines, it at first seemed to heighten and
inflame the disease, soon produced a total calm, and restored the
patient to perfect ease and tranquillity.
  This is, however, a kind of horse-medicine, which requires a very
robust constitution to digest, and is therefore proper only for the
vulgar, unless in one single instance, viz., where superiority of
birth breaks out; in which case, we should not think it very
improperly applied by any husband whatever, if the application was not
in itself so base, that, like certain applications of the physical
kind which need not be mentioned, it so much degrades and contaminates
the hand employed in it, that no gentleman should endure the thought
of anything so low and detestable.
  The whole family were soon reduced to a state of perfect quiet;
for the virtue of this medicine, like that of electricity, is often
communicated through one person to many others, who are not touched by
the instrument. To say the truth, as they both operate by friction, it
may be doubted whether there is not something analogous between
them, of which Mr. Freke would do well to enquire, before he publishes
the next edition of his book.
  A council was now called, in which, after many debates, Molly
still persisting that she would not go to service, it was at length
resolved, that Goody Seagrim herself should wait on Miss Western,
and endeavour to procure the place for her eldest daughter, who
declared great readiness to accept it: but Fortune, who seems to
have been an enemy of this little family, afterwards put a stop to her
promotion.
                                Chapter 10

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

  The next morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr. Western, and was at his
return invited by that gentleman to dinner.
  The lovely Sophia shone forth that day with more gaiety and
sprightliness than usual. Her battery was certainly levelled at our
heroe; though, I believe, she herself scarce yet knew her own
intention; but if she had any design of charming him, she now
succeeded.
  Mr. Supple, the curate of Mr. Allworthy's parish, made one of the
company. He was a good-natured worthy man; but chiefly remarkable
for his great taciturnity at table, though his mouth was never shut at
it. In short, he had one of the best appetites in the world.
However, the cloth was no sooner taken away, than he always made
sufficient amends for his silence: for he was a very hearty fellow;
and his conversation was often entertaining, never offensive.
  At his first arrival, which was immediately before the entrance of
the roast-beef, he had given an intimation that he had brought some
news with him, and was beginning to tell, that he came that moment
from Mr. Allworthy's, when the sight of the roast-beef struck him
dumb, permitting him only to say grace, and to declare he must pay his
respect to the baronet, for so he called the sirloin.
  When dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his news, he began
as follows: "I believe, lady, your ladyship observed a young woman
at church yesterday at even-song, who was drest in one of your
outlandish garments; I think I have seen your ladyship in such a
one. However, in the country, such dresses are

     Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno.

That is, madam, as much as to say, 'A rare bird upon the earth, and
very like a black swan.' The verse is in Juvenal. But to return to
what I was relating. I was saying such garments are rare sights in the
country; and perchance, too, it was thought the more rare, respect
being had to the person who wore it, who, they tell me, is the
daughter of Black George, your worship's gamekeeper, whose sufferings,
I should have opined, might have taught him more wit, than to dress
forth his wenches in such gaudy apparel. She created so much confusion
in the congregation, that if Squire Allworthy had not silenced it,
it would have interrupted the service: for I was once about to stop in
the middle of the first lesson. Howbeit, nevertheless, after prayer
was over, and I was departed home, this occasioned a battle in the
churchyard, where, amongst other mischief, the head of a travelling
fidler was very much broken. This morning the fidler came to Squire
Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought before him. The
squire was inclined to have compounded matters; when, lo! on a
sudden the wench appeared (I ask your ladyship's pardon) to be, as
it were, at the eve of bringing forth a bastard. The squire demanded
of her who was the father? But she pertinaciously refused to make
any response. So that he was about to make her mittimus to Bridewell
when I departed."
  "And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?" cries
Western; "I thought it might have been some public matter, something
about the nation."
  "I am afraid it is too common, indeed," answered the parson; "but
I thought the whole story altogether deserved commemorating. As to
national matters, your worship knows them best. My concerns extend
no farther than my own parish."
  "Why, ay," says the squire, "I believe I do know a little of that
matter, as you say. But come, Tommy, drink about; the bottle stands
with you."
  Tom begged to be excused, for that he had particular business; and
getting up from table, escaped the clutches of the squire, who was
rising to stop him, and went off with very little ceremony.
  The squire gave him a good curse at his departure; and then
turning to the parson, he cried out, "I smoke it: I smoke it. Tom is
certainly the father of this bastard. Zooks, parson, you remember
how he recommended the veather o' her to me. D--n un, what a sly b--ch
'tis. Ay, ay, as sure as two-pence, Tom is the veather of the
bastard."
  "I should be very sorry for that," says the parson.
  "Why sorry," cries the squire: "Where is the mighty matter o't?
What, I suppose dost pretend that thee hast never got a bastard?
Pox! more good luck's thine! for I warrant hast a done a therefore
many's the good time and often."
  "Your worship is pleased to be jocular," answered the parson; "but I
do not only animadvert on the sinfulness of the action- though that
surely is to be greatly deprecated- but I fear his unrighteousness
may injure him with Mr. Allworthy. And truly I must say, though he
hath the character of being a little wild, I never saw any harm in the
young man; nor can I say I have heard any, save what your worship
now mentions. I wish, indeed, he was a little more regular in his
responses at church; but altogether he seems

     Ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris.

That is a classical line, young lady; and, being rendered into
English, is, 'a lad of an ingenuous countenance, and of an ingenuous
modesty'; for this was a virtue in great repute both among the
Latins and Greeks. I must say, the young gentleman (for so I think I
may call him, notwithstanding his birth) appears to me a very
modest, civil lad, and I should be sorry that he should do himself any
injury in Squire Allworthy's opinion."
  "Poogh!" says the squire: "Injury, with Allworthy! Why, Allworthy
loves a wench himself. Doth not all the country know whose son Tom is?
You must talk to another person in that manner. I remember Allworthy
at college."
  "I thought," said the parson, "he had never been at the university."
  "Yes, yes, he was," says the squire: "and many a wench have we two
had together. As arrant a whore-master as any within five miles
o'un. No, no. It will do'n no harm with he, assure yourself; nor
with anybody else. Ask Sophy there- You have not the worse opinion of
a young fellow for getting a bastard, have you, girl? No, no, the
women will like un the better for't."
  This was a cruel question to poor Sophia. She had observed Tom's
colour change at the parson's story; and that, with his hasty and
abrupt departure, gave her sufficient reason to think her father's
suspicion not groundless. Her heart now at once discovered the great
secret to her which it had been so long disclosing by little and
little; and she found herself highly interested in this matter. In
such a situation, her father's malapert question rushing suddenly upon
her, produced some symptoms which might have alarmed a suspicious
heart; but, to do the squire justice, that was not his fault. When she
rose therefore from her chair, and told him a hint from him was always
sufficient to make her withdraw, he suffered her to leave the room,
and then with great gravity of countenance remarked, "That it was
better to see a daughter over-modest than over-forward";- a sentiment
which was highly applauded by the parson.
  There now ensued between the squire and the parson a most
excellent political discourse, framed out of newspapers and
political pamphlets; in which they made a libation of four bottles
of wine to the good of their country: and then, the squire being
fast asleep, the parson lighted his pipe, mounted his horse, and
rode home.
  When the squire had finished his half-hour's nap, he summoned his
daughter to her harpsichord; but she begged to be excused that
evening, on account of a violent head-ache. This remission was
presently granted; for indeed she seldom had occasion to ask him
twice, as he loved her with such ardent affection, that, by gratifying
her, he commonly conveyed the highest gratification to himself. She
was really, what he frequently called her, his little darling, and she
well deserved to be so; for she returned all his affection in the most
ample manner. She had preserved the most inviolable duty to him in all
things; and this her love made not only easy, but so delightful,
that when one of her companions laughed at her for placing so much
merit in such scrupulous obedience, as that young lady called it,
Sophia answered, "You mistake me, madam, if you think I value myself
upon this account; for besides that I am barely discharging my duty, I
am likewise pleasing myself. I can truly say I have no delight equal
to that of contributing to my father's happiness; and if I value
myself, my dear, it is on having this power, and not on executing it."
  This was a satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was incapable of
tasting this evening. She therefore not only desired to be excused
from her attendance at the harpsichord, but likewise begged that he
would suffer her to absent herself from supper. To this request
likewise the squire agreed, though not without some reluctance; for he
scarce ever permitted her to be out of his sight, unless when he was
engaged with his horses, dogs, or bottle. Nevertheless he yielded to
the desire of his daughter, though the poor man was at the same time
obliged to avoid his own company (if I may so express myself), by
sending for a neighbouring farmer to sit with him.
                                Chapter 11

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

  Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr. Western's horses that morning in the
chase; so that having no horse of his own in the squire's stable, he
was obliged to go home on foot: this he did so expeditiously that he
ran upwards of three miles within the half-hour.
  Just as he arrived at Mr. Allworthy's outward gate, he met the
constable and company with Molly in their possession, whom they were
conducting to that house where the inferior sort of people may learn
one good lesson, viz., respect and deference to their superiors; since
it must show them the wide distinction Fortune intends between those
persons who are to be corrected for their faults, and those who are
not; which lesson if they do not learn, I am afraid they very rarely
learn any other good lesson, or improve their morals, at the House
of Correction.
  A lawyer may perhaps think Mr. Allworthy exceeded his authority a
little in this instance. And, to say the truth, I question, as here
was no regular information before him, whether his conduct was
strictly regular. However, as his intention was truly upright, he
ought to be excused in foro conscientiae; since so many arbitrary acts
are daily committed by magistrates who have not this excuse to plead
for themselves.
  Tom was no sooner informed by the constable whither they were
proceeding (indeed he pretty well guessed it of himself), than he
caught Molly in his arms, and embracing her tenderly before them
all, swore he would murder the first man who offered to lay hold of
her. He bid her dry her eyes and be comforted; for, wherever she went,
he would accompany her. Then turning to the constable, who stood
trembling with his hat off, he desired him, in a very mild voice, to
return with him for a moment only to his father (for so he now
called Allworthy); for he durst, he said, be assured, that, when he
had alledged what he had to say in her favour, the girl would be
discharged.
  The constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surrendered his
prisoner had Tom demanded her, very readily consented to this request.
So back they all went into Mr. Allworthy's hall; where Tom desired
them to stay till his return, and then went himself in pursuit of
the good man. As soon as he was found, Tom threw himself at his
feet, and having begged a patient hearing, confessed himself to be the
father of the child of which Molly was then big. He entreated him to
have compassion on the poor girl, and to consider, if there was any
guilt in the case, it lay principally at his door.
  "If there is any guilt in the case!" answered Allworthy warmly: "Are
you then so profligate and abandoned a libertine to doubt whether
the breaking the laws of God and man, the corrupting and ruining a
poor girl be guilt? I own, indeed, it doth lie principally upon you;
and so heavy it is, that you ought to expect it should crush you."
  "Whatever may be my fate," says Tom, "let me succeed in my
intercessions for the poor girl. I confess I have corrupted her! but
whether she shall be ruined, depends on you. For Heaven's sake, sir,
revoke your warrant, and do not send her to a place which must
unavoidably prove her destruction."
  Allworthy bid him immediately call a servant. Tom answered there was
no occasion; for he had luckily met them at the gate, and relying upon
his goodness, had brought them all back into his hall, where they
now waited his final resolution, which upon his knees he besought
him might be in favour of the girl; that she might be permitted to
go home to her parents, and not be exposed to a greater degree of
shame and scorn than must necessarily fall upon her. "I know," said
he, "that is too much. I know I am the wicked occasion of it. I will
endeavour to make amends, if possible; and if you shall have hereafter
the goodness to forgive me, I hope I shall deserve it."
  Allworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, "Well, I will
discharge my mittimus.- You may send the constable to me." He was
instantly called, discharged, and so was the girl.
  It will be believed that Mr. Allworthy failed not to read Tom a very
severe lecture on this occasion; but it is unnecessary to insert it
here, as we have faithfully transcribed what he said to Jenny Jones in
the first book, most of which may be applied to the men, equally
with the women. So sensible an effect had these reproofs on the
young man, who was no hardened sinner that he retired to his own room,
where he passed the evening alone, in much melancholy contemplation.
  Allworthy was sufficiently offended by this transgression of
Jones; for notwithstanding the assertions of Mr. Western, it is
certain this worthy man had never indulged himself in any loose
pleasures with women, and greatly condemned the vice of incontinence
in others. Indeed, there is much reason to imagine that there was
not the least truth in what Mr. Western affirmed, especially as he
laid the scene of those impurities at the university, where Mr.
Allworthy had never been. In fact, the good squire was a little too
apt to indulge that kind of pleasantry which is generally called
rhodomontade: but which may, with as much propriety, be expressed by a
much shorter word; and perhaps we too often supply the use of this
little monosyllable by others; since very much of what frequently
passes in the world for wit and humour, should, in the strictest
purity of language, receive that short appellation, which, in
conformity to the well-bred laws of custom, I here suppress.
  But whatever detestation Mr. Allworthy had to this or to any other
vice, he was not so blinded by it but that he could discern any virtue
in the guilty person, as clearly indeed as if there had been no
mixture of vice in the same character. While he was angry therefore
with the incontinence of Jones, he was no less pleased with the honour
and honesty of his self-accusation. He began now to form in his mind
the same opinion of this young fellow, which, we hope, our reader
may have conceived. And in balancing his faults with his
perfections, the latter seemed rather to preponderate.
  It was to no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was
immediately charged by Mr. Blifil with the story, unbended all his
rancour against poor Tom. Allworthy gave a patient hearing to their
invectives, and then answered coldly: "That young men of Tom's
complexion were too generally addicted to this vice; but he believed
that youth was sincerely affected with what he had said to him on
the occasion, and he hoped he would not transgress again." So that, as
the days of whipping were at an end, the tutor had no other vent but
his own mouth for his gall, the usual poor resource of impotent
revenge.
  But Square, who was a less violent, was a much more artful man;
and as he hated Jones more perhaps than Thwackum himself did, so he
contrived to do him more mischief in the mind of Mr. Allworthy.
  The reader must remember the several little incidents of the
partridge, the horse, and the Bible, which were recounted in the
second book. By all which Jones had rather improved than injured the
affection which Mr. Allworthy was inclined to entertain for him. The
same, I believe, must have happened to him with every other person who
hath any idea of friendship, generosity, and greatness of spirit, that
is to say, who hath any traces of goodness in his mind.
  Square himself was not unacquainted with the true impression which
those several instances of goodness had made on the excellent heart of
Allworthy; for the philosopher very well knew what virtue was,
though he was not always perhaps steady in its pursuit; but as for
Thwackum, from what reason I will not determine, no such thoughts ever
entered into his head: he saw Jones in a bad light, and he imagined
Allworthy saw him in the same, but that he was resolved, from pride
and stubbornness of spirit, not to give up the boy whom he had once
cherished; since by so doing, he must tacitly acknowledge that his
former opinion of him had been wrong.
  Square therefore embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones in
the tenderest part, by giving a very bad turn to all these
before-mentioned occurrences. "I am sorry, sir," said he, "to own I
have been deceived as well as yourself. I could not, I confess, help
being pleased with what I ascribed to the motive of friendship, though
it was carried to an excess, and all excess is faulty and vicious: but
in this I made allowance for youth. Little did I suspect that the
sacrifice of truth, which we both imagined to have been made to
friendship, was in reality a prostitution of it to a depraved and
debauched appetite. You now plainly see whence all the seeming
generosity of this young man to the family of the gamekeeper
proceeded. He supported the father in order to corrupt the daughter,
and preserved the family from starving, to bring one of them to
shame and ruin. This is friendship! this is generosity! As Sir Richard
Steele says, 'Gluttons who give high prices for delicacies, are very
worthy to be called generous.' In short I am resolved, from this
instance, never to give way to the weakness of human nature nor to
think anything virtue which doth not exactly quadrate with the
unerring rule of right."
  The goodness of Allworthy had prevented those considerations from
occurring to himself; yet were they too plausible to be absolutely and
hastily rejected, when laid before his eyes by another. Indeed what
Square had said sunk very deeply into his mind, and the uneasiness
which it there created was very visible to the other; though the
good man would not acknowledge this, but made a very slight answer,
and forcibly drove off the discourse to some other subject. It was
well perhaps for poor Tom, that no such suggestions had been made
before he was pardoned; for they certainly stamped in the mind of
Allworthy the first bad impression concerning Jones.
                                Chapter 12

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

  The reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to
Sophia. She passed the night, after we saw her last, in no very
agreeable manner. Sleep befriended her but little, and dreams less. In
the morning, when Mrs. Honour, her maid, attended her at the usual
hour, she was found already up and drest.
  Persons who live two or three miles' distance in the country are
considered as next-door neighbours, and transactions at the one
house fly with incredible celerity to the other. Mrs. Honour,
therefore, had heard the whole story of Molly's shame; which she,
being of a very communicative temper, had no sooner entered the
apartment of her mistress, than she began to relate in the following
manner:-
  "La, ma'am, what doth your la'ship think? the girl that your la'ship
saw at church on Sunday, whom you thought so handsome; though you
would not have thought her so handsome neither, if you had seen her
nearer, but to be sure she hath been carried before the justice for
being big with child. She seemed to me to look like a confident
slut: and to be sure she hath laid the child to young Mr. Jones. And
all the parish says Mr. Allworthy is so angry with young Mr. Jones,
that he won't see him. To be sure, one can't help pitying the poor
young man, and yet he doth not deserve much pity neither, for
demeaning himself with such kind of trumpery. Yet he is so pretty a
gentleman, I should be sorry to have him turned out of doors. I
dares to swear the wench was as willing as he; for she was always a
forward kind of body. And when wenches are so coming, young men are
not so much to be blamed neither; for to be sure they do no more
than what is natural. Indeed it is beneath them to meddle with such
dirty draggle-tails; and whatever happens to them, it is good enough
for them. And yet, to be sure, the vile baggages are most in fault.
I wishes, with all my heart, they were well to be whipped at the
cart's tail; for it is pity they should be the ruin of a pretty
young gentleman; and nobody can deny but that Mr. Jones is one of
the most handsomest young men that ever-"
  She was running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish voice than
she had ever spoken to her in before, cried, "Prithee, why dost thou
trouble me with all this stuff? What concern have I in what Mr.
Jones doth? I suppose you are all alike. And you seem to me to be
angry it was not your own case."
  "I, ma'am!" answered Mrs. Honour, "I am sorry your ladyship should
have such an opinion of me. I am sure nobody can say any such thing of
me. All the young fellows in the world may go to the divil for me.
Because I said he was a handsome man? Everybody says it as well as
I. To be sure, I never thought as it was any harm to say a young man
was handsome; but to be sure I shall never think him so any more
now; for handsome is that handsome does. A beggar wench!--"
  "Stop thy torrent of impertinence," cries Sophia, "and see whether
my father wants me at breakfast."
  Mrs. Honour then flung out of the room, muttering much to herself,
of which "Marry come up, I assure you," was all that could be
plainly distinguished.
  Whether Mrs. Honour really deserved that suspicion, of which her
mistress gave her a hint, is a matter which we cannot indulge our
reader's curiosity by resolving. We will, however, make him amends
in disclosing what passed in the mind of Sophia.
  The reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affection for
Mr. Jones had insensibly stolen into the bosom of this young lady.
That it had there grown to a pretty great height before she herself
had discovered it. When she first began to perceive its symptoms,
the sensations were so sweet and pleasing, that she had not resolution
sufficient to check or repel them; and thus she went on cherishing a
passion of which she never once considered the consequences.
  This incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She now first
perceived the weakness of which she had been guilty; and though it
caused the utmost perturbation in her mind, yet it had the effect of
other nauseous physic, and for the time expelled her distemper. Its
operation indeed was most wonderfully quick; and in the short
interval, while her maid was absent, so entirely removed all symptoms,
that when Mrs. Honour returned with a summons from her father, she was
become perfectly easy, and had brought herself to a thorough
indifference for Mr. Jones.
  The diseases of the mind do in almost every particular imitate those
of the body. For which reason, hope, that learned faculty, for whom we
have so profound a respect, will pardon us the violent hands we have
been necessitated to lay on several words and phrases, which of
right belong to them, and without which our descriptions must have
been ten unintelligible.
  Now there is no one circumstance in which the distempers of the mind
bear a more exact analogy to those which are called bodily, than
that aptness which both have to a relapse. This is plain in the
violent diseases of ambition and avarice. I have known ambition,
when cured at court by frequent disappointments (which are the only
physic for it), to break out again in a contest for foreman of the
grand jury at an assizes; and have heard of a man who had so far
conquered avarice, as to give away many a sixpence, that comforted
himself, at last, on his deathbed, by making a crafty and advantageous
bargain concerning his ensuing funeral, with an undertaker who had
married his only child.
  In the affair of love, which, out of strict conformity with the
Stoic philosophy, we shall here treat as a disease, this proneness
to relapse is no less conspicuous. Thus it happened to poor Sophia;
upon whom, the very next time she saw young Jones, all the former
symptoms returned, and from that time cold and hot fits alternately
seized her heart.
  The situation of this young lady was now very different from what it
had ever been before. That passion which had formerly been so
exquisitely delicious, became now a scorpion in her bosom. She
resisted it therefore with her utmost force, and summoned every
argument her reason (which was surprisingly strong for her age)
could suggest, to subdue and expel it. In this she so far succeeded,
that she began to hope from time and absence a perfect cure. She
resolved therefore to avoid Tom Jones as much as possible; for which
purpose she began to conceive a design of visiting her aunt, to
which she made no doubt of obtaining her father's consent.
  But Fortune, who had other designs in her head, put an immediate
stop to any such proceeding, by introducing an accident, which will be
related in the next chapter.
                                Chapter 13

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

  Mr. Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, insomuch
that his beloved dogs themselves almost gave place to her in his
affections; but as he could not prevail on himself to abandon these,
he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their company, together with that
of his daughter, by insisting on her riding a-hunting with him.
  Sophia, to whom her father's word was a law, readily complied with
his desires, though she had not the least delight in a sport, which
was of too rough and masculine a nature to suit with her
disposition. She had however another motive, beside her obedience,
to accompany the old gentleman in the chase; for by her presence she
hoped in some measure to restrain his impetuosity, and to prevent
him from so frequently exposing his neck to the utmost hazard.
  The strongest objection was that which would have formerly been an
inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with young Jones, whom
she had determined to avoid; but as the end of the hunting season
now approached, she hoped, by a short absence with her aunt, to reason
herself entirely out of her unfortunate passion; and had not any doubt
of being able to meet him in the field the subsequent season without
the least danger.
  On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from the
chase, and was arrived within a little distance from Mr. Western's
house, her horse, whose mettlesome spirit required a better rider,
fell suddenly to prancing and capering in such a manner that she was
in the most imminent peril of falling. Tom Jones, who was at a
little distance behind, saw this, and immediately galloped up to her
assistance. As soon as he came up, he leapt from his own horse, and
caught hold of hers by the bridle. The unruly beast presently reared
himself on end on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen from his
back, and Jones caught her in his arms.
  She was so affected with the fright, that she was not immediately
able to satisfy Jones, who was very sollicitous to know whether she
had received any hurt. She soon after, however, recovered her spirits,
assured him she was safe, and thanked him for the care he had taken of
her. Jones answered, "If I have preserved you, madam, I am
sufficiently repaid; for I promise you, I would have secured you
from the least harm at the expense of a much greater misfortune to
myself than I have suffered on this occasion."
  "What misfortune?" replied Sophia eagerly; "I hope you have come
to no mischief?"
  "Be not concerned, madam," answered Jones. "Heaven be praised you
have escaped so well, considering the danger you was in. If I have
broke my arm, I consider it as a trifle, in comparison of what I
feared upon your account."
  Sophia then screamed out, "Broke your arm! Heaven forbid."
  "I am afraid I have, madam," says Jones: "but I beg you will
suffer me first to take care of you. I have a right hand yet at your
service, to help you into the next field, whence we have but a very
little walk to your father's house."
  Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was
using the other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. She now
grew much paler than her fears for herself had made her before. All
her limbs were seized with a trembling, insomuch that Jones could
scarce support her; and as her thoughts were in no less agitation, she
could not refrain from giving Jones a look so full of tenderness, that
it almost argued a stronger sensation in her mind, than even gratitude
and pity united can raise in the gentlest female bosom, without the
assistance of a third more powerful passion.
  Mr. Western, who was advanced at some distance when this accident
happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the horsemen. Sophia
immediately acquainted them with what had befallen Jones, and begged
them to take care of him. Upon which Western, who had been much
alarmed by meeting his daughter's horse without its rider, and was now
overjoyed to find her unhurt, cried out, "I am glad it is no worse. If
Tom hath broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again."
  The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his house on
foot, with his daughter and ones. An impartial spectator, who had
met them on the way, would, on viewing their several countenances,
have concluded Sophia alone to have been the object of compassion: for
as to Jones, he exulted in having probably saved the life of the young
lady, at the price only of a broken bone; and Mr. Western, though he
was not unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was,
however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate escape
of his daughter.
  The generosity of Sophia's temper construed this behaviour of
Jones into great bravery; and it made a deep impression on her
heart: for certain it is, that there is no one quality which so
generally recommends men to women as this; proceeding, if we believe
the common opinion, from that natural timidity of the sex, which is,
says Mr. Osborne, "so great, that a woman is the most cowardly of
all the creatures God ever made";- a sentiment more remarkable for
its bluntness than for its truth. Aristotle, in his Politics, doth
them, I believe, more justice, when he says, "The modesty and
fortitude of men differ from those virtues in women; for the fortitude
which becomes a woman, would be cowardice in a man; and the modesty
which becomes a man, would be pertness in a woman." Nor is there,
perhaps, more of truth in the opinion of those who derive the
partiality which women are inclined to show to the brave, from this
excess of their fear. Mr. Bayle (I think, in his article of Helen)
imputes this, and with greater probability, to their violent love of
glory; for the truth of which, we have the authority of him who of all
others saw farthest into human nature, and who introduces the
heroine of his Odyssey, the great pattern of matrimonial love and
constancy, assigning the glory of her husband as the only source of
her affection towards him.*

  *The English reader will not find this in the poem; for the
sentiment is entirely left out in the translation.

  However this be, certain it is that the accident operated very
strongly on Sophia; and, indeed, after much enquiry into the matter, I
am inclined to believe, that, at this very time, the charming Sophia
made no less impression on the heart of Jones; to say truth, he had
for some time become sensible of the irresistible power of her charms.
                                Chapter 14

  The arrival of a surgeon- his operations, and a long dialogue
between Sophia and her maid

  When they arrived at Mr. Western's hall, Sophia, who had tottered
along with much difficulty, sunk down in her chair; but by the
assistance of hartshorn and water, she was prevented from fainting
away, and had pretty well recovered her spirits, when the surgeon
who was sent for to Jones appeared. Mr. Western, who imputed these
symptoms in his daughter to her fall, advised her to be presently
blooded by way of prevention. In this opinion he was seconded by the
surgeon, who gave so many reasons for bleeding, and quoted so many
cases where persons had miscarried for want of it, that the squire
became very importunate, and indeed insisted peremptorily that his
daughter should be blooded.
  Sophia soon yielded to the commands of her father, though entirely
contrary to her own inclinations, for she suspected, I believe, less
danger from the fright, than either the squire or the surgeon. She
then stretched out her beautiful arm, and the operator began to
prepare for his work.
  While the servants were busied in providing materials, the
surgeon, who imputed the backwardness which had appeared in Sophia
to her fears, began to comfort her with assurances that there was
not the least danger; for no accident, he said, could ever happen in
bleeding, but from the monstrous ignorance of pretenders to surgery,
which he pretty plainly insinuated was not at present to be
apprehended. Sophia declared she was not under the least apprehension;
adding, "If you open an artery, I promise you I'll forgive you." "Will
you?" cries Western: "D--n me, if I will. If he does thee the least
mischief, d--n me if I don't ha' the heart's blood o'un out." The
surgeon assented to bleed her upon these conditions, and then
proceeded to his operation, which he performed with as much
dexterity as he had promised; and with as much quickness: for he
took but little blood from her, saying, it was much safer to bleed
again and again, than to take away too much at once.
  Sophia, when her arm was bound up, retired: for she was not
willing (nor was it, perhaps, strictly decent) to be present at the
operation on Jones. Indeed, one objection which she had to bleeding
(though she did not make it) was the delay which it would occasion
to setting the broken bone. For Western, when Sophia was concerned,
had no consideration but for her; and as for Jones himself, he "sat
like patience on a monument smiling at grief." To say the truth,
when he saw the blood springing from the lovely arm of Sophia, he
scarce thought of what had happened to himself.
  The surgeon now ordered his patient to be stript to his shirt, and
then entirely baring the arm, he began to stretch and examine it, in
such a manner that the tortures he put him to caused Jones to make
several wry faces; which the surgeon observing, greatly wondered at,
crying, "What is the matter, sir? I am sure it is impossible I
should hurt you." And then holding forth the broken arm, he began a
long and very learned lecture of anatomy, in which simple and double
fractures were most accurately considered; and the several ways in
which Jones might have broken his arm were discussed, with proper
annotations showing how many of these would have been better, and
how many worse than the present case.
  Having at length finished his laboured harangue, with which the
audience, though had greatly raised their attention and admiration,
were not much edified, as they really understood not a single syllable
of all he had said, he proceeded to business, which he was more
expeditious in finishing, than he had been in beginning.
  Jones was then ordered into a bed, which Mr. Western compelled him
to accept at his own house, and sentence of water gruel was passed
upon him.
  Among the good company which had attended in the hall during the
bone-setting, Mrs. Honour was one; who being summoned to her
mistress as soon as it was over, and asked by her how the young
gentleman did, presently launched into extravagant praises on the
magnanimity, as she called it, of his behaviour, which, she said, "was
so charming in so pretty a creature." She then burst forth into much
warmer encomiums on the beauty of his person; enumerating many
particulars, and ending with the whiteness of his skin.
  This discourse had an effect on Sophia's countenance, which would
not perhaps have escaped the observance of the sagacious
waiting-woman, had she once looked her mistress in the face, all the
time she was speaking: but as a looking-glass, which was most
commodiously placed opposite to her, gave her an opportunity of
surveying those features, in which, of all others, she took most
delight; so she had not once removed her eyes from that amiable object
during her whole speech.
  Mrs. Honour was so intirely wrapped up in the subject on which she
exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, that she gave
her mistress time to conquer her confusion; which having done, she
smiled on her maid, and told her, "she was certainly in love with this
young fellow."- "I in love, madam!" answers she: "upon my word,
ma'am, I assure you, ma'am, upon my soul, ma'am, I am not."- "Why, if
you was," cries her mistress, "I see no reason that you should be
ashamed of it; for he is certainly a pretty fellow."- "Yes, ma'am,"
answered the other, "that he is, the most handsomest man I ever saw in
my life. Yes, to be sure, that he is, and, as your ladyship says, I
don't know why I should be ashamed of loving him, though he is my
betters. To be sure, gentlefolks are but flesh and blood no more
than us servants. Besides, as for Mr. Jones, thof Squire Allworthy
hath made a gentleman of him, he was not so good as myself by birth:
for thof I am a poor body, I am an honest person's child, and my
father and mother were married, which is more than some people can
say, as high as they hold their heads. Marry, come up! I assure you,
my dirty cousin! thof his skin be so white, and to be sure it is the
most whitest that ever was seen, I am a Christian as well as he, and
nobody can say that I am base born: my grandfather was a clergyman,*
and would have been very angry, I believe, to have thought any of
his family should have taken up with Molly Seagrim's dirty leavings."

  *This is the second person of low condition whom we have recorded in
this history to have sprung from the clergy. It is to be hoped such
instances will, in future ages, when some provision is made for the
families of the inferior clergy, appear stranger than they can be
thought at present.

  Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this
manner, from wanting sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which
the reader may probably conjecture was no very easy task; for
certainly there were some passages in her speech which were far from
being agreeable to the lady. However, she now checked the torrent,
as there seemed no end of its flowing. "I wonder," says she, "at
your assurance in daring to talk thus of one of my father's friends.
As to the wench, I order you never to mention her name to me. And with
regard to the young gentleman's birth, those who can say nothing
more to his disadvantage, may as well be silent on that head, as I
desire you will be for the future."
  "I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," answered Mrs. Honour. "I
am sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your ladyship can; and as
for abusing Squire Jones, I can call all the servants in the house
to witness, that whenever any talk hath been about bastards, I have
always taken his part; for which of you, says I to the footman,
would not be a bastard, if he could, to be made a gentleman of? And,
says I, I am sure he is a very fine gentleman; and he hath one of
the whitest hands in the world; for to be sure so he hath: and, says
I, one of the sweetest temperedest, best naturedest men in the world
he is; and, says I, all the servants and neighbours all round the
country loves him. And, to be sure, I could tell your ladyship
something, but that I am afraid it would offend you."- "What could
you tell me, Honour?" says Sophia. "Nay, ma'am, to be sure he meant
nothing by it, therefore I would not have your ladyship be
offended."- "Prithee tell me," says Sophia; "I will know it this
instant."- "Why, ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour, "he came into the room
one day last week when I was at work, and there lay your ladyship's
muff on a chair, and to be sure he put his hands into it; that very
muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday. La! says I, Mr. Jones, you
will stretch my lady's muff, and spoil it: but he still kept his hands
in it: and then he kissed it- to be sure I hardly ever saw such a
kiss in my life as he gave it."- "I suppose he did not know it was
mine," replied Sophia. "Your ladyship shall hear, ma'am. He kissed
it again and again, and said it was the prettiest muff in the world.
La! sir, says I, you have seen it a hundred times. Yes, Mrs. Honour,
cried he; but who can see anything beautiful in the presence of your
lady but herself?- Nay, that's not all neither; but I hope your
ladyship won't be offended, for to be sure he meant nothing. One
day, as your ladyship was playing on the harpsichord to my master, Mr.
Jones was sitting in the next room, and methought he looked
melancholy. La! says I, Mr. Jones, what's the matter? a penny for your
thoughts, says I. Why, hussy, says he, starting up from a dream,
what can I be thinking of, when that angel your mistress is playing?
And then squeezing me by the hand, Oh! Mrs. Honour, says he, how happy
will that man be!- and then he sighed. Upon my troth, his breath is
as sweet as a nosegay.- But to be sure he meant no harm by it. So I
hope your ladyship will not mention a word; for he gave me a crown
never to mention it, and made me swear upon a book, but I believe,
indeed, it was not the Bible."
  Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be found
out, I shall say nothing of Sophia's colour on this occasion.
"Honour," says she, "I- if you will not mention this any more to me-
nor to anybody else, I will not betray you-I mean, I will not be
angry; but I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my girl, will you give it
such liberties?"- "Nay, ma'am," answered she, "to be sure, I would
sooner cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be sure I shall
never mention a word that your ladyship would not have me."- "Why, I
would not have you mention this any more," said Sophia, "for it may
come to my father's ears, and he would be angry with Mr. Jones; though
I really believe, as you say, he meant nothing. I should be very angry
myself, if I imagined-" - "Nay, ma'am," says Honour, "I protest I
believe he meant nothing. I thought he talked as if he was out of
his senses; nay, he said he believed he was beside himself when he had
spoken the words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so too. Yes, says he,
Honour.- But I ask your ladyship's pardon; I could tear my tongue out
for offending you." "Go on," says Sophia; "you may mention anything
you have not told me before."- "Yes, Honour, says he (this was some
time afterwards, when he gave me the crown), I am neither such a
coxcomb, or such a villain, as to think of her in any other delight
but as my goddess; as such I will always worship and adore her while I
have breath.- This was all, ma'am, I will be sworn, to the best of my
remembrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I found he meant
no harm."- "Indeed, Honour," says Sophia, "I believe you have a real
affection for me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you
warning; but if you have a desire to stay with me, you shall."- "To
be sure, ma'am," answered Mrs. Honour, "I shall never desire to part
with your ladyship. To be sure, I almost cried my eyes out when you
gave me warning. It would be very ungrateful in me to desire to
leave your ladyship; because as why, I should never get so good a
place again. I am sure I would live and die with your ladyship; for,
as poor Mr. Jones said, happy is the man--"
  Here the dinner bell interrupted a conversation which had wrought
such an effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her
bleeding in the morning, than she, at the time, had apprehended she
should be. As to the present situation of her mind, I shall adhere
to a rule of Horace, by not attempting to describe it, from despair of
success. Most of my readers will suggest it easily to themselves;
and the few who cannot, would not understand the picture, or at
least would deny it to be natural, if ever so well drawn.
                                     BOOK V
         CONTAINING A PORTION OF TIME SOMEWHAT LONGER THAN HALF A YEAR
                                Chapter 1

  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.

  *Every man is to be trusted in his own art.

  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 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.

  *An assertion without proof.

  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 2

  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 3

  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 controuled 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
bad 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 4

  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 Carinoe.

     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 surprise. 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 5

  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 let towards her
bed-chamber; but when he came to the top, he, to his great surprise,
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 hei
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 6

  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 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 counter-plotting 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 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 7

  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 Esculapian 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 in 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
L500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the death of your mother,
and except one other estate of L500 a-year, and the sum of L6000,
which I have bestowed in the following manner:
  "The estate of L500 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 L1000 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 8

  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, 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 clothes 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 sickroom, 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 this 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 s sister. n
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 sickroom; 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 9

  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 toast% 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 10

  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.

  *A play on The Aeneid, IV, 124: "Dido and the Trojan prince to the
same cave shall come."

  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 utter 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 11

  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

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 sentinel over his love,
stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns brandished aloft
in air, proudly provokes the apprehended foe to combat.

  *This is an ambiguous phrase, and may mean either a forest well
cloathed with wood, or well stript of it.

  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 12

  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 our 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 excepied 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 1

  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 2

  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 Memoires pour servir a 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 ho 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 3

  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 suspicions, 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 4

  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 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 5

  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 6

  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, ifackins! 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 7

  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 8

  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 9

  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 other ways 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 peacemaking
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 practise, 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 10

  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, 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 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 t6 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 11

  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 acknowledge 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 12

  Containing love-letters, etc.

  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
benefactors, 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 farewell
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 13

  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 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 all 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 L500. 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 L500 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 14

  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 roundheads 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 1

  A comparison between the world and the stage

  The world hath 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 Drurylane.
  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 party 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 L500 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 tomorrow. 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 2

  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 3

  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 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, 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 4

  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 L3000 a year, and her fortune no more
than a bare L8000. 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 5

  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 not, 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 6

  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 7

  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 after a
fiddle, with no very agreeable partner; and surely they will assist me
in running from so detestable a partner for life."- "Oh Heaven,
ma'am! doth your la'ship know what you are saying?" cries Honour;
"would you think of walking about the country by night and
alone?"- "Not alone," answered the lady; "you have promised to bear
me company."- "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 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 8

  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 L3000 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 9

  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
mitigations; 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 10

  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, his 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
shouldest 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 L100 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 tha? 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 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 11

  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 ale-house,
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
waistcoat 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 12

  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,"
cried 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 waistcoat; 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 13

  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.

  *No man ever became extremely wicked all at once.

  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 to-night; 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 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 14

  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."

  *In the aforementioned sense.

  "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
the 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 15

  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 bedside, 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 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 1

  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,*(2) 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.
  *(2) 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 horselaugh 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 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 2

  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 L500 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 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 3

  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 corrected, 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 4

  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, 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."-*(2) "Again!" said Jones; "I fancy you are good at capping
verses."- "Excuse me, sir," said the barber, "non tanto me dignor
honore."*(3) 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."-*(4) "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,*(5) 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."

  *Make haste slowly.
  *(2) We cannot all of us do everything.
  *(3) I am not worthy of so much honor.
  *(4) Hard to share.
  *(5) Thus these tears.

  "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.

  *A play of words on lucus, a grove, and lucere, to shine: "a grove
from not being light"; thus, a non-sequitor.

  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 5

  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 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 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 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 love
good-nature and thence became amoris abundantia erga te."

  *The reader will readily understand most of what the "most learned
of barbers" says.

  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."*

  *Time, the devourer of all things.

  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 6

  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 wound; he enquired therefore 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 for 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 here
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 it 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*(2); 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 interrupt us." He did so, and then 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 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, 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 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."

  *A quote of Aeneas'speech to Dido, The Aeneid II, 3: "O queen, you
bid me call to mind the unspeakable grief."
  *(2) Power is strengthened by union.

  "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 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.

  *Let us despair of nothing while Teucer is our leader, and we are
under his auspices.

  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 7

  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 of
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 horse-racing, and cock-fighting, and married by my
landlady for certain 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 in her mouth; and as she was for the most part mistress
of the profit, so she was 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 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 "for I was one, you know."- "Yes,"
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 answered the wife: "if he had been 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 my 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 in haste or so, it doth not
become such a one as you to twitter me. He was a husband to me, 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 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 8

  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; 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 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 very same who had
brought the news of 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 rainwater,
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 mam 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 henceforwards
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 9

  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 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 lefthand 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 10

  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; 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 a house; perhaps it may be an inn. Let 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 well 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 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 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 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 nick-nacks 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, 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 ordinary 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, and 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 11

  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 L300 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, come into full possession of
till he arrived 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 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 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 some 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 the sessions, discharged for want of procecution. 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; he was in the right on't. If any person was to hanged
upon my evidence, I should never 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
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 names
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, 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
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,
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 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, fell upon Frank; and Frank, who was 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
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 12

  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 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 as 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 my 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.

  *Riches, the incentives to evil, are dug out of the earth.

  "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 rush 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 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, 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 13

  In which the foregoing story is farther continued

  "My fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a 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 for 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,' 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 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 14

  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 L50, which I delivered him, and
promising 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 town. His advices, however, were seldom authentic;
for he would swallow almost anything 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 already spent: but you will give me leave to wish
for some further opportunity of the excellent observations which a man
of your sense and knowledge of the world must 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 and impatient ears, the stranger
proceeded in the next chapter.
                                Chapter 15

  A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse between Mr. Jones
and the Man on the Hill

  "In Italy the landlords are very silent. 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 a louange are sure to lose
no opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think
they are pretty much alike 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 please to enrich the several parts of this globe; a which, as
it must give great pleasure to a contemplative beholder, so doth it
admirably the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Creator.
Indeed, to say the truth, there is but one work in his whole
creation that him any dishonour, and with that I have long since
avoided bolding any conversation."
  "You will pardon me," cries Jones; "but I have always imagined
that there is in this work you mention as great variety as in all
the rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and
climates have, I am introduced the utmost diversity into human
nature."
  "Very little indeed," answered the other: to "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 show- jostling to get by them,
holding my nose with one hand, and defending my pockets with the
other, without speaking a word to any of them, while I was pressing on
to see what I wanted to see; which, however entertaining it might be
in itself, scarce made me amends for the trouble the company gave me."
  "Did not you find some of the nations among which you travelled less
troublesome to you than others?" said Jones. "O yes," replied the
old man: "the Turks were much more tolerable to me than the
Christians; for they are men of profound taciturnity, and never
disturb a stranger with questions. Now and then indeed they bestow a
short curse upon him, or spit in his face as he walks the streets, but
then they have done with him; and a man may live an age in their
country without hearing a dozen words from them. But of all the people
I ever saw, heaven defend me from the French! With their damned
prate and civilities and doing the honour of their nation to strangers
(as they are pleased to call it), but indeed setting forth their own
vanity; they are so troublesome, that I had infinitely rather pass
my life with the Hottentots than set my foot in Paris again. They
are a nasty people, but their nastiness is mostly without; whereas, in
France, and some other nations that I won't name, it is all within,
and makes them stink much more to my reason than that of Hottentots
does to my nose.
  "Thus, sir, I have ended the history of my life; for as to all
that series of years during which I have lived retired here, it
affords no variety to entertain you, and may be almost considered as
one day. The retirement has been so compleat, that I could hardly have
enjoyed a more absolute solitude in the deserts of the Thebais than
here in the midst of this populous kingdom. As I have no estate, I
am plagued with no tenants or stewards: my annuity is paid me pretty
regularly, as indeed it ought to be; for it is much less than what I
might have expected in return for what I gave up. Visits I admit none;
and the old woman who keeps my house knows that her place entirely
depends upon her saving me all the trouble of buying the things that I
want, keeping off all sollicitation or business from me, and holding
her tongue whenever I am within hearing. As my walks are all by night,
I am pretty secure in this wild unfrequented place from meeting any
company. Some few persons I have met by chance, and sent them home
heartily frighted, as from the oddness of my dress and figure they
took me for a ghost or a hobgoblin. But what has happened to-night
shows that even here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for
without your assistance I had not only been robbed, but very
probably murdered."
  Jones thanked the stranger for the trouble he had taken in
relating his story, and then expressed some wonder how he could
possibly endure a life of such solitude; "in which," says he, "you may
well complain of the want of variety. Indeed I am astonished how you
have filled up, or rather killed, so much of your time."
  "I am not at all surprized," answered the other, "that to one
whose affections and thoughts are fixed on the world my hours should
appear to have wanted employment in this place: but there is one
single act, for which the whole life of man is infinitely too short:
what time can suffice for the contemplation and worship of that
glorious, immortal, and eternal Being, among the works of whose
stupendous creation not only this globe, but even those numberless
luminaries which we may here behold spangling all the sky, though they
should many of them be suns lighting different systems of worlds,
may possibly appear but as a few atoms opposed to the whole earth
which we inhabit? Can a man who by divine meditations is admitted as
it were into the conversation of this ineffable, incomprehensible
Majesty, think days, or years, or ages, too long for the continuance
of so ravishing an honour? Shall the trifling amusements, the
palling pleasures, the silly business of the world, roll away our
hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace of time seem sluggish to
a mind exercised in studies so high, so important, and so glorious? As
no time is sufficient, so no place is proper, 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 1

  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 book-sellers, 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,* 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.

  *--Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
   Verse is the trade of every living wight.- MR. FRANCIS

  Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world,
who always denominates 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 hive 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 the 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, 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 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 belleslettres 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 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 controls 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 make me weep, says Horace,
must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a 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 2

  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 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: we despair of making those who have seen this prospect admire
our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether 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, he was
looking at with so much attention? "Alas! sir," answered he with a
sigh, was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good
heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of
land be between me and my own home!"- "Ay, ay, young gentleman,"
cries the other, "and your sighing, from what you love better 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
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 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 a vast and extensive wood. Here they 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 conveniences. 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 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 3

  The arrival of Mr. Jones with his lady at 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,
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 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 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 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 adherred 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 assulted 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 cheekbones 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
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 4

  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 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 5

  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 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 simile, 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 of
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
aerial 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 surprise 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 conquerer
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 6

  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 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
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; she gave me a guinea for the use of my cloaths."- "A very
good lady indeed!" cries the "and if you had not been a little
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 You must be meddling
with what did not belong to you, and throw in your fool's
discourse."- "Well, well," answered he; past cannot be mended, so
there's an end of the matter." "Yes," cries she, "for this 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 done." The landlady was
going to reply, was prevented by the peace-making 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 truth begets hatred.

  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 misfortunes in the
world, I write gentleman after my name; and, as poor and simple 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. "Amicis 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 wheather, 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 shape 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 it 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."*(2) - "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.

  *Alas! I am not what I was.
  *(2) This word, which the serjeant unhappily mistook for an effront,
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 7

  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, 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 seaports in Wales, and thence might
make his escape abroad. In all which expedition Mrs. Waters declared
she would bear him company; and for which was able to furnish him with
money, a very material article to Mr. Northerton, she having then in
her pocket three banknotes to the amount of L90, 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 1

  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--*

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.

  *Whose vices are not allayed with a single virtue.

  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 2

  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 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 deceny 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 3

  A dialogue between the landlady and Susan the chambermaid, 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 casel 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 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 clothes
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 4

  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 guests, 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."

  *Deceit.

  "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; 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 5

  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 it 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 menfolks, 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 believer, 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 curisity, 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 6

  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 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 horseflesh, 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 heads.
  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 7

  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 tobe 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 8

  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
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 9

  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 downstairs, 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 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 1

  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 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 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 is 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 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; 'tis 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 authorized 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 2

  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,
post-boys, 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 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 maidservants, 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 round-about 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 tenderhearted. 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 3

  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
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 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 4

  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, degage, 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 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 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," 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 chanting 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 head 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
that 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 5

  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 L150. 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 assigned any such reason. And he excused 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 odius 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 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 6

  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 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, I 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 7

  In which Mrs. Fitzpatrick concludes her history

  While Mrs. Honour, in pursuance of 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 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--n'd!' 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 procurred 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 apologise to you for its
dulness."
  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 8

  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 Naiades; 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 Naiades
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 punchbowl."
  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 cries,
"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 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 coachdoor, '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 abovestairs, 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 knighterrant 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 sometime 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 9

  The morning introduced in some pretty writing. A stage-coach. 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 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 10

  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 chuse to be her guardian as a person of quality, of
fortune, of honour; and who, besides a gallant disposition which
inclines men to knighterrantry, 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 care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous
a situation she stood; adding, she hoped some method would be found of
reconciling her to her husband. "You must remember, my dear," says
she, "the maxim which my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us
both; that whenever the matrimonial alliance is broke, and war
declared between husband and wife, she can hardly make a
disadvantageous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my
aunt's very words, and she hath had a great deal of experience in
the world." Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile,
"Never fear me, child, take care of yourself; for you are younger than
I. I will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear Sophy, let me
give you one piece of advice; leave the character of Graveairs in
the country, for, believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in
this town."
  Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady
Bellaston, where she found a most hearty, as well as a most polite,
welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her when she had seen her
formerly with her aunt Western. She was indeed extremely glad to see
her, and was no sooner acquainted with the reasons which induced her
to leave the squire and to fly to London, than she highly applauded
her sense and resolution; and after expressing the highest
satisfaction in the opinion which Sophia had declared she
entertained of her ladyship, by chusing her house for an asylum, she
promised her all the protection which it was in her power to give.
  As we have now brought Sophia into safe hands, the reader will, I
apprehend, be contented to deposit her there a while, and to look a
little after other personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we
have left long enough to do penance for his past offences, which, as
is the nature of vice, brought sufficient punishment upon him
themselves.
                                    BOOK XII
              CONTAINING THE SAME INDIVIDUAL TIME WITH THE FORMER
                                Chapter 1

  Showing what is to be deemed plagiarism in a modern author, and what
is to be considered as lawful prize

  The learned reader must have observed that in the course of this
mighty work, I have often translated passages out of the best
antient authors, without quoting the original, or without taking the
least notice of the book from whence they were borrowed.
  This conduct in writing is placed in a very proper light by the
ingenious Abbe Bannier, in his preface to his Mythology, a work
great erudition and of equal judgment. "It will be easy," says he,
"for the reader to observe that I have frequently had greater regard
to him than to my own reputation: for an author certainly pays him a
considerable compliment, when, for his sake, he suppresses learned
quotations that come in his way, and which would have cost him but the
bare trouble of transcribing."
  To fill up a work with these scraps may, indeed, be considered as
a downright cheat on the learned world, who are by such means
imposed upon to buy a second time, in fragments and by retail, what
they have already in gross, if not in their memories, upon their
shelves; and it is still more cruel upon the illiterate, who are drawn
in to pay for what is of no manner of use to them. A writer who
intermixes great quantity of Greek and Latin with his works, deals
by the ladies and fine gentlemen in the same paultry manner with which
they are treated by the auctioneers, who often endeavour so to
confound and mix up their lots, that, in order to purchase the
commodity you want, you are obliged at the same time to purchase
that which will do you no service.
  And yet, as there is no conduct so fair and disinterested, but
that it may be misunderstood by ignorance, and misrepresented by
malice, I have been sometimes tempted to preserve my own reputation at
the expense of my reader, and to transcribe the original, or at
least to quote chapter and verse, whenever I have made use either of
the thought or expression of another. I am, indeed, in some doubt that
I have often suffered by the contrary method; and that, by suppressing
the original author's name, I have been rather suspected of plagiarism
than reputed to act from the amiable motive assigned by that justly
celebrated Frenchman.
  Now, to obviate all such imputations for the future, I do here
confess and justify the fact. The antients may be considered as a rich
common, where every person who hath the smallest tenement in Parnassus
hath a free right to fatten his muse. Or, to place it in a clear
light, we moderns are to the antients what the poor are to the rich.
By the poor here I mean that large and venerable body which, in
English, we call the mob. Now, whoever hath had the honour to be
admitted to any degree of intimacy with this mob, must well know
that it is one of their established maxims to plunder and pillage
their rich neighbours without any reluctance; and that this is held to
be neither sin nor shame among them. And so constantly do they abide
and act by this maxim, that, in every parish almost in the kingdom,
there is a kind of confederacy ever carrying on against a certain
person of opulence called the squire, whose property is considered
as free booty by all his poor neighbours; who, as they conclude that
there is no manner of guilt in such depredations, look upon it as a
point of honour and moral obligation to conceal, and to preserve
each other from punishment on all such occasions.
  In like manner are the antients, such as Homer, Virgil, Horace,
Cicero, and the rest, to be esteemed among us writers, as so many
wealthy squires, from whom we, the poor of Parnassus, claim an
immemorial custom of taking whatever we can come at. This liberty I
demand, and this I am as ready to allow again to my poor neighbours in
their turn. All I profess, and all I require of my brethren, is to
maintain the same strict honesty among ourselves which the mob show to
one another. To steal from one another, is indeed highly criminal
and indecent; for this may be strictly stiled defrauding the poor
(sometimes perhaps those who are poorer than ourselves), or, to set it
under the most opprobrious colours, robbing the spittal.
  Since, therefore, upon the strictest examination, my own
conscience cannot lay any such pitiful theft to my charge, I am
contented to plead guilty to the former accusation; nor shall I ever
scruple to take to myself any passage which I shall find in an antient
author to my purpose, without setting down the name of the author from
whence it was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a property in all such
sentiments the moment they are transcribed into my writings, and I
expect all readers henceforwards to regard them as purely and entirely
my own. This claim, however, I desire to be allowed me only on
condition that I preserve strict honesty towards my poor brethren,
from whom, if ever I borrow any of that little of which they are
possessed, I shall never fail to put their mark upon it, that it may
be at all times ready to be restored to the right owner.
  The omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr. Moore, who,
having formerly borrowed some lines of Pope and company, took the
liberty to transcribe six of them into his play of the Rival Modes.
Mr. Pope, however, very luckily found them in the said play, and,
laying violent hands on his own property, transferred it back again
into his own works; and, for a further punishment, imprisoned the said
Moore in the loathsome dungeon of the Dunciad, where his unhappy
memory now remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper
punishment for such his unjust dealings in the poetical trade.
                                Chapter 2

  In which, though the squire doth not find his daughter, something is
found which puts an end to his pursuit

  The history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we shall first
trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he will soon arrive
at an end of his journey, we shall have then full leisure to attend
our heroe.
  The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire
departed from the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued his
daughter. The hostler having informed him that she had crossed the
Severn, he likewise past that river with his equipage, and rode full
speed, vowing the utmost vengeance against poor Sophia, if he should
but overtake her.
  He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he
called a short council of war, in which, after hearing different
opinions, he at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, and
struck directly into the Worcester road.
  In this road he proceeded about two miles, when be began to bemoan
himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, "What a pity is it! Sure
never was so unlucky a dog as myself!" And then burst forth a volley
of oaths and execrations.
  The parson attempted to administer comfort to him on this
occasion. "Sorrow not, sir," says he, "like those without hope. How be
it we have not yet been able to overtake young madam, we may account
it some good fortune that we have hitherto traced her course aright.
Peradventure she will soon be fatigated with her journey, and will
tarry in some inn, in order to renovate her corporeal functions; and
in that case, in all moral certainty, you will very briefly be
compos voti."
  "Pogh! d--n the slut!" answered the squire, "I am lamenting the
loss of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded hard to lose
one of the best scenting days, in all appearance, which hath been this
season, and especially after so long a frost."
  Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compassion in her
wantonest tricks, might not take pity of the squire; and, as she had
determined not to let him overtake his daughter, might not resolve
to make him amends some other way, I will not assert; but he had
hardly uttered the words just before commemorated, and two or three
oaths at their heels, when a pack of hounds began to open their
melodious throats at a small distance from them, which the squire's
horse and his rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their
cars, and the squire, crying, "She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if
she is not gone!" instantly clapped spurs to the beast, who little
needed it, having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now
the whole company, crossing into a corn-field, rode directly towards
the hounds, with much hallowing and whooping, while the poor parson,
blessing himself, brought up the rear.
  Thus fable reports, that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at the
desire of a passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine
woman, no sooner perceived a mouse, than, mindful of her former sport,
and still retaining her pristine nature, she leaped from the bed of
her husband to pursue the little animal.
  What are we to understand by this? Not that the bride was displeased
with the embraces of her amorous bridegroom; for, though some have
remarked that cats are subject to ingratitude, yet women and cats
too will be pleased and purr on certain occasions. The truth is, as
the sagacious Sir Roger L'Estrange observes, in his deep
reflections, that, "if we shut Nature out at the door, she will come
in at the window; and that puss, though a madam, will be a mouser
still." In the same manner we are not to arraign the squire of any
want of love for his daughter; for in reality he had a great deal;
we are only to consider that he was a squire and a sportsman, and then
we may apply the fable to him, and the judicious reflections likewise.
  The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire pursued
over hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation and alacrity,
and with all his usual pleasure; nor did the thoughts of Sophia ever
once intrude themselves to allay the satisfaction he enjoyed in the
chace, which, he said, was one of the finest he ever saw, and which he
swore was very well worth going fifty miles for. As the squire
forgot his daughter, the servants, we may easily believe, forgot their
mistress; and the parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in
Latin, to himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts
of the young lady, and, jogging on at a distance behind, began to
meditate a portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday.
  The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with the
arrival of his brother squire and sportsman: for all men approve merit
in their own way, and no man was more expert in the field than Mr.
Western, nor did any other better know how to encourage the dogs
with his voice, and to animate the hunt with his holla.
  Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged to attend
to any manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of humanity:
for, if any of them meet with an accident by tumbling into a ditch, or
into a river, the rest pass on regardless, and generally leave him
to his fate: during this time, therefore, the two squires, though
often close to each other, interchanged not a single word. The
master of the hunt, however, often saw and approved the great judgment
of the stranger in drawing the dogs when they were at a fault, and
hence conceived a very high opinion of his understanding, as the
number of his attendants inspired no small reverence to his quality.
As soon, therefore, as the sport was ended by the death of the
little animal which had occasioned it, the two squires met, and in all
squire-like greeting saluted each other.
  The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may perhaps
relate in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but as it nowise
concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves to give it a
place here. It concluded with a second chace, and that with an
invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was followed by a hearty
bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty a nap on the part of Squire
Western.
  Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or for
parson Supple, at his cups that evening; for which the violent fatigue
of mind as well as body that he had undergone, may very well
account, without the least derogation from his honour. He was
indeed, according to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for before he
had swallowed the third bottle, he became so entirely overpowered,
that though he was not carried off to bed till long after, the
parson considered him as absent, and having acquainted the other
squire with all relating to Sophia, he obtained his promise of
seconding those arguments which he intended to urge the next morning
for Mr. Western's return.
  No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his evening,
and began to call for his morning draught, and to summon his horses in
order to renew his pursuit, than Mr. Supple began his dissuasives,
which the host so strongly seconded, that they at length prevailed,
and Mr. Western agreed to return home; being principally moved by
one argument, viz., that he knew not which way to go, and might
probably be riding farther from his daughter instead of towards her.
He then took leave of his brother sportsman, and expressing great
joy that the frost was broken (which might perhaps be no small
motive to his hastening home), set forwards, or rather backwards,
for Somersetshire; but not before he had first despatched part of
his retinue in quest of his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a
volley of the most bitter execrations which he could invent.
                                Chapter 3

  The departure of Jones from Upton, with what passed between him
and Partridge on the road

  At length we are once more come to our heroe; and, to say truth,
we have been obliged to part with him so long, that, considering the
condition in which we left him, I apprehend many of our readers have
concluded we intended to abandon him for ever; he being at present
in that situation in which prudent people usually desist from
enquiring any farther after their friends, lest they should be shocked
by hearing such friends had hanged themselves.
  But, in reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly
say, neither have we all the vices of a prudent character; and
though it is not easy to conceive circumstances much more miserable
than those of poor Jones at present, we shall return to him, and
attend upon him with the same diligence as if he was wantoning in
the brightest beams of fortune.
  Mr. Jones, then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a few
minutes after the departure of Squire Western, and pursued the same
road on foot, for the hostler told them that no horses were by any
means to be at that time procured at Upton. On they marched with heavy
hearts; for though their disquiet proceeded from very different
reasons, yet displeased they were both; and if Jones sighed
bitterly, Partridge grunted altogether as sadly at every step.
  When they came to the cross-roads where the squire had stopt to take
counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and turning to Partridge, asked his
opinion which track they should pursue. "Ah, sir," answered Partridge,
"I wish your honour would follow my advice." "Why should I not?"
replied Jones; "for it is now indifferent to me whither I go, or
what becomes of me." "My advice, then," said Partridge, "is that you
immediately face about and return home; for who that hath such a
home to return to as your honour, would travel thus about the
country like a vagabond? I ask pardon, sed vox ea sola reperta est."
  "Alas!" cries Jones, "I have no home to return to;- but if my
friend, my father, would receive me, could I bear the country from
which Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia! Cruel! No; let me blame myself!-
No; let me blame thee. D--nation seize thee- fool- blockhead! thou
hast undone me, and I will tear thy soul from thy body."- At which
words he laid violent hands on the collar of poor Partridge, and shook
him more heartily than an ague-fit, or his own fears had ever done
before.
  Partridge fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy,
vowing he had meant no harm- when Jones, after staring wildly on him
for a moment, quitted his hold, and discharged a rage on himself,
that, had it fallen on the other, would certainly have put an end to
his being, which indeed the very apprehension of it had almost
effected.
  We would bestow some pains here in minutely describing all the mad
pranks which Jones played on this occasion, could we be well assured
that the reader would take the same pains in perusing them; but as
we are apprehensive that, after all the labour which we should
employ in painting this scene, the said reader would be very apt to
skip it entirely over, we have saved ourselves that trouble. To say
the truth, we have, from this reason alone, often done great
violence to the luxuriance of our genius, and have left many excellent
descriptions out of our work, which would otherwise have been in it.
And this suspicion, to be honest, arises, as is generally the case,
from our own wicked heart; for we have, ourselves, been very often
most horridly given to jumping, as we have run through the pages of
voluminous historians.
  Suffice it then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the
part of a madman for many minutes, came, by degrees, to himself; which
no sooner happened, than, turning to Partridge, he very earnestly
begged his pardon for the attack he had made on him in the violence of
his passion; but concluded, by desiring him never to mention his
return again; for he resolved never to see that country any more.
  Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the
injunction now laid upon him. And then Jones very briskly cried out,
"Since it is absolutely impossible for me to pursue any farther the
steps of my angel- I will pursue those of glory. Come on, my brave
lad, now for the army:- it is a glorious cause, and I would willingly
sacrifice my life in it, even though it was worth my preserving."
And so saying, he immediately struck into the different road from that
which the squire had taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very same
through which Sophia had before passed.
  Our travellers now marched a full mile, without speaking a
syllable to each other, though Jones, indeed, muttered many things
to himself. As to Partridge, he was profoundly silent; for he was not,
perhaps, perfectly recovered from his former fright; besides, he had
apprehensions of provoking his friend to a second fit of wrath,
especially as he now began to entertain a conceit, which may not,
perhaps, create any great wonder in the reader. In short, he began now
to suspect that Jones was absolutely out of his senses.
  At length, Jones, being weary of soliloquy, addressed himself to his
companion, and blamed him for his taciturnity; for which the poor
man very honestly accounted, from his fear of giving offence. And
now this fear being pretty well removed, by the most absolute promises
of indemnity, Partridge again took the bridle from his tongue;
which, perhaps, rejoiced no less at regaining its liberty, than a
young colt, when the bridle is slipt from his neck, and he is turned
loose into the pastures.
  As Partridge was inhibited from that topic which would have first
suggested itself, he fell upon that which was next uppermost in his
mind, namely, the Man of the Hill. "Certainly, sir," says he, "that
could never be a man, who dresses himself and lives after such a
strange manner, and so unlike other folks. Besides, his diet, as the
old woman told me, is chiefly upon herbs, which is a fitter food for a
horse than a Christian: nay, landlord at Upton says that the
neighbours thereabouts have very fearful notions about him. It runs
strangely in my head that it must have been some spirit, who, perhaps,
might be sent to forewarn us: and who knows but all that matter
which he told us, of his going to fight, and of his being taken
prisoner, and of the great danger he was in of being hanged, might
be intended as a warning to us, considering what we are going about?
besides, I dreamt of nothing all last night but of fighting; and
methought the blood ran out of my nose, as liquor out of a tap.
Indeed, sir, infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem."
  "Thy story, Partridge," answered Jones, "is almost as ill applied as
thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to happen than death to men
who go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in it-and what then?"
"What then?" replied Partridge; "why then there is an end of us, is
there not? when I am gone, all is over with me. What matters the cause
to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I shall never enjoy
any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of bells, and
bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end
of poor Partridge." "And an end of poor Partridge," cries Jones,
"there must be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat
you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into
a coward.

     'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:
     Mors et fugacem persequitur virum,
       Nec parcit imbellis juventae
         Poplitibus, timidoque tergo.'"

  "I wish you would construe them," cries Partridge; "for Horace is
a hard author, and I cannot understand as you repeat them."
  "I will repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my
own," said Jones; "for I am but an indifferent poet:

     Who would not die in his dear country's cause?
     Since, if base fear his dastard step withdraws,
     From death he cannot fly:- One common grave
     Receives, at last, the coward and the brave."

  "That's very certain," cries Partridge. "Ay, sure, Mors omnibus
communis: but there is a great difference between dying in one's bed a
great many years hence, like a good Christian, with all our friends
crying about us, and being shot to-day or to-morrow, like a mad dog;
or, perhaps, hacked in twenty pieces with the sword, and that too
before we have repented of all our sins. O Lord, have mercy upon us!
to be sure the soldiers are a wicked kind of people. I never loved
to have anything to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever
to look upon them as Christians. There is nothing but cursing and
swearing among them. I wish your honour would repent: I heartily
wish you would repent before it is too late; and not think of going
among them.- Evil communication corrupts good manners. That is my
principal reason. For as for that matter, I am no more afraid than
another man, not I; as to matter of that. I know all human flesh
must die; but yet a man may live many years, for all that. Why, I am a
middle-aged man now, and yet I may live a great number of years. I
have read of several who have lived to be above a hundred, and some
a great deal above a hundred. Not that I hope, I mean that I promise
myself, to live to any such age as that, neither.- But if it be only
to eighty or ninety. Heaven be praised, that is a great ways off yet;
and I am not afraid of dying then, no more than another man; but,
surely, to attempt death before a man's time is come seems to me
downright wickedness and presumption. Besides, if it was to do any
good indeed; but, let the cause be what it will, what mighty matter of
good can two people do? and, for my part, I understand nothing of
it. I never fired off a gun above ten minutes in my life; and then
it was not charged with bullets. And for the sword, I never learned to
fence, and know nothing of the matter. And then there are those
cannons, which certainly it must be thought the highest presumption to
go in the way of; and nobody but a madman- I ask pardon; upon my soul
I meant no harm; I beg I may not throw your honor into another
passion."
  "Be under no apprehension, Partridge," cries Jones; "I am now so
well convinced of thy cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on
any account." "Your honour," answered he, "may call me coward, or
anything else you please. If loving to sleep in a whole skin makes a
man a coward, non immunes ab illis malis sumus.* I never read in my
grammar that a man can't be a good man without fighting. Vir bonus est
quis? Qui consulta patrum, qui leges juraque servat.*(2) Not a word of
fighting; and I am sure the scripture is so much against it, that a
man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds
Christian blood."

  *We are not free from these ills.
  *(2) Who is the good man? He who obeys the decrees of the conscript
fathers and the laws.
                                Chapter 4

  The adventure of a beggar-man

  Just as Partridge had uttered that good and pious doctrine, with
which the last chapter concluded, they arrived at another cross-way,
when a lame fellow in rags asked them for alms; upon which Partridge
gave him a severe rebuke, saying, "Every parish ought to keep their
own poor." Jones then fell a-laughing, and asked Partridge, "if he was
not ashamed, with so much charity in his mouth, to have no charity
in his heart. Your religion," says he, "serves you only for an
excuse for your faults, but is no incentive to your virtue. Can any
man who is really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his
brethren in such a miserable condition?" And at the same time, putting
his hand in his pocket, he gave the poor object a shilling.
  "Master," cries the fellow, after thanking him, "I have a curious
thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles off, if your
worship will please to buy it. I should not venture to pull it out
to every one; but, as you are so good a gentleman, and so kind to
the poor, you won't suspect a man of being a thief only because he
is poor." He then pulled out a little gilt pocketbook, and delivered
it into the hands of Jones.
  Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) saw
in the first page the words Sophia Western, written by her own fair
hand. He no sooner read the name than he prest it close to his lips;
nor could he avoid falling into some very frantic raptures,
notwithstanding his company; but, perhaps, these very raptures made
him forget he was not alone.
  While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had an
excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth, or as if he had really
been a book-worm, or an author who had nothing to cat but his own
works, a piece of paper fell from its leaves to the ground, which
Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who presently perceived
it to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very bill which Western
had given his daughter the night before her departure; and a Jew would
have jumped to purchase it at five shillings less than L100.
  The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now
proclaimed aloud; and so did (though with somewhat a different aspect)
those of the poor fellow who had found the book; and who (I hope
from a principle of honesty) had never opened it: but we should not
deal honestly by the reader if we omitted to inform him of a
circumstance which may be here a little material, viz., that the
fellow could not read.
  Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from the
finding the book, was affected with a mixture of concern at this new
discovery; for his imagination instantly suggested to him, that the
owner of the bill might possibly want it, before he should be able
to convey it to her. He then acquainted the finder, that he knew the
lady to whom the book belonged, and would endeavour to find her out as
soon as possible, and return it her.
  The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs. Western to her niece;
it had cost five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought of a
celebrated toyman; but the real value of the silver which it contained
in its clasp, was about eighteen-pence; and that price the said
toyman, as it was altogether as good as when it first issued from
his shop, would now have given for it. A prudent person would,
however, have taken proper advantage of the ignorance of this
fellow, and would not have offered more than a shilling, or perhaps
sixpence, for it; nay, some perhaps would have given nothing, and left
the fellow to his action of trover, which some learned serjeants may
doubt whether he could, under these circumstances, have maintained.
  Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside of
generosity, and may perhaps not very unjustly have been suspected of
extravagance, without any hesitation gave a guinea in exchange for the
book. The poor man, who had not for a long time before been
possessed of so much treasure, gave Mr. Jones a thousand thanks, and
discovered little less of transport in his muscles than Jones had
before shown, when he had first read the name of Sophia Western.
  The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the place
where he had found the pocket-book. Together, therefore, they
proceeded directly thither; but not so fast as Mr. Jones desired;
for his guide unfortunately happened to be lame, and could not
possibly travel faster than a mile an hour. As this place,
therefore, was at above three miles' distance, though the fellow had
said otherwise, the reader need not be acquainted how long they were
in walking it.
  Jones opened the book a hundred times during their walk, kissed it
as often, talked much to himself, and very little to his companions.
At all which the guide exprest some signs of astonishment to
Partridge; who more than once shook his head, and cryed, Poor
gentleman! orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.*

  *We should pray for a sound mind in a sound body.

  At length they arrived at the very spot where Sophia unhappily dropt
the pocket-book, and where the fellow had as happily found it. Here
Jones offered to take leave of his guide, and to improve his pace; but
the fellow, in whom that violent surprize and joy which the first
receipt of the guinea had occasioned was now considerably abated,
and who had now had sufficient time to recollect himself, put on a
discontented look, and, scratching his head, said, "He hoped his
worship would give him something more. Your worship," said he,
"will, I hope, take it into your consideration that if I had not
been honest I might have kept the whole." And, indeed, this the reader
must confess to have been true. "If the paper there," said he, "be
worth L100, I am sure the finding it deserves more than a guinea.
Besides, suppose your worship should never see the lady, nor give it
her- and, though your worship looks and talks very much like a
gentleman, yet I have only your worship's bare word; and, certainly,
if the right owner ben't to be found, it all belongs to the first
finder. I hope your worship will consider of all these matters: I am
but a poor man, and therefore don't desire to have all; but it is
but reasonable I should have my share. Your worship looks like a
good man, and, I hope, will consider my honesty; for I might have kept
every farthing, and nobody ever the wiser." "I promise thee, upon my
honour," cries Jones, "that I know the right owner, and will restore
it her." "Nay, your worship," answered the fellow, "may do as you
please as to that; if you will but give me my share, that is, one-half
of the money, your honour may keep the rest yourself if you please;"
and concluded with swearing, by a very vehement oath, "that he would
never mention a syllable of it to any man living."
  "Lookee, friend," cries Jones, "the right owner shall certainly have
again all that she lost; and as for any farther gratuity, I really
cannot give it you at present; but let me know your name, and where
you live, and it is more than possible you may hereafter have
further reason to rejoice at this morning's adventure."
  "I don't know what you mean by venture," cries the fellow; "it seems
I must venture whether you will return the lady her money or no; but I
hope your worship will consider-" "Come, come," said Partridge,
"tell his honour your name, and where you may be found; I warrant
you will never repent having the money into his hands." The fellow,
seeing no hopes of recovering the possession of the pocket-book, at
last complied in giving in his name and place of abode, which Jones
writ upon a piece of paper with the pencil of Sophia; and then,
placing the paper in the same page where she had writ her name, he
cries out, "There, friend, you are the happiest man alive; I have
joined your name to that of an angel." "I don't know anything about
angels," answered the fellow, "but I wish you would give me a little
more money, or else return me the pocket-book." Partridge now waxed
wroth: he called the poor cripple by several vile and opprobrious
names, and was absolutely proceeding to beat him, but Jones would
not suffer any such thing: and now, telling the fellow he would
certainly find some opportunity of serving him, Mr. Jones departed
as fast as his heels would carry him; and Partridge, into whom the
thoughts of the hundred pound had infused new spirits, followed his
leader; while the man, who was obliged to stay behind, fell to cursing
them both, as well as his parents; "for had they," says he, "sent me
to charity-school to learn to write and read and cast accounts, I
should have known the value of these matters as well as other people."
                                Chapter 5

  Containing more adventures which Mr. Jones and his companion met
on the road

  Our travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little time or
breath for conversation; Jones meditating all the way on Sophia, and
Partridge on the bank-bill, which, though it gave him some pleasure,
caused him at the same time to repine at fortune, which, in all his
walks, had never given him such an opportunity of showing his honesty.
They had proceeded above three miles, when Partridge, being unable any
longer to keep up with Jones, called to him, and hima him a little
to slacken his pace: with this he was the more ready to comply, as
he had for some time lost the footsteps of the horses, which the
thaw had enabled him to trace for several miles, and he was now upon a
wide common, where were several roads.
  He here therefore stopt to consider which of these roads he should
pursue; when on a sudden they heard the noise of a drum, that seemed
at no great distance. This sound presently alarmed the fears of
Partridge, and he cried out, "Lord have mercy upon us all; they are
certainly a coming!" "Who is coming?" cries Jones; for fear had long
since given place to softer ideas in his mind; and since his adventure
with the lame man, he had been totally intent on pursuing Sophia,
without entertaining one thought of an enemy. "Who?" cries
Partridge, "why, the rebels: but why should I call them rebels? they
may be very honest gentlemen, for anything I know to the contrary. The
devil take him that affronts them, I say; I am sure, if they have
nothing to say to me, I will have nothing to say to them, but in a
civil way. For Heaven's sake, sir, don't affront them if they should
come, and perhaps they may do us no harm; but would it not be the
wiser way to creep into some of yonder bushes, till they are gone
by? What can two unarmed men do perhaps against fifty thousand?
Certainly nobody but a madman; I hope your honour is not offended; but
certainly no man who hath mens sana in corpore sano--" Here Jones
interrupted this torrent of eloquence, fear had inspired, saying,
"That by the drum he perceived they were near some town." He then made
directly towards the place whence the noise proceeded, bidding
Partridge "take courage, for that he would lead him into no danger;
and adding, "it was impossible the rebels should be so near."
  Partridge was a little comforted with this last assurance; and
though he would more gladly have gone the contrary way, he followed
his leader, his heart beating time, but not after the manner of
heroes, to the music of the drum, which ceased not till they had
traversed the common, and were come into a narrow lane.
  And now Partridge, who kept even pace with Jones, discovered
something painted flying in the air, a very few yards before him,
which fancying to be the colours of the enemy, he fell a bellowing, "O
Lord, sir, here they are; there is the crown and coffin. Oh Lord! I
never saw anything so terrible; and we are within gun-shot of them
already."
  Jones no sooner looked up, than he plainly perceived what it was
which Partridge had thus mistaken. "Partridge," says he, "I fancy
you will be able to engage this whole army yourself; for by the
colours I guess what the drum was which we heard before, and which
beats up for recruits to a puppet-show."
  "A puppet-show!" answered Partridge, with most eager transport. "And
is it really no more than that? I love a puppet-show of all the
pastimes upon earth. Do, good sir, let us tarry and see it. Besides, I
am quite famished to death; for it is now almost dark, and I have
not eat a morsel since three o'clock in the morning."
  They now arrived at an inn, or indeed an ale-house, where Jones
was prevailed upon to stop, the rather as he had no longer any
assurance of being in the road he desired. They walked both directly
into the kitchen, where Jones began to inquire if no ladies had passed
that way in the morning, and Partridge as eagerly examined into the
state of their provisions; and indeed his inquiry met with the
better success; for Jones could not hear news of Sophia; but
Partridge, to his great satisfaction found good reason to expect
very shortly the agreeable sight of an excellent smoaking dish of eggs
and bacon.
  In strong and healthy constitutions love hath a very different
effect from what it causes in the puny part of the species. In the
latter it generally destroys all that appetite which tends towards the
conservation of the individual; but in the former, though it often
induces forgetfulness, and a neglect of food, as well as of everything
else; yet place a good piece of well-powdered buttock before a
hungry lover, and he seldom fails very handsomely to play his part.
Thus it happened in the present case; for though Jones perhaps
wanted a prompter, and might have travelled much farther, had he
been alone, with an empty stomach; yet no sooner did he sit down to
the bacon and eggs, than he fell to as heartily and voraciously as
Partridge himself.
  Before our travellers had finished their dinner, night came on,
and as the moon was now past the full, it was extremely dark.
Partridge therefore prevailed on Jones to stay and see the
puppet-show, which was just going to begin, and to which they were
very eagerly invited by the master of the said show, who declared
that his figures were the finest which the world had ever produced,
and that they had given great satisfaction to all the quality in
every town in England.
  The puppet-show was performed with great regularity and decency.
It was called the fine and serious part of the Provoked Husband; and
it was indeed a very grave and solemn entertainment, without any low
wit, or humour, or jests; or, to do it no more than justice, without
anything which could provoke a laugh. The audience were all highly
pleased. A grave matron told the master she would bring her two
daughters the next night, as he did not show any stuff; and an
attorney's clerk and an exciseman both declared, that the characters
of Lord and Lady Townley were well preserved, and highly in nature.
Partridge likewise concurred with this opinion.
  The master was so highly elated with these encomiums, that he
could not refrain from adding some more of his own. He said, "The
present age was not improved in anything so much as in their
puppet-shows; which, by throwing out Punch and his wife Joan, and such
idle trumpery, were at last brought to be a rational entertainment.
I remember," said he, "when I first took to the business, there was
a great deal of low stuff that did very well to make folks laugh;
but was never calculated to improve the morals of young people,
which certainly ought to be principally aimed at in every puppet-show:
for why may not good and instructive lessons be conveyed this way,
as well as any other? My figures are as big as the life, and they
represent the life in every particular; and I question not but
people rise from my little drama as much improved as they do from
the great." "I would by no means degrade the ingenuity of your
profession," answered Jones, "but I should have been glad to have seen
my old acquaintance, master Punch, for all that; and so far from
improving, I think, by leaving out him and his merry wife Joan, you
have spoiled your puppet-show."
  The dancer of wires conceived an immediate and high contempt for
Jones, from these words. And with much disdain in his countenance,
he replied, "Very probably, sir, that may be your opinion; but I
have the satisfaction to know the best judges differ from you, and
it is impossible to please every taste. I confess, indeed, some of the
quality at Bath, two or three years ago, wanted mightily to bring
Punch again upon the stage. I believe I lost some money for not
agreeing to it; but let others do as they will; a little matter
shall never bribe me to degrade my own profession, nor will I ever
willingly consent to the spoiling the decency and regularity of my
stage, by introducing any such low stuff upon it."
  "Right, friend," cries the clerk, "you are very right. Always
avoid what is low. There are several of my acquaintance in London, who
are resolved to drive everything which is low from the stage."
"Nothing can be more proper," cries the exciseman, pulling his pipe
from his mouth. "I remember," added he, "(for I then lived with my
lord) I was in the footman's gallery, the night when this play of
the Provoked Husband was acted first. There was a great deal of low
stuff in it about a country gentleman come up to town to stand for
parliament-man; and there they brought a parcel of his servants upon
the stage, his coachman I remember particularly; but the gentlemen
in our gallery could not bear anything so low, and they damned it. I
observe, friend you have left all that matter out, and you are to be
commended for it."
  "Nay, gentlemen," cries Jones, "I can never maintain my opinion
against so many; indeed, if the generality of his audience dislike
him, the learned gentleman who conducts the show might have done
very right in dismissing Punch from his service."
  The master of the show then began a second harangue, and said much
of the great force of example, and how much the inferior part of
mankind would be deterred from vice, by observing how odious it was in
their superiors; when he was unluckily interrupted by an incident,
which, though perhaps we might have omitted it at another time, we
cannot help relating at present, but not in this chapter.
                                Chapter 6

  From which it may be inferred that the best things are liable to
be misunderstood and misinterpreted

  A violent uproar now arise in the entry, where my landlady was
well cuffing her maid both with her fist and tongue. She had indeed
missed the wench from her employment, and, after a little search,
had found her on the puppet-show stage in company with the Merry
Andrew, and in a situation not very proper to be described.
  Though Grace (for that was her name) had forfeited all title to
modesty; yet had she not impudence enough to deny a fact in which
she was actually surprized; she, therefore, took another turn, and
attempted to mitigate the offence. "Why do you beat me in this manner,
mistress?" cries the wench. "If you don't like my doings, you may turn
me away. If I am a w-e" (for the other had liberally bestowed that
appellation on her), "my betters are so as well as I. What was the
fine lady in the puppet show just now? I suppose she did not lie all
night out from her husband for nothing."
  The landlady now burst into the kitchen, and fell foul on both her
husband and the poor puppet-mover. "Here, husband," says she, "you see
the consequence of harbouring these people in your house. If one
doth draw a little drink the more for them, one is hardly made
amends for the litter they make; and then to have one's house made a
bawdy-house of by such lousy vermin. In short, I desire you would be
gone to-morrow morning; for I will tolerate no more such doings. It is
only the way to teach our servants idleness and nonsense; for to be
sure nothing better can be learned by such idle shows as these. I
remember when puppet-shows were made of good scripture stories, as
Jephthah's Rash Vow, and such good things, and when wicked people were
carried away by the devil. There was some sense in those matters;
but as the parson told us last Sunday, nobody believes in the devil
now-adays; and here you bring about a parcel of puppets drest up
like lords and ladies, only to turn the heads of poor country wenches;
and when their heads are once turned topsy-turvy, no wonder everything
else is so."
  Virgil, I think, tells us, that when the mob are assembled in a
riotous and tumultuous manner, and all sorts of missile weapons fly
about, if a man of gravity and authority appears amongst them, the
tumult is presently appeased, and the mob, which when collected into
one body, may be well compared to an ass, erect their long ears at the
grave man's discourse.
  On the contrary, when a set of grave men and philosophers are
disputing; when wisdom herself may in a manner be considered as
present, and administering arguments to the disputants; should a
tumult arise among the mob, or should one scold, who is herself
equal in noise to a mighty mob, appear among the said philosophers;
their disputes cease in a moment, wisdom no longer performs her
ministerial office, and the attention of every one is immediately
attracted by the scold alone.
  Thus the uproar aforesaid, and the arrival of the landlady, silenced
the master of the puppet-show, and put a speedy and final end to
that grave and solemn harangue, of which we have given the reader a
sufficient taste already. Nothing indeed could have happened so very
inopportune as this accident; the most wanton malice of fortune
could not have contrived such another stratagem to confound the poor
fellow, while he was so triumphantly descanting on the good morals
inculcated by his exhibitions. His mouth was now as effectually stopt,
as that of quack must be, if, in the midst of a declamation on the
great virtues of his pills and powders, the corpse of one of his
martyrs should be brought forth, and deposited before the stage, as
a testimony of his skill.
  Instead, therefore, of answering my landlady, the puppet-show man
ran out to punish his Merry Andrew; and now the moon beginning to
put forth her silver light, as the poets call it (though she looked at
that time more like a piece of copper), Jones called for his
reckoning, and ordered Partridge, whom my landlady had just awaked
from a profound nap, to prepare for his journey; but Partridge, having
lately carried two points, as my reader hath seen before, was
emboldened to attempt a third, which was to prevail with Jones to take
up a lodging that evening in the house where he then was. He
introduced this with an affected surprize at the intention which Mr.
Jones declared of removing; and, after urging many excellent arguments
against it, he at last insisted strongly that it could be to no manner
of purpose whatever; for that, unless Jones knew which way the lady
was gone, every step he took might very possibly lead him the
farther from her; "for you find, sir," said he, "by all the people
in the house, that she is not gone this way. How much better,
therefore, would it be to stay till the morning, when we may expect to
meet with somebody to inquire of?"
  This last argument had indeed some effect on Jones, and while he was
weighing it, the landlord threw all the rhetoric of which he was
master into the same scale. "Sure, sir," said he, "your servant
gives you most excellent advice; for who would travel by night at this
time of the year?" He then began in the usual stile to trumpet forth
the excellent accommodation which his house afforded; and my
landlady likewise opened on the occasion-- But, not to detain the
reader with what is common to every host and hostess, it is sufficient
to tell him Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself
with a few hours' rest, which indeed he very much wanted; for he had
hardly shut his eyes since he had left the inn where the accident of
the broken head had happened.
  As soon as Jones had taken a resolution to proceed no farther that
night, he presently retired to rest, with his two bedfellows, the
pocket-book and the muff; but Partridge, who at several times had
refreshed himself with several naps, was more inclined to eating
than to sleeping, and more to drinking than to either.
  And now the storm which Grace had raised being at an end, and my
landlady being again reconciled to the puppet-man, who on his side
forgave the indecent reflections which the good woman in her passion
had cast on his performances, a face of perfect peace and tranquillity
reigned in the kitchen; where sat assembled round the fire, the
landlord and landlady of the house, the master of the puppet-show, the
attorney's clerk, the exciseman, and the ingenious Mr. Partridge; in
which company past the agreeable conversation which will be found in
the next chapter.
                                Chapter 7

  Containing a remark or two of our own, and many more of the good
company assembled in the kitchen

  Though the pride of Partridge did not submit to acknowledge
himself a servant, yet he condescended in most particulars to
imitate the manners of that rank. One instance of this was, his
greatly magnifying the fortune of his companion, as he called Jones:
such is a general custom with all servants among strangers, as none of
them would willingly be thought the attendant on a beggar: for, the
higher the situation of the master is, the higher, consequently, is
that of the man in his own opinion; the truth of which observation
appears from the behaviour of all the footmen of the nobility.
  But, though title and fortune communicate a splendor all around
them, and the footmen of men of quality and of estate think themselves
entitled to a part of that respect which is paid to the quality and
estates of their masters, it is clearly otherwise with regard to
virtue and understanding. These advantages are strictly personal,
and swallow themselves all the respect which is paid to them. To say
the truth, this is so very little, that they cannot well afford to let
any others partake with them. As these therefore reflect no honour
on the domestic, so neither is he at all dishonoured by the most
deplorable want of both in his master. Indeed it is otherwise in the
want of what is called virtue in a mistress, the consequence of
which we have before seen: for in this dishonour there is a kind of
contagion, which, like that of poverty, communicates itself to all who
approach it.
  Now for these reasons we are not to wonder that servants (I mean
among the men only) should have no great regard for the reputation
of the wealth of their masters, and little or none at all for their
character in other points, and that, though they would be ashamed to
be the footman of a beggar, they are not so to attend upon a rogue
or a blockhead; and do consequently make no scruple to spread the fame
of the iniquities and follies of their said masters as far as
possible, and this often with great humour and merriment. In
reality, a footman is often a wit as well as a beau, at the expence of
the gentleman whose livery he wears.
  After Partridge, therefore, had enlarged greatly on the vast fortune
to which Mr. Jones was heir, he very freely communicated an
apprehension, which he had begun to conceive the day before, and for
which, as we hinted at that very time, the behaviour of Jones seemed
to have furnished a sufficient foundation. In short, he was now pretty
well confirmed in an opinion, that his master was out of his wits,
with which opinion he very bluntly acquainted the good company round
the fire.
  With this sentiment the puppet-show man immediately coincided. "I
own," said he, "the gentleman surprized me very much, when he talked
so absurdly about puppet-shows. It is indeed hardly to be conceived
that any man in his senses should be so much mistaken; what you say
now accounts very well for all his monstrous notions. Poor
gentleman! I am heartily concerned for him; indeed he hath a strange
wildness about his eyes which I took notice of before, though I did
not mention it."
  The landlord agreed with this last assertion, and likewise claimed
the sagacity of having observed it. "And certainly," added he, "it
must be so; for no one but a madman would have thought of leaving so
good a house to ramble about the country at that time of night."
  The exciseman, pulling his pipe from his mouth, said, "He thought
the gentleman looked and talked a little wildly"; and then turning
to Partridge, "if he be a madman," says he, "he should not be suffered
to travel thus about the country; for possibly he may do some
mischief. It is a pity he was not secured and sent home to his
relations."
  Now some conceits of this kind were likewise lurking in the mind
of Partridge; for, as he was now persuaded that Jones had run away
from Mr. Allworthy, he promised himself the highest rewards if he
could by any means convey him back. But fear of Jones, of whose
fierceness and strength he had seen, and indeed felt, some
instances, had however represented any such scheme as impossible to be
executed, and had discouraged him from applying himself to form any
regular plan for the purpose. But no sooner did he hear the sentiments
of the exciseman, than he embraced that opportunity of declaring his
own, and expressed a hearty wish that such a matter could be brought
about.
  "Could be brought about!" says the exciseman: "why, there is nothing
easier."
  "Ah! sir," answered Partridge, "you don't know what a devil of a
fellow he is. He can take me up with one hand, and throw me out at
window; and he would, too, if he did but imagine-"
  "Pogh!" says the exciseman, "I believe I am as good a man as he.
Besides, here are five of us."
  "I don't know what five," cries the landlady, my husband shall
have nothing to do in it. Nor shall any violent hands be laid upon
anybody in my house. The young gentleman is as pretty a young
gentleman as ever I saw in my life, and I believe he is no more mad
than any of us. What do you tell of his having a wild look with his
eyes? they are the prettiest eyes I ever saw, and he hath the
prettiest look with them; and a very modest civil young man he is. I
am sure I have bepitied him heartily ever since the gentleman there in
the corner told us he was crost in love. Certainly that is enough to
make any man, especially such a sweet young gentleman as he is, to
look a little otherwise than he did before. Lady, indeed! what the
devil would the lady have better than such a handsome man with a great
estate? I suppose she is one of your quality folks, one of your Townly
ladies that we saw last night in the puppet-show, who don't know
what they would be at."
  The attorney's clerk likewise declared he would have no concern in
the business without the advice of counsel. "Suppose," says he, "an
action of false imprisonment should be brought against us, what
defence could we make? Who knows what may be sufficient evidence of
madness to a jury? But I only speak upon my own account; for it
don't look well for a lawyer to be concerned in these matters,
unless it be as a lawyer. Juries are always less favourable to us than
to other people. I don't therefore dissuade you, Mr. Thomson (to the
exciseman), nor the gentleman, nor anybody else."
  The exciseman shook his head at this speech, and the puppet-show man
said, "Madness was sometimes a difficult matter for a jury to
decide: for I remember," says he, "I was once present at a tryal of
madness, where twenty witnesses swore that the person was as mad as
a March hare; and twenty others, that he was as much in his senses
as any man in England.- And indeed it was the opinion of most people,
that it was only a trick of his relations to rob the poor man of his
right."
  "Very likely!" cries the landlady. "I myself knew a poor gentleman
who was kept in a mad-house all his life by his family, and they
enjoyed his estate, but it them no good; for though the law gave it
them, it was the right of another."
  "Pogh!" cries the clerk, with great contempt, "who hath any right
but what the law gives them? If the law gave me the best estate in the
country, I should never trouble myself much who had the right."
  "If it be so," says Partridge, "Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula
cautum."*

  *Happy he whom dangers make wary.

  My landlord, who had been called out by the arrival of a horseman at
the gate, now returned into the kitchen, and with an affrighted
countenance cried out, "What do you think, gentlemen? The rebels
have given the duke the slip, and are got almost to London. It is
certainly true, for a man on horseback just now told me so."
  "I am glad of it with all my heart," cries Partridge; "then there
will be no fighting in these parts."
  "I am glad," cries the clerk, "for a better reason; for I would
always have right take place."
  "Ay, but," answered the landlord, "I have heard some people say this
man no right."
  "I will prove the contrary in a moment," cries the clerk: "if my
father dies seized of a right; do you mind me, seized of a right, I
say; doth not that right descend to his son; and doth not one right
descend as well as another?"
  "But how can he have any right to make us papishes?" says the
landlord.
  "Never fear that," cries Partridge. "As to the matter of right,
the gentleman there hath proved it as clear as the sun; and as to
the matter of religion, it is quite out of the case. The papists
themselves don't expect any such thing. A popish priest, whom I know
very well, and who is a very honest man, told me upon his word and
honour they had no such design."
  "And another priest, of my acquaintance," said the landlady, "hath
told me the same thing; but my husband is always so afraid of
papishes. I know a great many papishes that are very honest sort of
people, and spend their money very freely; and it is always a maxim
with me, that one man's money is as good as another's."
  "Very true, mistress," said the puppet-show man, "I don't care
what religion comes; provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost; for
they are enemies to puppet-shows."
  "And so you would sacrifice your religion to your interest," cries
the exciseman; "and are desirous to see popery brought in, are you?"
  "Not I, truly," answered the other; "I hate popery as much any
man; but yet it is a comfort to one, that one should be able to live
under it, which I could not do among Presbyterians. To be sure,
every man values his livelihood first; that must be granted; and I
warrant, if you would confess the truth, you are more afraid of losing
your place than anything else; but never fear, friend, there will be
an excise under another government as well as under this."
  "Why, certainly," replied the exciseman, "I should be a very ill man
if I did not honour the king, whose bread I eat. That is no more
than natural, as a man may say: for what signifies it to me that there
would be an excise office under another government, since my friends
would be out, and I could expect no better than to follow them? No,
no, friend, I shall never be bubbled out of my religion in hopes
only of keeping my place under another government; for I should
certainly be no better, and very probably might be worse."
  "Why, that is what I say," cries the landlord, "whenever folks say
who knows what may happen! Odsooks! should not I be a blockhead to
lend my money to I know not who, because mayhap he may return it
again? I am sure it is safe in my own bureau, and there I will keep
it."
  The attorney's clerk had taken a great fancy to the sagacity of
Partridge. Whether this proceeded from the great discernment which the
former had into men, as well as things, or whether it arose from the
sympathy between their minds; for they were both truly Jacobites in
principle; they now shook hands heartily, and drank bumpers of
strong beer to healths which we think proper to bury in oblivion.
  These healths were afterwards pledged by all present, and even by my
landlord himself, though reluctantly; but he could not withstand the
menaces of the clerk, who swore he would never set his foot within his
house again, if he refused. The bumpers which were swallowed on this
occasion soon put an end to the conversation. Here, therefore, we will
put an end to the chapter.
                                Chapter 8

  In which fortune seems to have been in a better humour with Jones
than we have hitherto seen her

  As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger,
sleeping potions than fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have
taken a very large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon him. He
had already slept nine hours, and might perhaps have slept longer, had
he not been awakened by a most violent noise at his chamber-door,
where the sound of many heavy blows was accompanied with many
exclamations of murder. Jones presently leapt from his bed, where he
found the master of the puppet-show belabouring the back and ribs of
his poor Merry-Andrew, without either mercy or moderation.
  Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, and
pinned the insulting conqueror up to the wall: for the puppet-show man
was no more able to contend with Jones, than the poor party-coloured
jester had been to contend with this puppet-man.
  But though the Merry-Andrew was a little fellow, and not very
strong, he had nevertheless some choler about him. He therefore no
sooner found himself delivered from the enemy, than he began to attack
him with the only weapon at which he was his equal. From this he first
discharged a volley of general abusive words, and thence proceeded
to some particular accusations- "D--n your bl--d, you rascal," says
he, "I have not only supported you (for to me you owe all the money
you get), but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to
rob the lady of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yesterday,
in the back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to have her alone
in a wood to strip her- to strip one of the prettiest ladies that
ever was seen in the world? and here you have fallen upon me, and have
almost murdered me, for doing no harm to a girl as willing as
myself, only because she likes me better than you."
  Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying on him
at the same time the most violent injunctions of forbearance from
any further insult on the Merry-Andrew; and then taking the poor
wretch with into his own apartment, he soon learned tidings of his
Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was attending his master with his
drum the day before, had seen pass by. He easily prevailed with the
lad to show him the exact place, and then having summoned Partridge,
he departed with the utmost expedition.
  It was almost eight of the clock before all matters could be got
ready for his departure: for Partridge was not in any haste, nor could
the reckoning be presently adjusted; and when both these were
settled and over, Jones would not quit the place before he had
perfectly reconciled all differences between the master and the man.
  When this was happily accomplished, he set forwards, and was by
the trusty Merry-Andrew conducted to the spot by which Sophia had
past; and then having handsomely rewarded his conductor, he again
pushed on with the utmost eagerness, being highly delighted with the
extraordinary manner in which he received his intelligence. Of this
Partridge was no sooner acquainted, than he, with great earnestness,
began to prophesy, and assured Jones that he would certainly have good
success in the end: for, he said, "two such accidents could never have
happened to direct him after his mistress, if Providence had not
designed to bring them together at last." And this was the first
time that Jones lent any attention to the superstitious doctrines of
his companion.
  They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of rain
overtook them; and, as they happened to be at the same time in sight
of an ale-house, Partridge, with much earnest entreaty, prevailed with
Jones to enter, and weather the storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed
it may be called one) which partakes more of the English than of the
French disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, it
will always rally again in time; and so it did with Partridge, who was
no sooner arrived within the kitchen, than he began to ask the same
questions which he had asked the night before. The consequence of this
was an excellent cold chine being produced upon the table, upon
which not only Partridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty
breakfast, though the latter began to grow again uneasy, as the people
of the house could give him no fresh information concerning Sophia.
  Their meal being over, Jones was again preparing to sally,
notwithstanding the violence of the storm still continued; but
Partridge begged heartily for another mug; and at last casting his
eyes on a lad at the fire, who had entered into the kitchen, and who
at that instant was looking as earnestly at him, he turned suddenly to
Jones, and cried, "Master, give me your hand, a single mug shan't
serve the turn this bout. Why, here's more news of Madam Sophia come
to town. The boy there standing by the fire is the very lad that
rode before her. I can swear to my own plaister on his face."-
"Heavens bless you, sir," cries the boy, "it is your own plaister sure
enough; I shall have always reason to remember your goodness; for it
hath almost cured me."
  At these words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the boy
follow him immediately, departed from the kitchen into a private
apartment; for, so delicate was he with regard to Sophia, that he
never willingly mentioned her name in the presence of many people;
and, though he had, as it were, from the overflowings of his heart,
given Sophia as a toast among the officers, where he thought it was
impossible she should be known; yet, even there, the reader may
remember how difficultly he was prevailed upon to mention her sirname.
  Hard, therefore, was it, and perhaps, in the opinion of many
sagacious readers, very absurd and monstrous, that he should
principally owe his present misfortune to the supposed want of that
delicacy with which he so abounded; for, in reality, Sophia was much
more offended at the freedoms which she thought (and not without
good reason) he had taken with her name and character, than at any
freedoms, in which, under his present circumstances, he had indulged
himself with the person of another woman; and to say truth, I
believe Honour could never have prevailed on her to leave Upton
without her seeing Jones, had it not been for those two strong
instances of a levity in his behaviour, so void of respect, and indeed
so highly inconsistent with any degree of love and tenderness in great
and delicate minds.
  But so matters fell out, and so I must relate them; and if any
reader is shocked at their appearing unnatural, I cannot help it. I
must remind such persons that I am not writing a system, but a
history, and I am not obliged to reconcile every matter to the
received notions concerning truth and nature. But if this was never so
easy to do, perhaps it might be more prudent in me to avoid it. For
instance, as the fact at present before us now stands, without any
comment of mine upon it, though it may at first sight offend some
readers, yet, upon more mature consideration, it must please all;
for wise and good men may consider what happened to Jones at Upton
as a just punishment for his wickedness with regard to women, of which
it was indeed the immediate consequence; and silly and bad persons may
comfort themselves in their vices, by flattering their own hearts that
the characters of men are rather owing to accident than to virtue.
Now, perhaps, the reflections which we should be here inclined to
draw, would alike contradict both these conclusions, and would show
that these incidents contribute only to confirm the great, useful, and
uncommon doctrine, which it is the purpose of this whole work to
inculcate, and which we must not fill up our pages by frequently
repeating, as an ordinary parson fills his sermon by repeating his
text at the end of every paragraph.
  We are contented that it must appear, however unhappily Sophia had
erred in her opinion of Jones, she had sufficient reason for her
opinion; since, I believe, every other young lady would, in her
situation, have erred in the same manner. Nay, had she followed her
lover at this very time, and had entered this very alehouse the moment
he was departed from it, she would have found the landlord as well
acquainted with her name and person as the wench at Upton had appeared
to be. For while Jones was examining his boy in whispers in an inner
room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy in his disposition, was in
the kitchen very openly catechising the other guide who had attended
Mrs. Fitzpatrick; by which means the landlord, whose ears were open on
all such occasions, became perfectly well acquainted with the tumble
of Sophia from her horse, &c., with the mistake concerning Jenny
Cameron, with the many consequences of the punch, and, in short,
with almost everything which had happened at the inn, whence we
dispatched our ladies in a coach-and-six when we last took our
leaves of them.
                                Chapter 9

  Containing little more than a few odd observations

  Jones had been absent a full half-hour, when he returned into the
kitchen in a hurry, desiring the landlord to let him know that instant
what was to pay. And now the concern which Partridge felt at being
obliged to quit the warm chimney-corner, and a cup of excellent
liquor, was somewhat compensated by hearing that he was to proceed
no farther on foot, for Jones, by golden arguments, had prevailed with
the boy to attend him back to the inn whither he had before
conducted Sophia; but to this however the lad consented, upon
condition that the other guide would wait for him at the alehouse;
because, as the landlord at Upton was an intimate acquaintance of
the landlord at Gloucester, it might some time or other come to the
ears of the latter, that his horses had been let to more than one
person; and so the boy might be brought to account for money which
he wisely intended to put in his own pocket.
  We were obliged to mention this circumstance, trifling as it may
seem, since it retarded Mr. Jones a considerable time in his setting
out; for the honesty of this latter boy was somewhat high- that is,
somewhat high-priced, and would indeed have cost Jones very dear,
had not Partridge, who, as we have said, was a very cunning fellow,
artfully thrown in half-a-crown to be spent at that very alehouse,
while the boy was waiting for his companion. This half-crown the
landlord no sooner got scent of, than he opened after it with such
vehement and persuasive outcry, that the boy was soon overcome, and
consented to take half-a-crown more for his stay. Here we cannot
help observing, that as there is so much of policy in the lowest life,
great men often overvalue themselves on these refinements in
imposture, in which they are frequently excelled by some of the lowest
of the human species.
  The horses being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the
side-saddle, on which his dear Sophia had rid. The lad, indeed, very
civilly offered him the use of his: but he chose the side-saddle,
probably because it was softer. Partridge, however, though full as
effeminate as Jones, could not bear the thoughts of degrading his
manhood; he therefore accepted the boy's offer: and now, Jones being
mounted on the side-saddle of his Sophia, the boy on that of Mrs.
Honour, and Partridge bestriding the third horse, they set forwards on
their journey, and within four hours arrived at the inn where the
reader hath already spent so much time. Partridge was in very high
spirits during the whole way, and often mentioned to Jones the many
good omens of his future success, which had lately befriended him; and
which the reader, without being the least superstitious, must allow to
have been particularly fortunate. Partridge was moreover better
pleased with the present pursuit of his companion, than he had been
with his pursuit of glory; and from these very omens, which assured
the pedagogue of success, he likewise first acquired a clear idea of
the amour between Jones and Sophia; to which he had before given
very little attention, as he had originally taken a wrong scent
concerning the reasons of Jones's departure; and as to what happened
at Upton, he was too much frightened just before and after his leaving
that place, to draw any other conclusions from thence, than that
poor Jones was a downright madman: a conceit which was not at all
disagreeable to the opinion he before had of his extraordinary
wildness, of which, he thought, his behaviour on their quitting
Gloucester so well justified all the accounts he had formerly
received. He was now, however, pretty well satisfied with his
present expedition, and henceforth began to conceive much worthier
sentiments of his friend's understanding.
  The clock had just struck three when they arrived, and Jones
immediately bespoke posthorses; but unluckily there was not a horse to
be procured in the whole place; which the reader will not wonder at,
when he considers the hurry in which the whole nation, and
especially this part of it, was at this time engaged, when expresses
were passing and repassing every hour of the day and night.
  Jones endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former guide to
escorte him to Coventry; but he was inexorable. While he was arguing
with the boy in the inn-yard, a person came up to him, and saluting
him by his name, inquired how all the good family did in
Somersetshire; and now Jones casting his eyes upon this person,
presently discovered him to be Mr. Dowling, the lawyer, with whom he
had dined at Gloucester, and with much courtesy returned the
salutation.
  Dowling very earnestly pressed Mr. Jones to go no further that
night; and backed his solicitations with many unanswerable
arguments, such as, that it was almost dark, that the roads were
very dirty, and that he would be able to travel much better by
day-light, with many others equally good, some of which Jones had
probably suggested to himself before; but as they were then
ineffectual, so they were still: and he continued resolute in his
design, even though he should be obliged to set out on foot.
  When the good attorney found he could not prevail on Jones to
stay, he as strenuously applied himself to persuade the guide to
accompany him. He urged many motives to induce him to undertake this
short journey, and at last concluded with saying, "Do you think the
gentleman won't very well reward you for your trouble?"
  Two to one are odds at every other thing, as well as at footfall.
But the advantage which this united force hath in persuasion or
entreaty, must have been visible to a curious observer; for he must
have often seen, that when a father, a master, a wife, or any other
person in authority, have stoutly adhered to a denial against all
the reasons which a single man could produce, they have afterwards
yielded to the repetition of the same sentiments by a second or
third person, who hath undertaken the cause, without attempting to
advance anything new in its behalf. And hence, perhaps, proceeds the
phrase of seconding an argument or a motion, and the great consequence
this is of in all assemblies of public debate. Hence, likewise,
probably it is, that in our courts of law we often hear a learned
gentleman (generally a serjeant) repeating for an hour together what
another learned gentleman, who spoke just before him, had been saying.
  Instead of accounting for this, we shall proceed in our usual manner
to exemplify it in the conduct of the lad above mentioned, who
submitted to the persuasions of Mr. Dowling, and promised once more to
admit Jones into his side-saddle; but insisted on first giving the
poor creatures a good bait, saying, they had travelled a great way,
and been rid very hard. Indeed this caution of the boy was needless;
for Jones, notwithstanding his hurry and impatience, would have
ordered this of himself; for he by no means agreed with the opinion of
those who consider animals as mere machines, and when they bury
their spurs in the belly of their horse, imagine the spur and the
horse to have an equal capacity of feeling pain.
  While the beasts were eating their corn, or rather were supposed
to eat it (for, as the boy was taking care of himself in the
kitchen, the ostler took great care that his corn should not be
consumed in the stable), Mr. Jones, at the earnest desire of Mr.
Dowling, accompanied that gentleman into his room, where they sat down
together over a bottle of wine.
                                Chapter 10

  In which Mr. Jones and Mr. Dowling drink a bottle together

  Mr. Dowling, pouring out a glass of wine, named the health of the
good Squire Allworthy; adding, "If you please, sir, we will likewise
remember his nephew and heir, the young squire: Come, sir, here's
Mr. Blifil to you, a very pretty young gentleman; and who, I dare
swear, will hereafter make a very considerable figure in his
country. I have a borough for him myself in my eye."
  "Sir," answered Jones, "I am convinced you don't intend to affront
me, so I shall not resent it; but I promise you, you have joined two
persons very improperly together; for one is the glory of the human
species, and the other is a rascal who dishonours the name of man."
  Dowling stared at this. He said, "He thought both the gentlemen
had a very unexceptionable character. As for Squire Allworthy
himself," says he, "I never had the happiness to see him; but all
the world talks of his goodness. And, indeed, as to the young
gentleman, I never saw him but once, when I carried to him the news of
the loss of his mother; and then I was so hurried, and drove, and tore
with the multiplicity of business, that I had hardly time to
converse with him; but he looked so like a very honest gentleman,
and behaved himself so prettily, that I protest I never was more
delighted with any gentleman since I was born."
  "I don't wonder," answered Jones, "that he should impose upon you in
so short an acquaintance; for he hath the cunning of the devil
himself, and you may live with him many years, without discovering
him. I was bred up with him from my infancy, and we were hardly ever
asunder; but it is very lately only that I have discovered half the
villany which is in him. I own I never greatly liked him. I thought he
wanted that generosity of spirit, which is the sure foundation of
all that is great and noble in human nature. I saw a selfishness in
him long ago which I despised; but it is lately, very lately, that I
have found him capable of the basest and blackest designs; for,
indeed, I have at last found out, that he hath taken an advantage of
the openness of my own temper, and hath concerted the deepest project,
by a long train of wicked artifice, to work my ruin, which at last
he hath effected."
  "Ay! ay!" cries Dowling; "I protest, then, it is a pity such a
person should inherit the great estate of your uncle Allworthy."
  "Alas, sir," cries Jones, "you do me an honour to which I have no
title. It is true, indeed, his goodness once allowed me the liberty of
calling him by a much nearer name; but as this was only a voluntary
act of goodness, I can complain of no injustice when he thinks
proper to deprive me of this honour; since the loss cannot be more
unmerited than the gift originally was. I assure you, sir, I am no
relation of Mr. Allworthy; and if the world, who are incapable of
setting a true value on his virtue, should think, in his behaviour
to me, he hath dealt hardly by a relation, they do an injustice to the
best of men: for I- but I ask your pardon, I shall trouble you with
no particulars relating to myself; only as you seemed to think me a
relation of Mr. Allworthy, I thought proper to set you right in a
matter that might draw some censures upon him, which I promise you I
would rather lose my life than give occasion to."
  "I protest, sir," cried Dowling, "you talk very much like a man of
honour; but instead of giving me any trouble, I protest it would
give me great pleasure to know how you came to be thought a relation
of Mr. Allworthy's, if you are not. Your horses won't be ready this
half-hour, and as you have sufficient opportunity, I wish you would
tell me how all that happened; for I protest it seems very
surprizing that you should pass for a relation of a gentleman, without
being so."
  Jones, who in the compliance of his disposition (though not in his
prudence) a little resembled his lovely Sophia, was easily prevailed
on to satisfy Mr. Dowling's curiosity, by relating the history of
his birth and education, which he did, like Othello,

     ---Even from his boyish years,
     To th' very moment he was bad to tell:

the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously incline;

     He swore 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange;
     'Twas pitiful, 'twas wonderous pitiful.

  Mr. Dowling was indeed very greatly affected with this relation; for
he had not divested himself of humanity by being an attorney.
Indeed, nothing is more unjust than to carry our prejudices against
a profession into private life, and to borrow our idea of a man from
our opinion of his calling. Habit, it is true, lessens the horror of
those actions which the profession makes necessary, and consequently
habitual; but in all other instances, Nature works in men of all
professions alike; nay, perhaps, even more strongly with those who
give her, as it were, a holiday, when they are following their
ordinary business. A butcher, I make no doubt, would feel
compunction at the slaughter of a fine horse; and though a surgeon can
feel no pain in cutting off a limb, I have known him compassionate a
man in a fit of the gout. The common hangman, who hath stretched the
necks of hundreds, is known to have trembled at his first operation on
a head: and the very professors of human blood shedding, who, in their
trade of war, butcher thousands, not only of their
fellow-professors, but often of women and children, without remorse;
even these, I say, in times of peace, when drums and trumpets are laid
aside, often lay aside all their ferocity, and become very gentle
members of civil society. In the same manner an attorney may feel
all the miseries and distresses of his fellow-creatures, provided he
happens not to be concerned against them.
  Jones, as the reader knows, was yet unacquainted with the very black
colours in which he had been represented to Mr. Allworthy; and as to
other matters, he did not shew them in the most disadvantageous light;
for though he was unwilling to cast any blame on his former friend and
patron; yet he was not very desirous of heaping too much upon himself.
Dowling therefore observed, and not without reason, that very ill
offices must have been done him by somebody: "For certainly," cries
he, "the squire would never have disinherited you only for a few
faults, which any young gentleman might have committed. Indeed, I
cannot properly say disinherited: for to be sure by law you cannot
claim as heir. That's certain; that nobody need go to counsel for. Yet
when a gentleman had in a manner adopted you thus as his own son,
you might reasonably have expected some very considerable part, if not
the whole; nay, if you had expected the whole, I should not have
blamed you: for certainly all men are for getting as much as they can,
and they are not to be blamed on that account."
  "Indeed you wrong me," said Jones; "I should have been contented
with very little: I never had any view upon Mr. Allworthy's fortune;
nay, I believe I may truly say, I never once considered what he
could or might give me. This I solemnly declare, if he had done a
prejudice to his nephew in my favour, I would have undone it again.
I had rather enjoy my own mind than the fortune of another man. What
is the poor pride arising from a magnificent house, a numerous
equipage, a splendid table, and from all the other advantages or
appearances of fortune, compared to the warm, solid content, the
swelling satisfaction, the thrilling transports, and the exulting
triumphs, which a good mind enjoys, in the contemplation of a
generous, virtuous, noble, benevolent action? I envy not Blifil in the
prospect of his wealth; nor shall I envy him in the possession of
it. I would not think myself a rascal half an hour, to exchange
situations. I believe, indeed, Mr. Blifil suspected me of the views
you mention; and I suppose these suspicions, as they arose from the
baseness of his own heart, so they occasioned his baseness to me. But,
I thank Heaven, I know, I feel- I feel my innocence, my friend; and I
would not part with that feeling for the world. For as long as I
know I have never done, nor even designed, an injury to any being
whatever,

     Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
     Arbor aestiva recreatur aura,
     Quod latus mundi nebulae, malusque
         Jupiter urget.

     Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
     Solis in terra dominibus negata;
     Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
         Dulce loquentem."

  *Place me where never summer breeze
   Unbinds the glebe, or warms the trees:
   Where ever-lowering clouds appear,
   And angry Jove reforms th' inclement year.

   Place me beneath the burning ray,
   Where rolls the rapid car of day;
   Love and the nympth shall charm my toils,
   The nympth who sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles.
                                        MR. FRANCIS

  He then filled a bumper of wine, and drunk off to the health of
his dear Lalage; and, filling Dowling's glass likewise up to the brim,
insisted on his pledging him. "Why, then, here's Miss Lalage's
health with all my heart," cries Dowling. "I have heard her toasted
often, I protest, though I never saw her; but they say she's extremely
handsome."
  Though the Latin was not the only part of this speech which
Dowling did not perfectly understand; yet there was somewhat in it
that made a very strong impression upon him. And though he endeavoured
by winking, nodding, sneering, and grinning, to hide the impression
from Jones (for we are as often ashamed of thinking right as of
thinking wrong), it is certain he secretly approved as much of his
sentiments as he understood, and really felt a very strong impulse
of compassion for him. But we may possibly take some other opportunity
of commenting upon this, especially if we should happen to meet Mr.
Dowling any more in the course of our history. At present we are
obliged to take our leave of that gentleman a little abruptly, in
imitation of Mr. Jones; who was no sooner informed, by Partridge, that
his horses were ready, than he deposited his reckoning, wished his
companion a good night, mounted, and set forward towards Coventry,
though the night was dark, and it just then began to rain very hard.
                                Chapter 11

  The disasters which befel Jones on his departure for Coventry;
with the sage remarks of Partridge

  No road can be plainer than that from the place where they now
were to Coventry; and though neither Jones, nor Partridge, nor the
guide, had ever travelled it before, it would have been almost
impossible to have missed their way, had it not been for the two
reasons mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter.
  These two circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to
intervene, our travellers deviated into a much less frequented
track; and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving at the
stately spires of Coventry, they found themselves still in a very
dirty lane, where they saw no symptoms of approaching the suburbs of a
large city.
  Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their way; but
this the guide insisted upon was impossible; a word which, in common
conversation, is often used to signify not only improbable, but
often what is really very likely, and, sometimes, what hath
certainly happened; and hyperbolical violence like that which is so
frequently offered to the words infinite and eternal; by the former of
which it is usual to express a distance of half a yard, and by the
latter, a duration of five minutes. And thus it is as usual to
assert the impossibility of losing what is already actually lost. This
was, in fact, the case at present; for, notwithstanding all the
confident assertions of the lad to the contrary, it is certain they
were no more in the right road to Coventry, than the fraudulent,
griping, cruel, canting miser is in the right road to heaven.
  It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader, who hath never been in
those circumstances, to imagine the horror with which darkness,
rain, and wind, fill persons who have lost their way in the night; and
who, consequently, have not the pleasant prospect of warm fires, dry
cloaths, and other refreshments, to support their minds in
struggling with the inclemencies of the weather. A very imperfect idea
of this horror will, however, serve sufficiently to account for the
conceits which now filled the head of Partridge, and which we shall
presently be obliged to open.
  Jones grew more and more positive that they were out of their
road; and the boy himself at last acknowledged he believed they were
not in the right road to Coventry; though he affirmed, at the same
time, it was impossible they should have mist the way. But Partridge
was of a different opinion. He said, "When they first set out he
imagined some mischief or other would happen.- Did you not observe,
sir," said he to Jones, "that old woman who stood at the door just
as you was taking horse? I wish you had given her a small matter, with
all my heart; for she said then you might repent it; and at that
very instant it began to rain, and the wind hath continued rising ever
since. Whatever some people may think, I am very certain it is in
the power of witches to raise the wind whenever they please. I have
seen it happen very often in my time: and if ever I saw a witch in all
my life, that old woman was certainly one. I thought so to myself at
that very time; and if I had had any halfpence in my pocket, I would
have given her some; for to be sure it is always good to be charitable
to those sort of people, for fear what may happen; and many a person
hath lost his cattle by saving a halfpenny."
  Jones, though he was horridly vexed at the delay which this
mistake was likely to occasion in his journey, could not help
smiling at the superstition of his friend, whom an accident now
greatly confirmed in his opinion. This was a tumble from his horse; by
which, however, he received no other injury than what the dirt
conferred on his cloaths.
  Partridge had no sooner recovered his legs, than he appealed to
his fall, as conclusive evidence of all he had asserted; but Jones
finding he was unhurt, answered with a smile: "This witch of yours,
Partridge, is a most ungrateful jade, and doth not, I find,
distinguish her friends from others in her resentment. If the old lady
had been angry with me for neglecting her, I don't see why she
should tumble you from your horse, after all the respect you have
expressed for her."
  "It is ill jesting," cries Partridge, "with people who have power to
do these things; for they are often very malicious. I remember a
farrier, who provoked one of them, by asking her when the time she had
bargained with the devil for would be out; and within three months
from that very day one of his best cows was drowned. Nor was she
satisfied with that; for a little time afterwards he lost a barrel
of best-drink: for the old witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run
all over the cellar, the very first evening he had tapped it, to
make merry with some of his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived
with him afterwards; for she worried the poor man so, that he took
to drinking; and in a year or two his stock was seized, and he and his
family are now come to the parish."
  The guide, and perhaps his horse too, were both so attentive to this
discourse, that, either through want of care, or by the malice of
the witch, they were now both sprawling in the dirt.
  Partridge entirely imputed this fall, as he had done his own, to the
same cause. He told Mr. Jones, "It would certainly be his turn next!
and earnestly entreated him to return back, and find out the old
woman, and pacify her. We shall very soon," added he, "reach the
inn; for though we have seemed to go forward, I am very certain we are
in the identical place in which we were an hour ago; and I dare swear,
if it was daylight, we might now see the inn we set out from."
  Instead of returning any answer to this sage advice, Jones was
entirely attentive to what had happened to the boy, who received no
other than what had before befallen Partridge, and which his cloaths
very easily bore, as they had been for many years inured to the
like. He soon regained his side-saddle, and by the hearty curses and
blows which he bestowed on his horse, quickly satisfied Mr. Jones that
no harm was done.
                                Chapter 12

  Relates that Mr. Jones continued his journey, contrary to the advice
of Partridge, with what happened on that occasion

  They now discovered a light at some distance, to the great
pleasure of Jones, and to the no small terror of Partridge, who firmly
believed himself to be bewitched, and that this light was a
Jack-with-a-lantern, or somewhat more mischievous.
  But how were these fears increased, when, as they approached
nearer to this light (or lights as they now appeared), they heard a
confused sound of human voices; of singing, laughing, and hallowing,
together with a strange noise that seemed to proceed from some
instruments; but could hardly be allowed the name of musci! indeed, to
favour a little the opinion of Partridge, it might very well be called
music bewitched.
  It is impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror than
what now seized on Partridge; the contagion of which had reached the
post-boy, who had been very attentive to many things that the other
had uttered. He now, therefore, joined in petitioning Jones to return;
saying he firmly believed what Partridge had just before said, that
though the horses seemed to go on, they had not moved a step
forwards during at least the last half-hour.
  Jones could not help smiling in the midst of his vexation, at the
fears of these poor fellows. "Either we advance," says he, "towards
the lights, or the lights have advanced towards us; for we are now
at a very little distance from them; but how can either of you be
afraid of a set of people who appear only to be merry-making?"
  "Merry-making, sir!" cries Partridge; "who could be merry-making
at this time of night, and in such a place, and such weather? They can
be nothing but ghosts or witches, or some evil spirits or other,
that's certain."
  "Let them be what they will," cries Jones, "I am resolved to go up
to them, and enquire the way to Coventry. All witches, Partridge,
are not such ill-natured hags as that we had the misfortune to meet
with last."
  "O Lord, sir," cries Partridge, "there is no knowing what humour
they will be in; to be sure it is always best to be civil to them; but
what if we should meet with something worse than witches, with evil
spirits themselves?-- Pray, sir, be advised; pray, sir, do. If you had
read so many terrible accounts as I have of these matters, you would
not be so fool-hardy.- The Lord knows whither we have got already, or
whither we are going; for sure such darkness was never seen upon
earth, and I question whether it can be darker in the other world."
  Jones put forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all these
hints and cautions, and poor Partridge was obliged to follow; for
though he hardly dared to advance, he dared still less to stay
behind by himself.
  At length they arrived at the place whence the lights and
different noises had issued. This Jones perceived to be no other
than a barn, where a great number of men and women were assembled, and
diverting themselves with much apparent jollity.
  Jones no sooner appeared before the great doors of the barn, which
were open, than a masculine and very rough voice from within demanded,
who was there?- To which Jones gently answered, a friend; and
immediately asked the to Coventry.
  "If you are a friend," cries another of the men in the barn, "you
had better alight till the storm is over" (for indeed it was now
more violent than ever); "you are very welcome to put up your horse;
for there is sufficient room for him at the end of the barn."
  "You are very obliging," returned Jones; and I will accept your
offer for a few minutes, whilst the rain continues; and here are two
more who will be glad of the same favour." This was accorded with more
good-will than it was accepted: for Partridge would rather have
submitted to the utmost inclemency of the weather, than have trusted
to the clemency of those whom he took for hobgoblins; and the poor
post-boy was now infected with the same apprehensions; but they were
both obliged to follow the example of Jones; the one because he
durst not leave his horse, and the other because he feared nothing
so much as being left by himself.
  Had this history been writ in the days of superstition, I should
have had too much compassion for the reader to have left him so long
in suspense, whether Beelzebub or Satan was about actually to appear
in person, with all his hellish retinue; but as these doctrines are at
present very unfortunate, and have but few, if any believers, I have
not been much aware of conveying any such terrors. To say truth, the
whole furniture of the infernal regions hath long been appropriated by
the managers of playhouses, who seem lately to have laid them by as
rubbish, capable only of affecting the upper gallery; a place in which
few of our readers ever sit.
  However, though we do not suspect raising any great terror on this
occasion, we have reason to fear some other apprehensions may here
arise in our reader, into which we would not willingly betray him; I
mean that we are going to take a voyage into fairy-land, and introduce
a set of beings into our history, which scarce any one was ever
childish enough to believe, though many have been foolish enough to
spend their time in writing and reading their adventures.
  To prevent, therefore, any such suspicions, so prejudicial to the
credit of an historian, who professes to draw his materials from
nature only, we shall now proceed to acquaint the reader who these
people were, whose sudden appearance had struck such terrors into
Partridge, had more than half frightened the postboy, and had a little
surprized even Mr. Jones himself.
  The people then assembled in this barn were no other than a
company of Egyptians, or, as they are vulgarly called, gypsies, and
they were now celebrating the wedding of one of their society.
  It is impossible to conceive a happier set of people than appeared
here to be met together. The utmost mirth, indeed, shewed itself in
ever countenance; nor was their ball totally void of all order and
decorum. Perhaps it had more than a country assembly is sometimes
conducted with: for these people are subject to a formal government
and laws of their own, and all pay obedience to one great
magistrate, whom they call their king.
  Greater plenty, likewise, was nowhere to be seen, than what
flourished in this barn. Here was indeed no nicety nor elegance, nor
did the keen appetite of the guests require any. Here was good store
of bacon, fowls, and mutton, to which every one present provided
better sauce himself than the best and dearest French cook can
prepare.
  AEneas is not described under more consternation in the temple of
Juno,

     Dum stupet obtutuque haeret defixus in uno,*

than was our heroe at what he saw in this barn. While he was looking
everywhere round him with astonishment, a venerable person
approached him with many friendly salutations, rather of too hearty
a kind to be called courtly. This was no other than the king of the
gypsies himself. He was very little distinguished in dress from his
subjects, nor had he any regalia of majesty to support his dignity;
and yet there seemed (as Mr. Jones said) to be somewhat in his air
which denoted authority, and inspired the beholders with an idea of
awe and respect; though all this was perhaps imaginary in Jones; and
the truth may be, that such ideas are incident to power, and almost
inseparable from it.

  *While amazed he stands in one fixed gaze immovable.

  There was somewhat in the open countenance and courteous behaviour
of Jones which, being accompanied with much comeliness of person,
greatly recommended him at first to every beholder. These were,
perhaps, a little heightened to the present instance, by that profound
respect which he paid to the king of the gypsies, the moment he was
acquainted with his dignity, and which was the sweeter to his gypseian
majesty, as he was not used to receive such homage from any but his
own subjects.
  The king ordered a table to be spread with the choicest of their
provisions for his accommodation; and, having placed himself at his
right hand, his majesty began to discourse with our heroe in the
following manner:-
  "Me doubt not, sir, but you have of seen some of my people, who
are what you call de parties detache: for dey go about everywhere; but
me fancy you imagine not we be so considrable body as we be; and may
be you will be surprize more when you hear de gypsy be as orderly
and well govern people as any upon face of de earth.
  "Me have honour, as me say, to be deir king, and no monarch can do
boast of more dutiful subject, ne no more affectionate. How far me
deserve deir good-will, me no say; but dis me can say, dat me never
design anyting but to do dem good. Me sall no do boast of dat
neider: for what can me do oderwise dan consider of de good of dose
poor people who go about all day to give me always de best of what dey
get. Dey love and honour me darefore, because me do love and take care
of dem; dat is all, me know no oder reason.
  "About a tousand or two tousand year ago, me cannot tell to a year
or two, as can neider write nor read, dere was a great what you
call- a volution among de gypsy; for dere was de lord gypsy in dose
days;
and dese lord did quarrel vid one anoder about de place; but de king
of de gypsy did demolish dem all, and made all his subject equal vid
each oder; and since dat time dey have agree very well; for dey no
tink of being king, and may be it be better for dem as dey be; for
me assure you it be ver troublesome ting to be king, and always to
do justice; me have often wish to be de private gypsy when me have
been forced to punish my dear friend and relation; for dough we
never put to death, our punishments be ver severe. Dey make de gypsy
ashamed of demselves and dat be ver terrible punishment; me ave scarce
ever known de gypsy so punish do harm any more."
  The king then proceeded to express some wonder that there was no
such punishment as shame in other governments. Upon which Jones
assured him to the contrary; for that there were many crimes for which
shame was inflicted by the English laws, and that it was indeed one
consequence of all punishment. "Dat be ver strange," said the king;
"for me know and hears good deal of your people, dough me no live
among dem; and me have often hear dat sham is de consequence and de
cause too of many of your rewards. Are your rewards and punishments
den de same ting?"
  While his majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden uproar
arose in the barn, and as it seems upon this occasion:- the courtesy
of these people had by degrees removed all the apprehensions of
Partridge, and he was prevailed upon not only to stuff himself with
their food, but to taste some of their liquors, which by degress
entirely expelled all fear from his composition, and in its stead
introduced much more agreeable sensations.
  A young female gypsy, more remarkable for her wit than her beauty,
had decoyed the honest fellow aside, pretending to tell his fortune.
Now, when they were alone together in a remote part of the barn,
whether it proceeded from the strong liquor, which is never so apt
to inflame inordinate desire as after moderate fatigue; or whether the
fair gypsy herself threw aside the delicacy and decency of her sex,
and tempted the youth Partridge with express solicitations; but they
were discovered in a very improper manner by the husband of the gypsy,
who, from jealousy it seems, had kept a watchful eye over his wife,
and had dogged her to the place, where he found her in the arms of her
gallant.
  To the great confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before
the king; who heard the accusation, and likewise the culprit's
defence, which was indeed very trifling; for the poor fellow was
confounded by the plain evidence which appeared against him, and had
very little to say for himself. His majesty, then turning towards
Jones, said, "Sir, you have hear what dey say: what punishment do
you tink your man deserve?"
  Jones answered, "He was sorry for what had happened, and that
Partridge should make the husband all the amends in his power: he
said, he had very little money about him at that time;" and, putting
his hand into his pocket, offered the fellow a guinea. To which he
immediately answered. "He hoped his honour would not think of giving
him less than five."
  This sum, after some altercation, was reduced to two; and Jones,
having stipulated for the full forgiveness of both Partridge and the
wife, was going to pay the money; when his majesty, restraining his
hand, turned to the witness and asked him, "At what time he had
discovered the criminals?" To which he answered, "That he had been
desired by the husband to watch the motions of his wife from her first
speaking to the stranger, and that he had never lost sight of her
afterwards till the crime had been committed." The king then asked,
"if the husband was with him all that time in his lurking-place?" To
which he answered in the affirmative. His Egyptian majesty then
addressed himself to the husband as follows: "Me be sorry to see any
gypsy dat have no more honour dan to sell de honour of his wife for
money. If you had de love for your wife, you would have prevented
dis matter, and not endeavour to make her de whore dat you might
discover her. Me do order dat you have no money given you, for you
deserve punishment, not reward; me do order derefore, dat you be de
infamous gypsy, and do wear pair of horms upon your forehead for one
month, and dat your wife be called de whore, and pointed at all dat
time; for you be de infamous gypsy, but she be no less de infamous
whore."
  The gypsies immediately proceeded to execute the sentence, and
left Jones and Partridge alone with his majesty.
  Jones greatly applauded the justice of the sentence: upon which
the king, turning to him, said, "Me believe you be surprize: for me
suppose you have ver bad opinion of my people: me suppose you tink
us all de tieves."
  "I must confess, sir," said Jones, "I have not heard so favourable
an account of them as they seem to deserve."
  "Me vil tell you," said the king, "how the difference is between you
and us. My people rob your people, and your people rob one anoder."
  Jones afterwards proceeded very gravely to sing forth the
happiness of those subjects who live under such a magistrate.
  Indeed their happiness appears to have been so compleat, that we are
aware lest some advocate for arbitrary power should hereafter quote
the case of those people, as an instance of the great advantages which
attend that government above all others.
  And here we will make a concession, which would not perhaps have
been expected from us, that no limited form of government is capable
of rising to the same degree of perfection, or of producing the same
benefits to society, with this. Mankind have never been so happy, as
when the greatest part of the then known world was under the
dominion of a single master; and this state of their felicity
continued during the reigns of five successive princes.* This was
the true aera of the golden age, and the only golden age which ever
had any existence, unless in the warm imaginations of the poets,
from the expulsion from Eden down to this day.

  *Nerva, Trajan, Adrian, and the two Antonini.

  In reality, I know but of one solid objection to absolute
monarchy. The only defect in which excellent constitution seems to be,
the difficulty of finding any man adequate to the office of an
absolute monarch: for this indispensably require three qualities
very difficult, as it appears from history, to be found in princely
natures: first, a sufficient quantity of moderation in the prince,
to be contented with all the power which is possible for him to
have. 2ndly, Enough of wisdom to know his own happiness. And, 3rdly,
Goodness sufficient to support the happiness of others, when not
only compatible with, but instrumental to his own.
  Now if an absolute monarch with all these great and rare
qualifications, should be allowed capable of conferring the greatest
good on society; it must be surely granted, on the contrary, that
absolute power, vested in the hands of one who is deficient in them
all, is likely to be attended with no less a degree of evil.
  In short, our own religion furnishes us with adequate ideas of the
blessing, as well as curse, which may attend absolute power. The
pictures of heaven and of hell will place a very lively image of
both before our eyes; for though the prince of the latter can have
no power, but what he originally derives from the omnipotent Sovereign
in the former, yet it plainly appears from Scripture, that absolute
power in his infernal dominions is granted to their diabolical
ruler. This is indeed the only absolute power which can by Scripture
be derived from heaven. If, therefore, the several tyrannies upon
earth can prove any title to a Divine authority, it must be derived
from this original grant to the prince of darkness; and these
subordinate deputations must consequently come immediately from him
whose stamp they so expressly bear.
  To conclude, as the examples of all ages show us that mankind in
general desire power only to do harm, and, when they obtain it, use it
for no other purpose; it is not consonant with even the least degree
of prudence to hazard an alteration, where our hopes are poorly kept
in countenance by only two or three exceptions out of a thousand
instances to alarm our fears. In this case it will be much wiser to
submit to a few inconveniences arising from the dispassionate deafness
of laws, than to remedy them by applying to the passionate open ears
of a tyrant.
  Nor can the example of the gypsies, though possibly they may have
long been happy under this form of government, be here urged; since we
must remember the very material respect in which they differ from
all other people, and to which perhaps this their happiness is
entirely owing, namely, that they have no false honours among them,
and that they look on shame as the most grievous punishment in the
world.
                                Chapter 13

  A dialogue between Jones and Partridge

  The honest lovers of liberty will, we doubt not, pardon that long
digression into which we were led at the close of the last chapter, to
prevent our history from being applied to the use of the most
pernicious doctrine which priestcraft had ever the wickedness or the
impudence to preach.
  We will now proceed with Mr. Jones, who, when the storm was over,
took leave of his Egyptian majesty, after many thanks for his
courteous behaviour and kind entertainment, and set out for
Coventry; to which place (for it was still dark) a gypsy was ordered
to conduct him.
  Jones having, by reason of his deviation, travelled eleven miles
instead of six, and most of those through very execrable roads,
where no expedition could have been made in quest of a midwife, did
not arrive at Coventry till near twelve. Nor could he possibly get
again into the saddle till past two; for post-horses were now not easy
to get; nor were the hostler or post-boy in half so great a hurry as
himself, but chose rather to imitate the tranquil disposition of
Partridge; who, being denied the nourishment of sleep, took all
opportunities to supply its place with every other kind of
nourishment, and was never better pleased than when he arrived at an
inn, nor ever more dissatisfied than when he was again forced to leave
it.
  Jones now travelled post; we will follow him, therefore, according
to our custom, and to the rules of Longinus, in the same manner.
From Coventry he arrived at Daventry, from Daventry at Stratford,
and from Stratford at Dunstable, whither he came the next day a little
after noon, and within a few hours after Sophia had left it; and
though he was obliged to stay here longer than he wished, while a
smith, with great deliberation, shoed the posthorse he was to ride, he
doubted not but to overtake his Sophia before she should set out
from St. Albans; at which place he concluded, and very reasonably,
that his lordship would stop and dine.
  And had he been right in this conjecture, he most probably would
have overtaken his angel at the aforesaid place; but unluckily my lord
had appointed a dinner to be prepared for him at his own house in
London, and, in order to enable him to reach that place in proper
time, he had ordered a relay of horses to meet him at St. Albans. When
Jones therefore arrived there, he was informed that the
coach-and-six had set out two hours before.
  If fresh post-horses had been now ready, as they were not, it seemed
so apparently impossible to overtake the coach before it reached
London, that Partridge thought he had now a proper opportunity to
remind his friend of a matter which he seemed entirely to have
forgotten; what this was the reader will guess, when we inform him
that Jones had eat nothing more than one poached egg since he had left
the alehouse where he had first met the guide returning from Sophia;
for with the gypsies he had feasted only his understanding.
  The landlord so entirely agreed with the opinion of Mr. Partridge,
that he no sooner heard the latter desire his friend to stay and dine,
than he very readily put in his word, and retracting his promise
before given of furnishing the horses immediately, he assured Mr.
Jones he would lose no time in bespeaking a dinner, which, he said,
could be got ready sooner than it was possible to get the horses up
from grass, and to prepare them for their journey by a feed of corn.
  Jones was at length prevailed on, chiefly by the latter argument
of the landlord; and now a joint of mutton was put down to the fire.
While this was preparing, Partridge, being admitted into the same
apartment with his friend or master, began to harangue in the
following manner.
  "Certainly, sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you deserve
young Madam Western; for what a vast quantity of love must a man have,
to be able to live upon it without any other food, as you do? I am
positive I have eat thirty times as much within these last twenty-four
hours as your honour, and yet I am almost famished; for nothing
makes a man so hungry as travelling, especially in this cold raw
weather. And yet I can't tell how it is, but your honour is
seemingly in perfect good health, and you never looked better nor
fresher in your life. It must be certainly love that you live upon."
  "And a very rich diet too, Partridge," answered Jones. "But did
not fortune send me an excellent dainty yesterday? Dost thou imagine I
cannot live more than twenty-four hours on this dear pocket-book?"
  "Undoubtedly," cries Partridge, "there is enough in that pocket-book
to purchase many a good meal. Fortune sent it to your honour very
opportunely for present use, as your honour's money must be almost out
by this time."
  "What do you mean?" answered Jones; "I hope you don't imagine that I
should be dishonest enough, even if it belonged to any other person,
besides Miss Western-"
  "Dishonest!" replied Partridge, "heaven forbid I should wrong your
honour so much! but where's the dishonesty in borrowing a little for
present spending, since you will be so well able to pay the lady
hereafter? No, indeed, I would have your honour pay it again, as
soon as it is convenient, by all means; but where can be the harm in
making use of it now you want it? Indeed, if it belonged to a poor
body, it would be another thing; but so great a lady, to be sure,
can never want it, especially now as she is along with a lord, who, it
can't be doubted, will let her have whatever she hath need of.
Besides, if she should want a little, she can't want the whole,
therefore I would give her a little; but I would be hanged before I
mentioned the having found it at first, and before I got some money of
my own; for London, I have heard, is the very worst of places to be in
without money. Indeed, if I had not known to whom it belonged, I might
have thought it was the devil's money, and have been afraid to use it;
but as you know otherwise, and came honestly by it, it would be an
affront to fortune to part with it all again, at the very time when
you want it most; you can hardly expect she should ever do you such
another good turn; for fortuna nunquam perpetuo est bona.* You will do
as you please, notwithstanding all I say; but for my part, I would
be hanged before I mentioned a word of the matter."

  *Fortune is never good forever.

  "By what I can see, Partridge," cries Jones, "hanging is a matter
non longe alienum a Scaevolae studiis." "You should say alienus," says
Partridge.- "I remember the passage; it is an example under communis,
alienus, immunis, variis casibus serviunt." "It you do remember it,"
cries Jones, "I find you don't understand it; but I tell thee, friend,
in plain English, that he who finds another's property, and wilfully
detains it from the known owner, deserves, in foro conscientiae, to be
hanged no less than if he had stolen it. And as for this very
identical bill, which is the property of my angel, and was once in her
dear possession, I will not deliver it into any hands but her own,
upon any consideration whatever, no, though I was as hungry as thou
art, and had no other means to satisfy my craving appetite; this I
hope to do before I sleep; but if it should happen otherwise, I charge
thee, if thou would'st not incur my displeasure for ever, not to shock
me any more by the bare mention of such detestable baseness."
  "I should not have mentioned it now," cries Partridge, "if it had
appeared so to me; for I'm sure I scorn any wickedness as much as
another; but perhaps you know better; and yet I might have imagined
that I should not have lived so many years, and have taught school
so long, without being able to distinguish between fas et nefas: but
it seems we are all to live and learn. I remember my old schoolmaster,
who was a prodigious great scholar, used often to say, Polly matete
cry town is my daskalon. The English of which, he told us, was, That a
child may sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I have lived
to a fine purpose, truly, if I am to be taught my grammar at this time
of day. Perhaps, young gentleman, you may change your opinion, if
you live to my years: for I remember I thought myself as wise when I
was a stripling of one or two and twenty as I am now. I am sure I
always taught alienus, and my master read it so before me."
  There were not many instances in which Partridge could provoke
Jones, nor were there many in which Partridge himself could have
been hurried out of his respect. Unluckily, however, they had both hit
on one of these. We have already seen Partridge could not bear to have
his learning attacked, nor could Jones bear some passage or other in
the foregoing speech. And now, looking upon his companion with a
contemptuous and disdainful air (a thing not usual with him), he
cried, "Partridge, I see thou art a conceited old fool, and I wish
thou are not likewise an old rogue. Indeed, if I was as well convinced
of the latter as I am of the former, thou should'st travel no
farther in my company."
  The sage pedagogue was contented with the vent which he had
already given to his indignation; and, as the vulgar phrase is,
immediately drew in his horns. He said, he was sorry he had uttered
anything which might give offence, for that he had never intended
it; but Nemo omnibus horis sapit.*

  *No one is wise all the time.

  As Jones had the vices of a warm disposition, he was entirely free
from those of a cold one; and if his friends must have confest his
temper to have been a little too easily ruffled, his enemies must at
the same time have confest, that it as soon subsided; nor did it at
all resemble the sea, whose swelling is more violent and dangerous
after a storm is over, than while the storm itself subsists. He
instantly accepted the submission of Partridge, shook him by the hand,
and, with the most benign aspect imaginable, said twenty kind
things, and at the same time very severely condemned himself, though
not half so severely as he will most probably be condemned by many
of our good readers.
  Partridge was now highly comforted, as his fears of having
offended were at once abolished, and his pride completely satisfied by
Jones having owned himself in the wrong, which submission he instantly
applied to what had principally nettled him, and repeated in a
muttering voice, "To be sure, sir, your knowledge may be superior to
mine in some things; but as to the grammar, I think I may challenge
any man living. I think, at least, I have that at my finger's end."
  If anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man now
enjoyed, he received this addition by the arrival of an excellent
shoulder of mutton, that at this instant came smoaking to the table.
On which, having both plentifully feasted, they again mounted their
horses, and set forward for London.
                                Chapter 14

  What happened to Mr. Jones in his journey from St. Albans

  They were got about two miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the dusk
of the evening, when a genteel-looking man, but upon a very shabby
horse, rode up to Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London;
to which Jones answered in the affirmative. The gentleman replied,
"I should be obliged to you, sir, if you will accept of my company;
for it is very late, and I am a stranger to the road." Jones readily
complied with the request; and on they travelled together, holding
that sort of discourse which is usual on such occasions.
  Of this, indeed, robbery was the principal topic: upon which subject
the stranger expressed great apprehensions; but Jones declared he
had very little to lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here
Partridge could not forbear putting in his word. "Your honour," said
he, "may think it a little, but I am sure, if I had a hundred-pound
bank-note in my pocket, as you have, I should be very sorry to lose
it; but, for my part, I never was less afraid in my life; for we are
four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best man in
England can't rob us. Suppose he should have a pistol, he can kill but
one of us, and a man can die but once.- That's my comfort, a man can
die but once."
  Besides the reliance on superior numbers, a kind of valour which
hath raised a certain nation among the moderns to a high pitch of
glory, there was another reason for the extraordinary courage which
Partridge now discovered; for he had at present as much of that
quality as was in the power of liquor to bestow.
  Our company were now arrived within a mile of Highgate, when the
stranger turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a pistol, demanded
that little bank-note which Partridge had mentioned.
  Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected demand;
however, he presently recollected himself, and told the highwayman,
all the money he had in his pocket was entirely at his service; and so
saying, he pulled out upwards of three guineas, and offered to deliver
it; but the other answered with an oath, That would not do. Jones
answered coolly, he was very sorry for it, and returned the money into
his pocket.
  The highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the
bank-note that moment, he must shoot him; holding his pistol at the
same time very near to his breast. Jones instantly caught hold of
the fellow's hand, which trembled so that he could scarce hold the
pistol in it, and turned the muzzle from him. A struggle then
ensued, in which the former wrested the pistol from the hand of his
antagonist, and both came from their horses on the ground together,
the highwayman upon his back, and the victorious Jones upon him.
  The poor fellow now began to implore mercy of the conqueror: for, to
say the truth, he was in strength by no means a match for Jones.
"Indeed, sir," says he, "I could have had no intention to shoot you;
for you will find the pistol was not loaded. This is the first robbery
I ever attempted, and I have been driven by distress to this."
  At this instant, at about a hundred and fifty yards' distance, lay
another person on the ground, roaring for mercy in a much louder voice
than the highwayman. This was no other than Partridge himself, who,
endeavouring to make his escape from the engagement, had been thrown
from his horse, and lay flat on his face, not daring to look up, and
expecting every minute to be shot.
  In this posture he lay, till the guide, who was no otherwise
concerned than for his horses, having secured the stumbling beast,
came up to him, and told him his master had got the better of the
highwayman.
  Partridge leapt up at this news, and ran back to the place where
Jones stood with his sword drawn in his hand to guard the poor fellow;
which Partridge no sooner saw, than he cried out, "Kill the villain,
sir, run him through the body, kill him this instant!"
  Luckily, however, for the poor wretch, he had fallen into more
merciful hands; for Jones having examined the pistol, and found it
to be really unloaded, began to believe all the man had told him,
before Partridge came up: namely, that he was a novice in the trade,
and that he had been driven to it by the distress he mentioned, the
greatest indeed imaginable, that of five hungry children, and a wife
lying in of the sixth, in the utmost want and misery. The truth of all
which the highwayman most vehemently asserted, and offered to convince
Mr. Jones of it, if he would take the trouble to go to his house,
which was not above two miles off; saying, "That he desired no favour,
but upon condition of proving all he had alledged."
  Jones at first pretended that he would take the fellow at his word
and go with him, declaring that his fate should depend entirely on the
truth of his story. Upon this the poor fellow immediately expressed so
much alacrity, that Jones was perfectly satisfied with his veracity,
and began now to entertain sentiments of compassion for him. He
returned the fellow his empty pistol, advised him to think of honester
means of relieving his distress, and gave him a couple of guineas
for the immediate support of his wife and his family; adding, "he
wished he had more for his sake, for the hundred pound that had been
mentioned was not his own."
  Our readers will probably be divided in their opinions concerning
this action; some may applaud it perhaps as an act of extraordinary
humanity, while those of a more saturnine temper will consider it as a
want of regard to that justice which every man owes his country.
Partridge certainly saw it in that light; for he testified much
dissatisfaction on the occasion, quoted an old proverb, and said, he
should not wonder if the rogue attacked them again before they reached
London.
  The highwayman was full of expressions of thankfulness and
gratitude. He actually dropt tears, or pretended so to do. He vowed he
would immediately return home, and would never afterwards commit
such a transgression: whether he kept his word or no, perhaps may
appear hereafter.
  Our travellers having remounted their horses, arrived in town
without encountering any new mishap. On the road much pleasant
discourse passed between Jones and Partridge, on the subject of their
last adventure: in which Jones exprest a great compassion for those
highwaymen who are, by unavoidable distress, driven, as it were, to
such illegal courses as generally bring them to a shameful death: "I
mean," said he, "those only whose highest guilt extends no farther
than to robbery, and who are never guilty of cruelty nor insult to any
person, which is a circumstance that, I must say, to the honour of our
country, distinguishes the robbers of England from those of all
other nations; for murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably
incident to robbery."
  "No doubt," answered Partridge, "it is better to take away one's
money than one's life; and yet it is very hard upon honest men, that
they can't travel about their business without being in danger of
these villains. And to be sure it would be better that all rogues were
hanged out of the way, than that one honest man should suffer. For
my own part, indeed, I should not care to have the blood of any of
them on my hands; but it is very proper for the law to hang them
all. What right hath any man to take sixpence from me, unless I give
it him? Is there any honesty in such a man?"
  "No, surely," cries Jones, "no more than there is in him who takes
the horses out of another man's stable, or who applies to his own
use the money which he finds, when he knows the right owner."
  These hints stopt the mouth of Partridge; nor did he open it again
till Jones, having thrown some sarcastical jokes on his cowardice,
he offered to excuse himself on the inequality of firearms, saying, "A
thousand naked men are nothing to one pistol; for though it is true it
will kill but one at a single discharge, yet who can tell but that one
may be himself?"
                                   BOOK XIII
                      CONTAINING THE SPACE OF TWELVE DAYS
                                Chapter 1

  An invocation

  Come, bright love of fame, inspire my glowing breast: not thee I
call, who, over swelling tides of blood and tears, dost bear the heroe
on to glory, while sighs of millions waft his spreading sails; but
thee, fair, gentle maid, whom Mnesis, happy nympth, first on the banks
of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Maeonia educated, whom Mantua
charmed, and who, on that fair hill which overlooks the proud
metropolis of Britain, sat'st, with thy Milton, sweetly tuning the
heroic lyre; fill my ravished fancy with the hopes of charming ages
yet to come. Foretel me that some tender maid, whose grandmother is
yet unborn, hereafter, when, under the fictitious name of Sophia,
she reads the real worth which once existed in my Charlotte, shall
from her sympathetic breast send forth the heaving sigh. Do thou teach
me not only to foresee, but to enjoy, nay, even to feed on future
praise. Comfort me by a solemn assurance, that when the little parlour
in which I sit at this instant shall be reduced to a worse furnished
box, I shall be read with honour by those who never knew nor saw me,
and whom I shall neither know nor see.
  And thou, much plumper dame, whom no airy forms nor phantoms of
imagination cloathe; whom the well-seasoned beef, and pudding richly
stained with plums, delight: thee I call: of whom in a treckschuyte,
in some Dutch canal, the fat Jufvrouw Gelt, impregnated by a jolly
merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: in Grub-street school didst thou
suck in the clements of thy erudition. Here hast thou, in thy
maturer age, taught poetry to tickle not the fancy, but the pride of
the patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn air; while
tragedy storms aloud, and rends th' affrighted theatres with its
thunders. To soothe thy wearied limbs in slumber, Alderman History
tells his tedious tale; and, again, to awaken thee, Monsieur Romance
performs his surprizing tricks of dexterity. Nor less thy well-fed
bookseller obeys thy influence. By thy advice the heavy, unread, folio
lump, which long had dozed on the dusty shelf, piecemealed into
numbers, runs nimbly through the nation. Instructed by thee, some
books, like quacks, impose on the world by promising wonders; while
others turn beaus, and trust all their merits to a gilded outside.
Come, thou jolly substance, with thy shining face, keep back thy
inspiration, but hold forth thy tempting rewards; thy shining,
chinking heap; thy quickly convertible bank-bill, big with unseen
riches; thy often-varying stock; the warm, the comfortable house; and,
lastly, a fair portion of that bounteous mother, whose flowing breasts
yield redundant sustenance for all her numerous offspring, did not
some too greedily and wantonly drive their brethren from the teat.
Come thou, and if I am too tasteless of thy valuable treasures, warm
my heart with the transporting thought of conveying them to others.
Tell me, that through thy bounty, the pratling babes, whose innocent
play hath often been interrupted by my labours, may one time be
amply rewarded for them.
  And now this ill-yoked pair, this lean shadow and this fat
substance, have prompted me to write, whose assistance shall I
invoke to direct my pen?
  First, Genius; thou gift of Heaven; without whose aid in vain we
struggle against the stream of nature. Thou who dost sow the
generous seeds which art nourishes, and brings to perfection. Do
thou kindly take me by the hand, and lead me through all the mazes,
the winding labyrinths of nature. Initiate me into all those mysteries
which profane eyes never beheld. Teach me, which to thee is no
difficult task, to know mankind better than they know themselves.
Remove that mist which dims the intellects of mortals, and causes them
to adore men for their art, or to detest them for their cunning, in
deceiving others, when they are, in reality, the objects only of
ridicule, for deceiving themselves. Strip off the thin disguise of
wisdom from self-conceit, of plenty from avarice, and of glory from
ambition. Come, thou that hast inspired thy Aristophanes, thy
Lucian, thy Cervantes, thy Rabelais, thy Moliere, thy Shakespear,
thy Swift, thy Marivaux, fill my pages with humour; till mankind learn
the good-nature to laugh only at the follies of others, and the
humility to grieve at their own.
  And thou, almost the constant attendant on true genius, Humanity,
bring all thy tender sensations. If thou hast already disposed of them
all between thy Allen and thy Lyttleton, steal them a little while
from their bosoms. Not without these the tender scene is painted. From
these alone proceed the noble, disinterested friendship, the melting
love, the generous sentiment, the ardent gratitude, the soft
compassion, the candid opinion; and all those strong energies of
a good mind, which fill the moistened eyes with tears, the glowing
cheeks with blood, and swell the heart with tides of grief, joy, and
benevolence.
  And thou, O Learning! (for without thy assistance nothing pure,
nothing correct, can genius produce) do thou guide my pen. Thee in thy
favourite fields, where the limpid, gently-rolling Thames washes thy
Etonian banks, in early youth I have worshipped. To thee, at thy
birchen altar, with true Spartan devotion, I have sacrificed my blood.
Come then, and from thy vast, luxuriant stores, in long antiquity
piled up, pour forth the rich profusion. Open thy Maeonian and thy
Mantuan coffers, with whatever else includes thy philosophic, thy
poetic, and thy historical treasures, whether with Greek or Roman
characters thou hast chosen to inscribe the ponderous chests: give
me a while that key to all thy treasures, which to thy Warburton
thou hast entrusted.
  Lastly, come Experience, long conversant with the wise, the good,
the learned, and the polite. Nor with them only, but with every kind
of character, from the minister at his levee, to the bailiff in his
spunging-house; from the dutchess at her drum, to the landlady
behind her bar. From thee only can the manners of mankind be known; to
which the recluse pedant, however great his parts or extensive his
learning may be, hath ever been a stranger.
  Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the task I
have undertaken; and, without all your assistance, will, I find, be
too heavy for me to support. But if you all smile on my labours, I
hope still to bring them to a happy conclusion.
                                Chapter 2

  What befel Mr. Jones on his arrival in London

  The learned Dr. Misaubin used to say, that the proper direction to
him was To Dr. Misaubin, in the World; intimating that there were
few people in it to whom his great reputation was not known. And,
perhaps, upon a very nice examination into the matter, we shall find
that this circumstance bears no inconsiderable part among the many
blessings of grandeur.
  The great happiness of being known to posterity, with the hopes of
which we so delighted ourselves in the preceding chapter, is the
portion of few. To have the several elements which compose our
names, as Sydenham expresses it, repeated a thousand years hence, is a
gift beyond the power of title and wealth; and is scarce to be
purchased, unless by the sword and the pen. But to avoid the
scandalous imputation, while we yet live, of being one whom nobody
knows (a scandal, by the bye, as old as the days of Homer*), will
always be the envied portion of those, who have a legal title either
to honour or estate.

  *See Odyssey II.

  From that figure, therefore, which the Irish peer, who brought
Sophia to town, hath already made in this history, the reader will
conclude, doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have
discovered his house in London without knowing the particular street
or square which he inhabited, since he must have been one whom
everybody knows. To say the truth, so it would have been to any of
those tradesmen who are accustomed to attend the regions of the great;
for the doors of the great are generally no less easy to find than
it is difficult to get entrance into them. But Jones, as well at
Partridge, was an entire stranger in London; and as he happened to
arrive first in a quarter of the town, the inhabitants of which have
very little intercourse with the householders of Hanover or
Grosvenor-square (for he entered through Gray's-inn-lane), so he
rambled about some time, before he could even find his way to those
happy mansions where fortune segregates from the vulgar those
magnanimous heroes, the descendants of antient Britons, Saxons, or
Danes, whose ancestors, being born in better days, by sundry kinds
of merit, have entailed riches and honour on their posterity.
  Jones, being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian
fields, would now soon have discovered his lordship's mansion; but the
peer unluckily quitted his former house when he went for Ireland;
and as he was just entered into a new one, the fame of his equipage
had not yet sufficiently blazed in the neighbourhood; so that, after a
successless inquiry till the clock had struck eleven, Jones at last
yielded to the advice of Partridge, and retreated to the Bull and Gate
in Holborn, that being the inn where he had first alighted, and
where he retired to enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends
persons in his circumstances.
  Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia; and
many a weary step he took to no better purpose than before. At last,
whether it was that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in
her power to disappoint him, he came into the very street which was
honoured by his lordship's residence; and, being directed to the
house, he gave one gentle rap at the door.
  The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had conceived no
high idea of the person approaching, conceived but little better
from the appearance of Mr. Jones, who was drest in a suit of
fustian, and had by his side the weapon formerly purchased of the
serjeant; of which, though the blade might be composed of
well-tempered steel, the handle was composed only of brass, and that
none of the brightest. When Jones, therefore, enquired after the young
lady who had come to town with his lordship, this fellow answered
surlily, "That there were no ladies there." Jones then desired to
see the master of the house; but was informed that his lordship
would see nobody that morning. And upon growing more pressing the
porter said, "he had positive orders to let no person in; but if you
think proper," said he, "to leave your name, I will acquaint his
lordship; and if you call another time you shall know when he will see
you."
  Jones now declared, "that he had very particular business with the
young lady, and could not depart without seeing her." Upon which the
porter, with no very agreeable voice or aspect, affirmed, "that
there was no young lady in that house, and consequently none could
he see;" adding, "sure you are the strangest man I ever met with,
for you will not take an answer."
  I have often thought that, by the particular description of
Cerberus, the porter of hell, in the 6th AEneid, Virgil might possibly
intend to satirize the porters of the great men in his time; the
picture, at least, resembles those who have the honour to attend at
the doors of our great men. The porter in his lodge answers exactly to
Cerberus in his den, and, like him, must be appeased by a sop before
access can be gained to his master. Perhaps Jones might have seen
him in that light, and have recollected the passage where the Sibyl,
in order to procure an entrance for Eneas, presents the keeper of
the Stygian avenue with such a sop. Jones, in like manner, now began
to offer a bribe to the human Cerberus, which a footman overhearing,
instantly advanced, and declared, "if Mr. Jones would give him the sum
proposed, he would conduct him to the lady." Jones instantly agreed,
and was forthwith conducted to the lodging of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, by the
very fellow who had attended the ladies thither the day before.
  Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach to
good. The gamester, who loses his party at piquet by a single point,
laments his bad luck ten times as much as he who never came within a
prospect of the game. So in a lottery, the proprietors of the next
numbers to that which wins the great prize, are apt to account
themselves much more unfortunate than their fellow-suffers. In
short, these kind of hairbreadth missings of happiness look like the
insults of Fortune, who may be considered as thus playing tricks
with us, and wantonly diverting herself at our expense.
  Jones, who more than once already had experienced this frolicsome
disposition of the heathen goddess, was now again doomed to be
tantalized in the like manner; for he arrived at the door of Mrs.
Fitzpatrick about ten minutes after the departure of Sophia. He now
addressed himself to the waiting-woman belonging to Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, who told him the disagreeable news that the lady was
gone, but could not tell him whither; and the same answer he
afterwards received from Mrs. Fitzpatrick herself. For as that lady
made no doubt but that Mr. Jones was a person detached from her
uncle Western, in pursuit of his daughter, so she was too generous
to betray her.
  Though Jones had never seen Mrs. Fitzpatrick, yet he had heard
that a cousin of Sophia was married to a gentleman of that name. This,
however, in the present tumult of his mind, never once recurred to his
memory; but when the footman, who had conducted him from his
lordship's, acquainted him with the great intimacy between the ladies,
and with their calling each other cousin, he then recollected the
story of the marriage which he had formerly heard; and as he was
presently convinced that this was the same woman, he became more
surprized at the answer which he had received, and very earnestly
desired leave to wait on the lady herself; but she positively
refused him that honour.
  Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred than
most who frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt behaviour to
a lady. When he had received, therefore, a peremptory denial, he
retired for the present, saying to the waiting-woman, "That if this
was an improper hour to wait on her lady, he would return in the
afternoon; and that he then hoped to have the honour of seeing her."
The civility with which he uttered this, added to the great comeliness
of his person, made an impression on the waiting-woman, and she
could not help answering; "Perhaps, sir, you may;" and, indeed, she
afterwards said everything to her mistress, which she thought most
likely to prevail on her to admit a visit from the handsome young
gentleman; for so she called him.
  Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now with her
cousin, and was denied to him; which he imputed to her resentment of
what had happened at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to
procure him lodgings, he remained all day in the street, watching
the door where he thought his angel lay concealed; but no person did
he see issue forth, except a servant of the house, and in the
evening he returned to pay his visit to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, which that
good lady at last condescended to admit.
  There is a certain air of natural gentility, which it is neither
in the power of dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr. Jones, as hath been
before hinted, was possessed of this in a very eminent degree. He met,
therefore, with a reception from the lady, somewhat different from
what his apparel seemed to demand; and after he had paid her his
proper respects, was desired to sit down.
  The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the
particulars of this conversation, which ended very little to the
satisfaction of poor Jones. For though Mrs. Fitzpatrick soon
discovered the lover (as all women have the eyes of hawks in those
matters), yet she still thought it was such a lover, as a generous
friend of the lady should not betray her to. In short, she suspected
this was the very Mr. Blifil, from whom Sophia had flown; and all
the answers which she artfully drew from Jones, concerning Mr.
Allworthy's family, confirmed her in this opinion. She therefore
strictly denied any knowledge concerning the place whither Sophia
was gone; nor could Jones obtain more than a permission to wait on her
again the next evening.
  When Jones was departed, Mrs. Fitzpatrick communicated her suspicion
concerning Mr. Blifil to her maid; who answered, "Sure, madam, he is
too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any woman in the world to run
away from. I had rather fancy it is Mr. Jones."- "Mr. Jones!" said
the lady, "what Jones?" For Sophia had not given the least hint of any
such person in all their conversation; but Mrs. Honour had been much
more communicative, and had acquainted her sister Abigail with the
whole history of Jones, which this now again related to her mistress.
  Mrs. Fitzpatrick no sooner received this information, than she
immediately agreed with the opinion of her maid; and, what is very
unaccountable, saw charms in the gallant, happy lover, which she had
overlooked in the slighted squire. "Betty," says she, "you are
certainly in the right: he is a very pretty fellow, and I don't wonder
that my cousin's maid should tell you so many women are fond of him. I
am sorry now I did not inform him where my cousin was; and yet, if
he be so terrible a rake as you tell me, it is a pity she should
ever see him any more; for what but her ruin can happen from
marrying a rake and a beggar against her father's consent? I
protest, if he be such a man as the wench described him to you, it
is but an office of charity to keep her from him; and I am sure it
would be unpardonable in me to do otherwise, who have tasted so
bitterly of the misfortunes attending such marriages."
  Here she was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, which was no
other than his lordship; and as nothing passed at this visit either
new or extraordinary, or any ways material to this history, we shall
here put an end to this chapter.
                                Chapter 3

  A project of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and her visit to Lady Bellaston

  When Mrs. Fitzpatrick retired to rest, her thoughts were entirely
taken up by her cousin Sophia and Mr. Jones. She was, indeed, a little
offended with the former, for the disingenuity which she now
discovered. In which meditation she had not long exercised her
imagination, before the following conceit suggested itself; that could
she possibly become the means of preserving Sophia from this man,
and of restoring her to her father, she should, in all human
probability, by so great a service to the family, reconcile to herself
both her uncle and her aunt Western.
  As this was one of her most favourite wishes, so the hope of success
seemed so reasonable, that nothing remained but to consider of
proper methods to accomplish her scheme. To attempt to reason the case
with Sophia did not appear to her one of those methods: for as Betty
had reported from Mrs. Honour, that Sophia had a violent inclination
to Jones, she conceived that to dissuade her from the match was an
endeavour of the same kind, as it would be very heartily and earnestly
to entreat a moth not to fly into a candle.
  If the reader will please to remember, that the acquaintance which
Sophia had with Lady Bellaston was contracted at the house of Mrs.
Western, and must have grown at the very time when Mrs. Fitzpatrick
lived with this latter lady, he will want no information, that Mrs.
Fitzpatrick must have been acquainted with her likewise. They were,
besides, both equally her distant relations.
  After much consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early in the
morning to that lady, and endeavour to see her, unknown to Sophia, and
to acquaint her with the whole affair. For she did not in the least
doubt, but that the prudent lady, who had often ridiculed romantic
love, and indiscreet marriages, in her conversation, would very
readily concur in her sentiments concerning this match, and would lend
her utmost assistance to prevent it.
  This resolution she accordingly executed; and the next morning
before the sun, she huddled on her cloaths, and at a very
unfashionable, unseasonable, unvisitable hour, went to Lady Bellaston,
to whom she got access, without the least knowledge or suspicion of
Sophia, who, though not asleep, lay at that time awake in her bed,
with Honour snoring by her side.
  Mrs. Fitzpatrick made many apologies for an early abrupt visit, at
an hour when, she said, "she should not have thought of disturbing her
ladyship, but upon business of the utmost consequence." She then
opened the whole affair, told all she had heard from Betty; and did
not forget the visit which Jones had paid to herself the preceding
evening.
  Lady Bellaston answered with a smile, "Then you have seen this
terrible man, madam; pray, is he so very fine a figure as he is
represented? for Etoff entertained me last night almost two hours with
him. The wench, I believe, is in love with him by reputation." Here
the reader will be apt to wonder; but the truth is, that Mrs. Etoff,
who had the honour to pin and unpin the Lady Bellaston, had received
compleat information concerning the said Mr. Jones, and had faithfully
conveyed the same to her lady last night (or rather that morning)
while she was undressing; on which accounts she had been detained in
her office above the space of an hour and a half.
  The lady indeed, though generally well enough pleased with the
narratives of Mrs. Etoff at those seasons, gave an extraordinary
attention to her account of Jones; for Honour had described him as a
very handsome fellow, and Mrs. Etoff, in her hurry, added so much to
the beauty of his person to her report, that Lady Bellaston began to
conceive him to be a kind of miracle in nature.
  The curiosity which her woman had inspired was now greatly increased
by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who spoke as much in favour of the person of
Jones as she had before spoken in dispraise of his birth, character,
and fortune.
  When Lady Bellaston had heard the whole, she answered gravely,
"Indeed, madam, this is a matter of great consequence. Nothing can
certainly be more commendable than the part you act; and I shall be
very glad to have my share in the preservation of a young lady of so
much merit, and for whom I have so much esteem."
  "Doth not your ladyship think," says Mrs. Fitzpatrick eagerly, "that
it would be the best way to write immediately to my uncle, and
acquaint him where my cousin is?"
  The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered- "Why, no,
madam, I think not. Di Western hath described her brother to me to
be such a brute, that I cannot consent to put any woman under his
power who hath escaped from it. I have heard he behaved like a monster
to his own wife, for he is one of those wretches who think they have a
right to tyrannise over us, and from such I shall ever esteem it the
cause of my sex to rescue any woman who is so unfortunate to be
under their power.- The business, dear cousin, will be only to keep
Miss Western from seeing this young fellow, till the good company
which she will have an opportunity of meeting here, give her a
properer turn."
  "If he should find out her, madam," answered the other, "your
ladyship may be assured he will leave nothing unattempted to come at
her."
  "But, madam," replied the lady, "it is impossible he should come
here- though indeed it is possible he may get some intelligence where
she is, and then may lurk about the house- I wish therefore I knew
his person. Is there no way, madam, by which I could have a sight of
him? for, otherwise, you know, cousin, she may contrive to see him
here without my knowledge."
  Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered, "That he had threatened her with
another visit that afternoon, and that, if her ladyship pleased to
do her the honour of calling upon her then, she would hardly fail of
seeing him between six and seven: and if he came earlier she would, by
some means or other, detain him till her ladyship's arrival."- Lady
Bellaston replied, "She would come the moment she could get from
dinner, which she supposed would be by seven at farthest; for that
it was absolutely necessary she should be acquainted with his
person. Upon my word, madam," says she, "it was very good to take this
care of Miss Western; but common humanity, as well as regard to our
family, requires it of us both; for it would be a dreadful match
indeed."
  Mrs. Fitzpatrick failed not to make a proper return to the
compliment which Lady Bellaston had bestowed on her cousin, and, after
some little immaterial conversation, withdrew; and, getting as fast as
she could into her chair, unseen by Sophia or Honour, returned home.
                                Chapter 4

  Which consists of visiting

  Mr. Jones had walked within sight of a certain door during the whole
day, which, though one of the shortest, appeared to him to be one of
the longest in the whole year. At length, the clock having struck
five, he returned to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who, though it was a full
hour earlier than the decent time of visiting, received him very
civilly; but still persisted in her ignorance concerning Sophia.
  Jones, in asking for his angel, had dropped the word cousin, upon
which Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, "Then, sir, you know we are related: and,
as we are, you will permit me the right of inquiring into the
particulars of your business with my cousin." Here Jones hesitated a
good while, and at last answered, "He had a considerable sum of
money of hers in his hands, which he desired to deliver to her." He
then produced the pocket-book, and acquainted Mrs. Fitzpatrick with
the contents, and with the method in which they came into his hands.
He had scarce finished his story, when a most violent noise shook
the whole house. To attempt to describe this noise to those who have
heard it would be in vain; and to aim at giving any idea of it to
those who have never heard the like, would be still more vain: for
it may be truly said-

     --------Non acuta
     Sic geminant Corybantes aera.

The priests of Cybele do not so rattle their sounding brass.
  In short, a footman knocked, or rather thundered, at the door. Jones
was a little surprized at the sound, having never heard it before; but
Mrs. Fitzpatrick very calmly said, that, as some company were
coming, she could not make him any answer now; but if he pleased to
stay till they were gone, she intimated she had something to say to
him.
  The door of the room now flew open, and, after pushing in her hoop
sideways before her; entered Lady Bellaston, who having first made a
very low courtesy to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and as low a one to Mr.
Jones, was ushered to the upper end of the room.
  We mention these minute matters for the sake of some country
ladies of our acquaintance, who think it contrary to the rules of
modesty to bend their knees to a man.
  The company were hardly well settled, before the arrival of the peer
lately mentioned, caused a fresh disturbance, and a repetition of
ceremonials.
  These being over, the conversation began to be (as the phrase is)
extremely brilliant. However, as nothing past in it which can be
thought material to this history, or, indeed, very material in itself,
I shall omit the relation; the rather, as I have known some very
fine polite conversation grow extremely dull, when transcribed into
books, or repeated on the stage. Indeed, this mental repast is a
dainty, of which those who are excluded from polite assemblies must be
contented to remain as ignorant as they must of the several dainties
of French cookery, which are served only at the tables of the great.
To say the truth, as neither of these are adapted to every taste, they
might both be of thrown away on the vulgar.
  Poor Jones was rather a spectator of this elegant scene, than an
actor in it; for though, in the short interval before the peer's
arrival, Lady Bellaston first, and afterwards Mrs. Fitzpatrick, had
addressed some of their discourse to him; yet no sooner was the
noble lord entered, than he engrossed the whole attention of the two
ladies to himself; and as he took no more notice of Jones than if no
such person had been present, unless by now and then staring at him,
the ladies followed his example.
  The company had now staid so long, that Mrs. Fitzpatrick plainly
perceived they all designed to stay out each other. She therefore
resolved to rid herself of Jones, he being the visitant to whom she
thought the least ceremony was due. Taking therefore an opportunity of
a cessation of chat, she addressed herself gravely to him, and said,
"Sir, I shall not possibly be able to give you an answer to-night as
to that business; but if you please to leave word where I may send
to you to-morrow--"
  Jones had natural, but not artificial good-breeding. Instead,
therefore, of communicating the secret of his lodgings to a servant,
he acquainted the lady herself with it particularly, and soon after
very ceremoniously withdrew.
  He was no sooner gone, than the great personages, who had taken no
notice of him present, began to take much notice of him in his
absence; but if the reader hath already excused us from relating the
more brilliant part of this conversation, he will surely be ready to
excuse the repetition of what may be called vulgar abuse; though,
perhaps, it may be material to our history to mention an observation
of Lady Bellaston, who took her leave in a few minutes after him,
and then said to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, at her departure, "I am satisfied
on the account of my cousin; she can be in no danger from this
fellow."
  Our history shall follow the example of Lady Bellaston, and take
leave of the present company, which was now reduced to two persons;
between whom, as nothing passed, which in the least concerns us or our
reader, we shall not suffer ourselves to be diverted by it from
matters which must seem of more consequence to all those who are at
all interested in the affairs of our heroe.
                                Chapter 5

  An adventure which happened to Mr. Jones at his lodgings, with
some account of a young gentleman who lodged there, and of the
mistress of the house, and her two daughters

  The next morning, as early as it was decent, Jones attended at
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's door, where he was answered that the lady was not
at home; an answer which surprized him the more, as he had walked
backwards and forwards in the street from break of day; and if she had
gone out, he must have seen her. This answer, however, he was
obliged to receive, and not only now, but to five several visits which
he made her that day.
  To be plain with the reader, the noble peer had from some reason
or other, perhaps from a regard for the lady's honour, insisted that
she should not see Mr. Jones, whom he looked on as a scrub, any
more; and the lady had complied in making that promise to which we now
see her so strictly adhere.
  But as our gentle reader may possibly have a better opinion of the
young gentleman than her ladyship, and may even have some concern,
should it be apprehended that, during this unhappy separation from
Sophia, he took up his residence either at an inn, or in the street;
we shall now give an account of his lodging, which was indeed in a
very reputable house, and in a very good part of the town.
  Mr. Jones, then, had often heard Mr. Allworthy mention the
gentlewoman at whose house he used to lodge when he was in town.
This person, who, as Jones likewise knew, lived in Bond-street, was
the widow of a clergyman, and was left by him, at his decease, in
possession of two daughters, and of a compleat set of manuscript
sermons.
  Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now arrived at the age
of seventeen, and Betty, the younger, at that of ten.
  Hither Jones had dispatched Partridge, and in this house he was
provided with a room for himself in the second floor, and with one for
Partridge in the fourth.
  The first floor was inhabited by one of those young gentlemen,
who, in the last age, were called men of wit and pleasure about
town, and properly enough; for as men are usually denominated from
their business or profession, so pleasure may be said to have been the
only business or profession of those gentlemen to whom fortune had
made all useful occupations unnecessary. Play-houses, coffee-houses,
and taverns were the scenes of their rendezvous. Wit and humour were
the entertainment of their looser hours, and love was the business
of their more serious moments. Wine and the muses conspired to
kindle the brightest flames in their breasts; nor did they only
admire, but some were able to celebrate the beauty they admired, and
all to judge of the merit of such compositions.
  Such, therefore, were properly called the men of wit and pleasure;
but I question whether the same appellation may, with the same
propriety, be given to those young gentlemen of our times, who have
the same ambition to be distinguished for parts. Wit certainly they
have nothing to do with. To give them their due, they soar a step
higher than their predecessors, and may be called men of wisdom and
vertu (take heed you do not read virtue). Thus at an age when the
gentlemen above mentioned employ their time in toasting the charms
of a woman, or in making sonnets in her praise; in giving their
opinion of a play at the theatre, or of a poem at Will's or
Button's; these gentlemen are considering the methods to bribe a
corporation, or meditating speeches for the House of Commons, or
rather for the magazines. But the science of gaming is that which
above all others employs their thoughts. These are the studies of
their graver hours, while for their amusements they have the vast
circle of connoisseurship, painting, music, statuary, and natural
philosophy, or rather unnatural, which deals in the wonderful, and
knows nothing of Nature, except her monsters and imperfections.
  When Jones had spent the whole day in vain inquiries after Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate to his apartment.
Here, while he was venting his grief in private, he heard a violent
uproar below-stairs; and soon after a female voice begged him for
heaven's sake to come and prevent murder. Jones, who was never
backward on any occasion to help the distressed, immediately ran
downstairs; when stepping into the dining-room, whence all the noise
issued, he beheld the young gentleman of wisdom and vertu just
before mentioned, pinned close to the wall by his footman, and a young
woman standing by, wringing her hands, and crying out, "He will be
murdered! he will be murdered!" and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed
in some danger of being choaked, when Jones flew hastily to his
assistance, and rescued him, just as he was breathing his last, from
the unmerciful clutches of the enemy.
  Though the fellow had received several kicks and cuffs from the
little gentleman, who had more spirit than strength, he had made it
a kind of scruple of conscience to strike his master, and would have
contented himself with only choaking him; but towards Jones he bore no
such respect: he no sooner therefore found himself a little roughly
handled by his new antagonist, than he gave him one of those punches
in the guts which, though the spectators at Broughton's amphitheatre
have such exquisite delight in seeing them, convey but very little
pleasure in the feeling.
  The lusty youth had no sooner received this blow, than he
meditated a most grateful return; and now ensued a combat between
Jones and the footman, which was very fierce, but short; for this
fellow was no more able to contend with Jones than his master had
before been to contend with him.
  And now, Fortune, according to her usual custom, reversed the face
of affairs. The former victor lay breathless on the ground, and the
vanquished gentleman had recovered breath enough to thank Mr. Jones
for his seasonable assistance; he received likewise the hearty
thanks of the young woman present, who was indeed no other than Miss
Nancy, the eldest daughter of the house.
  The footman, having now recovered his legs, shook his head at Jones,
and, with a sagacious look, cried- "O d--n me, I'll have nothing more
to do with you; you have been upon the stage, or I'm d--nably
mistaken." And indeed we may forgive this his suspicion; for such was
the agility and strength of our heroe, that he was, perhaps, a match
for one of the first-rate boxers, and could, with great ease, have
beaten all the muffled* graduates of Mr. Broughton's school.

  *Lest posterity should be puzzled by this epithet, I think proper to
explain it by an advertisement which was published Feb. 1, 1747.
  N.B.- Mr. Broughton proposes, with proper assistance, to open an
academy at his house in the Haymarket, for the instruction of those
who are willing to be initiated in the mystery of boxing: where the
whole theory and practice of that truly British art, with all the
various stops, blows, cross-buttocks, &c., incident to combatants,
will be fully taught and explained; and that persons of quality and
distinction may not be deterred from entering into A course of those
lectures, they will be given with the utmost tenderness and regard
to the delicacy of the frame and constitution of the pupil, for
which reason muffles are provided, that will effectually secure them
from the inconveniency of black eyes, broken jaws, and bloody noses.

  The master, foaming with wrath, ordered his man immediately to
strip, to which the latter very readily agreed, on condition of
receiving his wages. This condition was presently complied with, and
the fellow was discharged.
  And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, very
strenuously insisted that his deliverer should take part of a bottle
of wine with him; to which Jones, after much entreaty, consented,
though more out of complacence than inclination; for the uneasiness of
his mind fitted him very little for conversation at this time. Miss
Nancy likewise, who was the only female then in the house, her mamma
and sister being both gone to the play, condescended to favour them
with her company.
  When the bottle and glasses were on the table, the gentleman began
to relate the occasion of the preceding disturbance.
  "I hope, sir," said he to Jones, "you will not from this accident
conclude, that I make a custom of striking my servants, for I assure
you this is the first time I have been guilty of it in my remembrance,
and I have passed by many provoking faults in this very fellow, before
he could provoke me to it; but when you hear what hath happened this
evening, you will, I believe, think me excusable. I happened to come
home several hours before my usual time, when I found four gentlemen
of the cloth at whist by my fire;- and my Hoyle, sir- my best Hoyle,
which cost me a guinea, lying open on the table, with a quantity of
porter spilt on one of the most material leaves of the whole book.
This, you will allow, was provoking; but I said nothing till the
rest of the honest company were gone, and then gave the fellow a
gentle rebuke, who, instead of expressing any concern, made me a
pert answer, 'That servants must have their diversions as well as
other people; that he was sorry for the accident which had happened to
the book, but that several of his acquaintance had bought the same for
a shilling, and that I might stop as much in his wages, if I pleased.'
I now gave him a severer reprimand than before, when the rascal had
the insolence to-- In short, he imputed my early coming home to-- In
short, he cast a reflection-- He mentioned the name of a young lady,
in a manner- in such a manner that incensed me beyond all patience,
and, in my passion, I struck him."
  Jones answered, "That he believed no person living would blame
him; for my part," said he, "I confess I should, on the last-mentioned
provocation, have done the same thing."
  Our company had not sat long before they were joined by the mother
and daughter, at their return from the play. And now they all spent
a very chearful evening together; for all but Jones were heartily
merry, and even he put on as much constrained mirth as possible.
indeed, half his natural flow of animal spirits, joined to the
sweetness of his temper, was sufficient to make a most amiable
companion; and notwithstanding the heaviness of his heart, so
agreeable did he make himself on the present occasion, that, at
their breaking up, the young gentleman earnestly desired his further
acquaintance. Miss Nancy was well pleased with him; and the widow,
quite charmed with her new lodger, invited him, with the other, next
morning to breakfast.
  Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, though a
very little creature, she was extremely pretty, and the widow had
all the charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. As she was one of
the most innocent creatures in the world, so she was one of the most
chearful. She never thought, nor spoke, nor wished any ill, and had
constantly that desire of pleasing, which may be called the happiest
of all desires in this, that it scarce ever fails of attaining its
ends, when not disgraced by affectation. In short, though her power
was very small, she was in her heart one of the warmest friends. She
had been a most affectionate wife, and was a most fond and tender
mother. As our history doth not, like a newspaper, give great
characters to people who never were heard of before, nor will ever
be heard of again, the reader may hence conclude, that this
excellent woman will hereafter appear to be of some importance in
our history.
  Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentleman himself,
whose wine he had been drinking. He thought he discerned in him much
good sense, though a little too much tainted with town-foppery; but
what recommended him most to Jones were some sentiments of great
generosity and humanity, which occasionally dropt from him; and
particularly many expressions of the highest disinterestedness in
the affair of love. On which subject the young gentleman delivered
himself in a language which might have very well become an Arcadian
shepherd of old, and which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding
from the lips of a modern fine gentleman; but he was only one by
imitation, and meant by nature for a much better character.
                                Chapter 6

  What arrived while the company were at breakfast, with some hints
concerning the government of daughters

  Our company brought together in the morning the same good
inclinations towards each other, with which they had separated the
evening before; but poor Jones was extremely disconsolate; for he
had just received information from Partridge, that Mrs. Fitzpatrick
had left her lodging, and that he could not learn whither she was
gone. This news highly afflicted him, and his countenance, as well
as his behaviour, in defiance of all his endeavours to the contrary,
betrayed manifest indications of a disordered mind.
  The discourse turned at present, as before, on love; and Mr.
Nightingale again expressed many of those warm, generous, and
disinterested sentiments upon this subject, which wise and sober men
call romantic, but which wise and sober women generally regard in a
better light. Mrs. Miller (for so the mistress of the house was
called) greatly approved these sentiments; but when the young
gentleman appealed to Miss Nancy, she answered only, "That she
believed the gentleman who had spoke the least was capable of
feeling most."
  This compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we
should have been sorry had he passed it by unregarded. He made her
indeed a very polite answer, and concluded with an oblique hint,
that her own silence subjected to a suspicion of the same kind: for
indeed she had scarce opened her lips either now or the last evening.
  "I am glad, Nanny," says Mrs. Miller, "the gentleman hath made the
observation; I protest I am almost of his opinion. What can be the
matter with you, child? I never saw such an alteration. What is become
of all your gaiety? Would you think, sir, I used to call her my little
pratler? She hath not spoke twenty words this week."
  Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a
maid-servant, who brought a bundle in her hand, which, she said,
"was delivered by a porter for Mr. Jones." She added, "That the man
immediately went away, saying, it required no answer."
  Jones expressed some surprize on this occasion, and declared it must
be some mistake; but the maid persisting that she was certain of the
name, all the women were desirous of having the bundle immediately
opened; which operation was at length performed by little Betsy,
with the consent of Mr. Jones: and the contents were found to be a
domino, a mask, and a masquerade ticket.
  Jones was now more positive than ever in asserting, that these
things must have been delivered by mistake; and Mrs. Miller herself
expressed some doubt, and said, "She knew not what to think." But when
Mr. Nightingale was asked, he delivered a very different opinion. "All
I can conclude from it, sir," said he, "is, that you are a very
happy man; for I make no doubt but these were sent you by some lady
whom you will have the happiness of meeting at the masquerade."
  Jones had not a sufficient degree of vanity to entertain any such
flattering imagination; nor did Mrs. Miller herself give much assent
to what Mr. Nightingale had said, till Miss Nancy having lifted up the
domino, a card dropt from the sleeve; in which was written as
follows:-

                             TO MR. JONES
     The queen of the fairies sends you this;
     Use her favours not amiss.

  Mrs. Miller and Miss Nancy now both agreed with Mr. Nightingale;
nay, Jones himself was almost persuaded to be of the same opinion. And
as no other lady but Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he thought, knew his lodging,
he began to flatter himself with some hopes, that it came from her,
and that he might possibly see his Sophia. These hopes had surely very
little foundation; but as the conduct of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in not
seeing him according to her promise, and in quitting her lodgings, had
been very odd and unaccountable, he conceived some faint hopes, that
she (of whom he had formerly heard a very whimsical character) might
possibly intend to do him that service in a strange manner, which
she declined doing by more ordinary methods. To say the truth, as
nothing certain could be concluded from so odd and uncommon an
incident, he had the greater latitude to draw what imaginary
conclusions from it he pleased. As his temper therefore was
naturally sanguine, he indulged it on this occasion, and his
imagination worked up a thousand conceits, to favour and support his
expectations of meeting his dear Sophia in the evening.
  Reader, if thou hast any good wishes towards me, I will fully
repay them by wishing thee to be possessed of this sanguine
disposition of mind; since, after having read much and considered long
on that subject of happiness which hath employed so many great pens, I
am almost inclined to fix it in the possession of this temper; which
puts us, in a manner, out of the reach of Fortune, and makes us
happy without her assistance. Indeed, the sensations of pleasure it
gives are much more constant, as well as much keener, than those which
that blind lady bestows; nature having wisely contrived, that some
satiety and languor should be annexed to all our real enjoyments, lest
we should be so taken up by them, as to be stopt from further
pursuits. I make no manner of doubt but that, in this light, we may
see the imaginary future chancellor just called to the bar, the
archbishop in crape, and the prime minister at the tail of an
opposition, more truly happy than those who are invested with all
the power and profit of those respective offices.
  Mr. Jones having now determined to go to the masquerade that
evening, Mr. Nightingale offered to conduct him thither. The young
gentleman, at the same time, offered tickets to Miss Nancy and her
mother; but the good woman would not accept them. She said, "she did
not conceive the harm which some people imagined in a masquerade;
but that such extravagant diversions were proper only for persons of
quality and fortune, and not for young women who were to get their
living, and could, at best, hope to be married to a good
tradesman."-- "A tradesman!" cries Nightingale, you shan't undervalue
my Nancy. There is not a nobleman upon earth above her merit." "O fie!
Mr. Nightingale," answered Mrs. Miller, "you must not fill the
girl's head with such fancies: but if it was her good luck" (says
the mother with a simper) "to find a gentleman of your generous way of
thinking, I hope she would make a better return to his generosity than
to give her mind up to extravagant pleasures. Indeed, where young
ladies bring great fortunes themselves, they have some right to insist
on spending what is their own; and on that account I have heard the
gentlemen say, a man has sometimes a better bargain with a poor
wife, than with a rich one.-- But let my daughters marry whom they
will, I shall endeavour to make them blessings to their husbands:-- I
beg, therefore, I may hear of no more masquerades. Nancy is, I am
certain, too good a girl to desire to go; for she must remember when
you carried her thither last year, it almost turned her head; and
she did not return to herself, or to her needle, in a month
afterwards."
  Though a gentle sigh, which stole from the bosom of Nancy, seemed to
argue some secret disapprobation of these sentiments, she did not dare
openly to oppose them. For as this good woman had all the
tenderness, so she had preserved all the authority of a parent; and as
her indulgence to the desires of her children was restrained only by
her fears for their safety and future welfare, so she never suffered
those commands which proceeded from such fears to be either
disobeyed or disputed. And this the young gentleman, who had lodged
two years in the house, knew so well, that he presently acquiesced
in the refusal.
  Mr. Nightingale, who grew every minute fonder of Jones, was very
desirous of his company that day to dinner at the tavern, where he
offered to introduce him to some of his acquaintance; but Jones begged
to be excused, "as his cloaths," he said, "were not yet come to town."
  To confess the truth, Mr. Jones was now in a situation, which
sometimes happens to be the case of young gentlemen of much better
figure than himself. In short, he had not one penny in his pocket; a
situation in much greater credit among the antient philosophers,
than among the modern wise men who live in Lombard-street, or those
who frequent White's chocolate-house. And, perhaps, the great
honours which those philosophers have ascribed to an empty pocket, may
be one of the reasons of that high contempt in which they are held
in the aforesaid street and chocolate-house.
  Now if the antient opinion, that men might live very comfortably
on virtue only, be, as the modern wise men just above-mentioned
pretend to have discovered, a notorious error; no less false is, I
apprehend, that position of some writers of romance, that a man can
live altogether on love: for however delicious repasts this may afford
to some of our senses or appetites, it is most certain it can afford
none to others. Those, therefore, who have placed too great a
confidence in such writers, have experienced their error when it was
too late; and have found that love was no more capable of allaying
hunger, than a rose is capable of delighting the ear, or a violin of
gratifying the smell.
  Notwithstanding, therefore, all the delicacies which love had set
before him, namely, the hopes of seeing Sophia at the masquerade; on
which, however ill-founded his imagination might be, he had
voluptuously feasted during the whole day, the evening no sooner came,
than Mr. Jones began to languish for some food of a grosser kind.
Partridge discovered this by intuition, and took the occasion to
give some oblique hints concerning the bankbill; and, when these
were rejected with disdain, he collected courage enough once more to
mention a return to Mr. Allworthy.
  "Partridge," cries Jones, "you cannot see my fortune in a more
desperate light than I see it myself; and I begin heartily to repent
that I suffered you to leave a place where you was settled, and to
follow me. However, I insist now on your returning home; and for the
expense and trouble which you have so kindly put yourself to on my
account, all the cloaths I left behind in your care I desire you would
take as your own. I am sorry I can make you no other acknowledgment."
  He spoke these words with so pathetic an accent, that Partridge,
among whose vices ill-nature or hardness of heart were not numbered,
burst into tears; and after swearing he would not quit him in his
distress, he began with the most earnest entreaties to urge his return
home. "For heaven's sake, sir," says he, "do but consider; what can
your honour do?- how is it possible you can live in this town without
money? Do what you will, sir, or go wherever you please, I am resolved
not to desert you. But pray, sir, consider- do pray, sir, for your
own sake, take it into your consideration; and I'm sure," says he,
"that your own good sense will bid you return home."
  "How often shall I tell thee," answered Jones, "that I have no
home to return to? Had I any hopes that Mr. Allworthy's doors would be
open to receive me, I want no distress to urge me- nay, there is no
other cause upon earth, which could detain me a moment from flying
to his presence; but, alas! that I am for ever banished from. His last
words were- O, Partridge, they still ring in my ears- his last words
were, when he gave me a sum of money- what it was I know not, but
considerable I'm sure it was- his last words were- 'I am resolved from
this day forward, on no account, to converse with you any more.'
  Here passion stopt the mouth of Jones, as surprize for a moment
did that of Partridge; but he soon recovered the use of speech, and
after a short preface, in which he declared he had no
inquisitiveness in his temper, inquired what Jones meant by a
considerable sum- he knew not how much- and what was become of the
money.
  In both these points he now received full satisfaction; on which
he was proceeding to comment, when he was interrupted by a message
from Mr. Nightingale, who desired his master's company in his
apartment.
  When the two gentlemen were both attired for the masquerade, and Mr.
Nightingale had given orders for chairs to be sent for, a circumstance
of distress occurred to Jones, which will appear very ridiculous to
many of my readers. This was how to procure a shilling; but if such
readers will reflect a little on what they have themselves felt from
the want of a thousand pounds, or, perhaps, of ten or twenty, to
execute a favourite scheme, they will have a perfect idea of what
Mr. Jones felt on this occasion. For this sum, therefore, he applied
to Partridge, which was the first he had permitted him to advance, and
was the last he intended that poor fellow should advance in his
service. To say the truth, Partridge had lately made no offer of
this kind. Whether it was that he desired to see the bank-bill broke
in upon, or that distress should prevail on Jones to return home, or
from what other motive it proceeded, I will not determine.
                                Chapter 7

  Containing the whole humours of a masquerade

  Our cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, the great
Arbiter Deliciarum, the great high-priest of pleasure, presides;
and, like other heathen priests, imposes on his votaries by the
pretended presence of the deity, when in reality no such deity is
there.
  Mr. Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his companion, soon
left him, and walked off with a female, saying, "Now you are here,
sir, you must beat about for your own game."
  Jones began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was present;
and these hopes gave him more spirits than the lights, the music,
and the company; though these are pretty strong antidotes against
the spleen. He now accosted every woman he saw, whose stature,
shape, or air, bore any resemblance to his angel. To all of whom he
endeavoured to say something smart, in order to engage an answer, by
which he might discover that voice which he thought it impossible he
should mistake. Some of these answered by a question, in a squeaking
voice, Do you know me? Much the greater number said, I don't know you,
sir, and nothing more. Some called him an impertinent fellow; some
made him no answer at all; some said, Indeed I don't know your
voice, and I shall have nothing to say to you; and many gave him as
kind answers as he could wish, but not in the voice he desired to
hear.
  Whilst he was talking with one of these last (who was in the habit
of a shepherdess) a lady in a domino came up to him, and slapping
him on the shoulder, whispered him, at the same time, in the ear,
"If you talk any longer with that trollop, I will acquaint Miss
Western."
  Jones no sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting his
former companion, he applied to the domino, begging and entreating her
to show him the lady she had mentioned, if she was then in the room.
  The mask walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost
apartment before she spoke; and then, instead of answering him, sat
down, and declared she was tired. Jones sat down by her, and still
persisted in his entreaties: at last the lady coldly answered, "I
imagined Mr. Jones had been a more discerning lover, than to suffer
any disguise to conceal his mistress from him." "Is she here, then,
madam?" replied Jones, with some vehemence. Upon which the lady
cries- "Hush, sir, you will be observed. I promise you, upon my
honour, Miss Western is not here."
  Jones, now taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating her in
the most earnest manner, to acquaint him where he might find Sophia:
and when he could obtain no direct answer, he began to upbraid her
gently for having disappointed him the day before; and concluded,
saying, "Indeed, my good fairy queen, I know your majesty very well,
notwithstanding the affected disguise of your voice. Indeed, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, it is a little cruel to divert yourself at the expense of
my torments."
  The mask answered, "Though you have so ingeniously discovered me,
I must still speak in the same voice, lest I should be known by
others. And do you think, good sir, that I have no greater regard
for my cousin, than to assist in carrying on an affair between you
two, which must end in her ruin, as well as your own? Besides, I
promise you, my cousin is not mad enough to consent to her own
destruction, if you are so much her enemy as to tempt her to it."
  "Alas, madam!" said Jones, "you little know my heart, when you
call me an enemy of Sophia."
  "And yet to ruin any one," cries the other, "you will allow, is
the act of an enemy; and when by the same act you must knowingly and
certainly bring ruin on yourself, is it not folly or madness, as
well as guilt? Now, sir, my cousin hath very little more than her
father will please to give her; very little for one of her fashion-
you know him, and you know your own situation."
  Jones vowed he had no such design on Sophia, "That he would rather
suffer the most violent of deaths than sacrifice her interest to his
desires." He said, "he knew how unworthy he was of her, every way,
that he had long ago resolved to quit all such aspiring thoughts,
but that some strange accidents had made him desirous to see her
once more, when he promised he would take leave of her for ever. No,
madam," concluded he, "my love is not of that base kind which seeks
its own satisfaction at the expense of what is most dear to its
object. I would sacrifice everything to the possession of my Sophia,
but Sophia herself."
  Though the reader may have already conceived no very sublime idea of
the virtue of the lady in the mask; and though possibly she may
hereafter appear not to deserve one of the first characters of her
sex; yet, it is certain, these generous sentiments made a strong
impression upon her, and greatly added to the affection she had before
conceived for our young heroe.
  The lady now, after a silence of a few moments, said, "She did not
see his pretensions to Sophia so much in the light of presumption,
as of imprudence. Young fellows," says she, can never have too
aspiring thoughts. I love ambition in a young man, and I would have
you cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may succeed with
those who are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am convinced
there are women-- but don't you think me a strange creature, Mr.
Jones, to be thus giving advice to a man with whom I am so little
acquainted, and one with whose behaviour to me I have so little reason
to be pleased?"
  Here Jones began to apologize, and to hope he had not offended in
anything he had said of her cousin.- To which the mask answered, "And
are you so little versed in the sex, to imagine you can well affront a
lady more than by entertaining her with your passion for another
woman? If the fairy queen had conceived no better opinion of your
gallantry, she would scarce have appointed you to meet her at the
masquerade."
  Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; but
gallantry to the ladies was among his principles of honour; and he
held it as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge to love, as
if it had been a challenge to fight. Nay, his very love to Sophia made
it necessary for him to keep well with the lady, as he made no doubt
but she was capable of bringing him into the presence of the other.
  He began therefore to make a very warm answer to her last speech,
when a mask, in the character of an old woman, joined them. This
mask was one of those ladies who go to a masquerade only to vent
ill-nature, by telling people rude truths, and by endeavouring, as the
phrase is, to spoil as much sport as they are able. This good lady,
therefore, having observed Jones, and his friend, whom she well
knew, in close consultation together in a corner of the room,
concluded she could nowhere satisfy her spleen better than by
interrupting them. She attacked them, therefore, and soon drove them
from their retirement; nor was she contented with this, but pursued
them to every place which they shifted to avoid her; till Mr.
Nightingale, seeing the distress of his friend, at last relieved
him, and engaged the old woman in another pursuit.
  While Jones and his mask were walking together about the room, to
rid themselves of the teazer, he observed his lady speak to several
masks, with the same freedom of acquaintance as if they had been
barefaced. He could not help expressing his surprize at this;
saying, "Sure, madam, you must have infinite discernment, to know
people in all disguises." To which the lady answered, "You cannot
conceive anything more insipid and childish than a masquerade to the
people of fashion, who in general know one another as well here, as
when they meet in an assembly or a drawing-room; nor will any woman of
condition converse with a person with whom she is not acquainted. In
short, the generality of persons whom you see here, may more
properly be said to kill time in this place than in any other; and
generally retire from hence more tired than from the longest sermon.
To say the truth, I begin to be in that situation myself; and if I
have any faculty at guessing, you are not much better pleased. I
protest it would be almost charity in me to go home for your sake." "I
know but one charity equal to it," cries Jones, "and that is to suffer
me to wait on you home." "Sure," answered the lady, "you have a
strange opinion of me, to imagine, that upon such an acquaintance, I
would let you into my doors at this time of night. I fancy you
impute the friendship I have shown my cousin to some other motive.
Confess honestly; don't you consider this contrived interview as
little better than a downright assignation? Are you used, Mr. Jones,
to make these sudden conquests?" "I am not used, madam," said Jones,
"to submit to such sudden conquests; but as you have taken my heart by
surprize, the rest of my body hath a right to follow; so you must
pardon me if I resolve to attend you wherever you go." He
accompanied these words with some proper actions; upon which the lady,
after a gentle rebuke, and saying their familiarity would be observed,
told him, "She was going to sup with an acquaintance, whither she
hoped he would not follow her; for if you should," said she, "I
shall be thought an unaccountable creature, though my friend indeed is
not censorious: yet I hope you won't follow me; I protest I shall
not know what to say if you do."
  The lady presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones,
notwithstanding the severe prohibition he had received, presumed to
attend her. He was now reduced to the same dilemma we have mentioned
before, namely, the want of a shilling, and could not relieve it by
borrowing as before. He therefore walked boldly on after the chair
in which his lady rode, pursued by a grand huzza, from all the
chairmen present, who wisely take the best care they can to
discountenance all walking afoot by their betters. Luckily, however,
the gentry who attend at the Opera-house were too busy to quit their
stations, and as the lateness of the hour prevented him from meeting
many of their brethren in the street, he proceeded without
molestation, in a dress, which, at another season, would have
certainly raised a mob at his heels.
  The lady was set down in a street not far from Hanover-square, where
the door being presently opened, she was carried in, and the
gentleman, without any ceremony, walked in after her.
  Jones and his companion were now together in a very well-furnished
and well-warmed room; when the female, still speaking in her
masquerade voice, said she was surprized at her friend, who must
absolutely have forgot her appointment; at which, after venting much
resentment, she suddenly exprest some apprehension from Jones, and
asked him what the world would think of their having been alone
together in a house at that time of night? But instead of a direct
answer to so important a question, Jones began to be very
importunate with the lady to unmask; and at length having prevailed,
there appeared, not Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but the Lady Bellaston herself.
  It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which
consisted of very common and ordinary occurrences, and which lasted
from two till six o'clock in the morning. It is sufficient to
mention all of it that is anywise material to this history. And this
was a promise that the lady would endeavour to find out Sophia, and in
a few days bring him to an interview with her, on condition that he
would then take his leave of her. When this was thoroughly settled,
and a second meeting in the evening appointed at the same place,
they separated; the lady returned to her house, and Jones to his
lodgings.
                                Chapter 8

  Containing a scene of distress, which will appear very extraordinary
to most of our readers

  Jones having refreshed himself with a few hours' sleep, summoned
Partridge to his presence; and delivering him a bank-note of fifty
pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Partridge received this
with sparkling eyes, though, when he came to reflect farther, it
raised in him some suspicions not very advantageous to the honour of
his master: to these the dreadful idea he had of the masquerade, the
disguise in which his master had gone out and returned, and his having
been abroad all night, contributed. In plain language, the only way he
could possibly find to account for the possession of this note, was by
robbery: and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should
suspect it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly
imagine any other.
  To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr. Jones, and to do justice to
the liberality of the lady, he had really received this present from
her, who, though she did not give much into the hackney charities of
the age, such as building hospitals, &c., was not, however, entirely
void of that Christian virtue; and conceived (very rightly I think)
that a young fellow of merit, without a shilling in the world, was
no improper object of this virtue.
  Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale had been invited to dine this day with
Mrs. Miller. At the appointed hour, therefore, the two young
gentlemen, with the two girls, attended in the parlour, where they
waited from three till almost five before the good woman appeared. She
had been out of town to visit a relation, of whom, at her return,
she gave the following account.
  "I hope, gentlemen, you will pardon my making you wait; I am sure if
you knew the occasion- I have been to see a cousin of mine, about six
miles off, who now lies in.- It should be a warning to all persons
(says she, looking at her daughters) how they marry indiscreetly.
There is no happiness in this world without a competency. O Nancy! how
shall I describe the wretched condition in which I found your poor
cousin? she hath scarce lain in a week, and there was she, this
dreadful weather, in a cold room, without any curtains to her bed, and
not a bushel of coals in her house to supply her with fire: her second
son, that sweet little fellow, lies ill of a quinzy in the same bed
with his mother; for there is no other bed in the house. Poor little
Tommy! I believe, Nancy, you will never see your favourite any more;
for he is really very ill. The rest of the children are in pretty good
health: but Molly, I am afraid, will do herself an injury: she is
but thirteen years old, Mr. Nightingale, and yet, in my life, I
never saw a better nurse: she tends both her mother and her brother;
and, what is wonderful in a creature so young, she shows all the
chearfulness in the world to her mother; and yet I saw her- I saw the
poor child, Mr. Nightingale, turn about, and privately wipe the
tears from her eyes." Here Mrs. Miller was prevented, by her own
tears, from going on, and there was not, I believe, a person present
who did not accompany her in them; at length she a little recovered
herself, and proceeded thus: "In all this distress the mother supports
her spirits in a surprizing manner. The danger of her son sits
heaviest upon her, and yet she endeavours as much as possible to
conceal even this concern, on her husband's account. Her grief,
however, sometimes gets the better of all her endeavours; for she
was always extravagantly fond of this boy, and a most sensible,
sweet-tempered creature it is. I protest I was never more affected
in my life, than when I heard the little wretch, who is hardly yet
seven years old, while his mother was wetting him with her tears,
beg her to be comforted. 'Indeed, mamma,' cried the child, 'I shan't
die; God Almighty, I'm sure, won't take Tommy away; let heaven be ever
so fine a place, I had rather stay here and starve with you and my
papa, than go to it.' Pardon me, gentlemen, I can't help it" (says
she, wiping her eyes), "such sensibility and affection in a child.-
And yet, perhaps, he is least the object of pity; for a day or two
will, most probably, place him beyond the reach of all human evils.
The father is, indeed, most worthy of compassion. Poor man, his
countenance is the very picture of horror, and he looks like one
rather dead than alive. Oh heavens! what a scene did I behold at my
first coming into the room! The good creature was lying behind the
bolster, supporting at once both his child and his wife. He had
nothing on but a thin waistcoat; for his coat was spread over the bed,
to supply the want of blankets.- When he rose up at my entrance, I
scarce knew him. As comely a man, Mr. Jones, within this fortnight, as
you ever beheld; Mr. Nightingale hath seen him. His eyes sunk, his
face pale, with a long beard. His body shivering with cold, and worn
with hunger too; for my cousin says she can hardly prevail upon him to
eat.- He told me himself in a whisper- he told me- I can't repeat it-
he said he could not bear to eat the bread his children wanted. And
yet, can you believe it, gentlemen? in all this misery his wife has as
good caudle as if she lay in the midst of the greatest affluence; I
tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better.- The means of procuring
her this, he said, he believed was sent by an angel from heaven. I
know not what he meant; for I had not spirits enough to ask a single
question.
  "This was a love-match, as they call it, on both sides; that is, a
match between two beggars. I must, indeed, say, I never saw a fonder
Tom Jones couple; but what is their fondness good for, but to
torment each other?" "Indeed, mamma," cries Nancy, "I have always
looked on my cousin Anderson" (for that was her name) "as one of the
happiest of women." "I am sure," says Mrs. Miller, "the case at
present is much otherwise; for any one might have discerned that the
tender consideration of each other's sufferings makes the most
intolerable part of their calamity, both to the husband and wife.
Compared to which, hunger and cold, as they affect their own persons
only, are scarce evils. Nay, the very children, the youngest, which is
not two years old, excepted, feel in the same manner; for they are a
most loving family, and, if they had but a bare competency, would be
the happiest people in the world." "I never saw the least sign of
misery at her house," replied Nancy; "I am sure my heart bleeds for
what you now tell me."- "O child," answered the mother, "she hath
always endeavoured to make the best of everything. They have always
been in great distress; but, indeed, this absolute ruin hath been
brought upon them by others. The poor man was bail for the villain his
brother; and about a week ago, the very day before her lying-in, their
goods were all carried away, and sold by an execution. He sent a
letter to me of it by one of the bailiffs, which the villain never
delivered.- What must he think of my suffering a week to pass before
he heard of me?"
  It was not with dry eyes that Jones heard this narrative; when it
was ended he took Mrs. Miller apart with him into another room, and,
delivering her his purse, in which was the sum of L50, desired her
to send as much of it as she thought proper to these poor people.
The look which Mrs. Miller gave Jones, on this occasion, is not easy
to be described. She burst into a kind of agony of transport, and
cryed out- "Good heavens! is there such a man in the world?"- But
recollecting herself, she said, "Indeed I know one such; but can there
be another?" "I hope, madam," cries Jones, "there are many who have
common humanity; for to relieve such distress in our fellow-creatures,
can hardly be called more." Mrs. Miller then took ten guineas, which
were the utmost he could prevail with her to accept, and said, "She
would find some means of conveying them early the next morning;"
adding, "that she had herself done some little matter for the poor
people, and had not left them in quite so much misery as she found
them."
  They then returned to the parlour, where Nightingale expressed
much concern at the dreadful situation of these wretches, whom
indeed he knew; for he had seen them more than once at Mrs.
Miller's. He inveighed against the folly of making oneself liable
for the debts of others; vented many bitter execrations against the
brother; and concluded with wishing something could be done for the
unfortunate family. "Suppose, madam," said he, "you should recommend
them to Mr. Allworthy? Or what think you of a collection? I will
give them a guinea with all my heart."
  Mrs. Miller made no answer; and Nancy, to whom her mother had
whispered the generosity of Jones, turned pale upon the occasion;
though, if either of them was angry with Nightingale, it was surely
without reason. For the liberality of Jones, if he had known it, was
not an example which he had any obligation to follow, and there are
thousands who would not have contributed a single halfpenny, as indeed
he did not in effect, for he made no tender of anything; and
therefore, as the others thought proper to make no demand, he kept his
money in his pocket.
  I have, in truth, observed, and shall never have a better
opportunity than at present to communicate my observation, that the
world are in general divided into two opinions concerning charity,
which are the very reverse of each other. One party seems to hold,
that all acts of this kind are to be esteemed as voluntary gifts, and,
however little you give (if indeed no more than your good wishes), you
acquire a great degree of merit in so doing. Others, on the
contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded that beneficence is a
positive duty, and that whenever the rich fall greatly short of
their ability in relieving the distresses of the poor, their pitiful
largesses are so far from being meritorious, that they have only
performed their duty by halves, and are in some sense more
contemptible than those who have entirely neglected it.
  To reconcile these different opinions is not in my power. I shall
only add, that the givers are generally of the former sentiment, and
the receivers are almost universally inclined to the latter.
                                Chapter 9

  Which treats of matters of a very different kind from those in the
preceding chapter

  In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conversation
again ensued between them: but as it consisted only of the same
ordinary occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning particulars,
which we despair of rendering agreeable to the reader; unless he is
one whose devotion to the fair sex, like that of the papists to
their saints, wants to be raised by the help of pictures. But I am
so far from desiring to exhibit such pictures to the public, that I
would wish to draw a curtain over those that have been lately set
forth in certain French novels; very bungling copies of which have
been presented us here under the name of translations.
  Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and finding,
after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no likelihood of
obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the lady began to
treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with resentment), he
resolved to try some other method. He made no doubt but that Lady
Bellaston knew where his angel was, so he thought it most likely
that some of her servants should be acquainted with the same secret.
Partridge therefore was employed to get acquainted with those
servants, in order to fish this secret out of them.
  Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to which his
poor master was at present reduced; for besides the difficulties he
met with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears he had of having
disobliged her, and the assurances he had received from Lady Bellaston
of the resolution which Sophia had taken against him, and of her
having purposely concealed herself from him, which he had sufficient
reason to believe might be true; he had still a difficulty to
combat, which it was not in the power of his mistress to remove,
however kind her inclination might have been. This was the exposing of
her to be disinherited of all her father's estate, the almost
inevitable consequence of their coming together without a consent,
which he had no hopes of ever obtaining.
  Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, whose
violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped upon him; so
that by her means he was now become one of the best-dressed men
about town; and was not only relieved from those ridiculous distresses
we have before mentioned, but was actually raised to a state of
affluence beyond what he had ever known.
  Now, though there are many gentlemen who very well reconcile it to
their consciences to possess themselves of the whole fortune of a
woman, without making her any kind of return; yet to a mind, the
proprietor of which doth not deserved to be hanged, nothing is, I
believe, more irksome than to support love with gratitude only;
especially where inclination pulls the heart a contrary way. Such
was the unhappy case of Jones; for though the virtuous love he bore to
Sophia, and which left very little affection for any other woman,
had been entirely out of the question, he could never have been able
to have made any adequate return to the generous passion of this lady,
who had indeed been once an object of desire, but was now entered at
least into the autumn of life, though she wore all the gaiety of
youth, both in her dress and manner; nay, she contrived still to
maintain the roses in her cheeks; but these, like flowers forced out
of season by art, had none of that lively blooming freshness with
which Nature, at the proper time, bedecks her own productions. She
had, besides, a certain imperfection, which renders some flowers,
though very beautiful to the eye, very improper to be placed in a
wilderness of sweets, and what above all others is most disagreeable
to the breath of love.
  Though Jones saw all these discouragements on the one side, he
felt his obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less
plainly discern the ardent passion whence those obligations proceeded,
the extreme violence of which if he failed to equal, he well knew
the lady would think him ungrateful; and, what is worse, he would have
thought himself so. He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her
favours were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept
them, so his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. This
therefore he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, and to
devote himself to her, from that great principle of justice, by
which the laws of some countries oblige a debtor, who is no
otherwise capable of discharging his debt, to become the slave of
his creditor.
  While he was meditating on these matters, he received the
following note from the lady:-

  A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened since our
last meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more , if
possible, contrive at the usual place. I will some other place by
to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu.

  This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was not very
great; but if it was, he was quickly relieved; for in less than an
hour afterwards another note was brought him from the same hand, which
contained as follows:-

  I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if you are
no stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not wonder
at. I am now resolved to see you this evening at my own house,
whatever may be the consequence. Come to me exactly at seven; I dine
abroad, but will be at home by that time. A day, I find, to those that
sincerely love, seems longer than I imagined.
  If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid them show
you into the drawing-room.

  To confess the truth, Jones was less pleased with this last
epistle than he had been with the former, as he was prevented by it
from complying with the earnest entreaties of Mr. Nightingale, with
whom he had now contracted much intimacy and friendship. These
entreaties were to go with that young gentleman and his company to a
new play, which was to be acted that evening, and which a very large
party had agreed to damn, from some dislike they had taken to the
author, who was a friend to one of Mr. Nightingale's acquaintance. And
this sort of fun, our heroe, we are ashamed to confess, would
willingly have preferred to the above kind appointment; but his honour
got the better of his inclination.
  Before we attend him to this intended interview with the lady, we
think proper to account for both the preceding notes, as the reader
may possibly be not a little surprized at the imprudence of Lady
Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the very house where her rival was
lodged.
  First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had
hitherto met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to that
lady, was now become a methodist, and had that very morning waited
upon her ladyship, and after rebuking her very severely for her past
life, had positively declared that she would, on no account, be
instrumental in carrying on any of her affairs for the future.
  The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady, made
her despair of possibly finding any other convenience to meet Jones
that evening; bit as she began a little to recover from her uneasiness
at the disappointment, she set her thoughts to work, when luckily it
came into her head to propose to Sophia to go to the play, which was
immediately consented to, and a proper lady provided for her
companion. Mrs. Honour was likewise despatched with Mrs. Etoff on
the same errand of pleasure; and thus her own house was left free
for the safe reception of Mr. Jones, with whom she promised herself
two or three hours of uninterrupted conversation, after her return
from the place where she dined, which was at a friend's house in a
pretty distant part of the town, near her old place of assignation,
where she had engaged herself before she was well apprized of the
revolution that had happened in the mind and morals of her late
confidante.
                                Chapter 10

  A chapter which, though short, may draw tears from some eyes

  Mr. Jones was just dressed to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs.
Miller rapped at his door; and, being admitted, very earnestly desired
his company below-stairs, to drink tea in the parlour.
  Upon his entrance into the room, she presently introduced a person
to him, saying, "This, sir, is my cousin, who hath been so greatly
beholden to your goodness, for which he begs to return you his
sincerest thanks."
  The man had scarce entered upon that speech, which Mrs. Miller had
so kindly prefaced, when both Jones and he, looking stedfastly at each
other, showed at once the utmost tokens of surprize. The voice of
the latter began instantly to faulter; and, instead of finishing his
speech, he sunk down into a chair, crying, "It is so, I am convinced
it is so!"
  "Bless me! what's the meaning of this?" cries Mrs. Miller; "you
are not ill, I hope, cousin? Some water, a dram this instant."
  "Be not frighted, madam," cries Jones, "I have almost as much need
of a dram as your cousin. We are equally surprized at this
unexpected meeting. Your cousin is an acquaintance of mine, Mrs.
Miller."
  "An acquaintance!" cries the man.-- "Oh, heaven!"
  "Ay, an acquaintance," repeated Jones, "and an honoured acquaintance
too. When I do not love and honour the man who dares venture
everything to preserve his wife and children from instant destruction,
may I have a friend capable of disowning me in adversity!"
  "Oh, you are an excellent young man," cries Mrs. Miller:- "Yes,
indeed, poor creature! he hath ventured everything.- If he had not
had one of the best of constitutions, it must have killed him."
  "Cousin," cries the man, who had now pretty well recovered
himself, "this is the angel from heaven whom I meant. This is he to
whom, before I saw you, I owed the preservation of my Peggy. He it was
to whose generosity every comfort, every support which I have procured
for her, was owing. He is, indeed, the worthiest, bravest, noblest, of
all human beings. O cousin, I have obligations to this gentleman of
such a nature!"
  "Mention nothing of obligations," cries Jones eagerly; "not a
word, I insist upon it, not a word" (meaning, I suppose, that he would
not have him betray the affair of the robbery to any person). "If,
by the trifle you have received from me, I have preserved a whole
family, sure pleasure was never bought so cheap."
  "Oh, sir!" cries the man, "I wish you could this instant see my
house. If any person had ever a right to the pleasure you mention, I
am convinced it is yourself. My cousin tells me she acquainted you
with the distress in which she found us. That, sir, is all greatly
removed, and chiefly by your goodness.-- My children have now a bed to
lie on-- and they have-- they have-- eternal blessings reward you for
it!-- they have bread to eat. My little boy is recovered; my wife is
out of danger, and I am happy. All, all owing to you, sir, and to my
cousin here, one of the best of women. Indeed, sir, I must see you
at my house.- Indeed my wife must see you, and thank you.- My children
too must express their gratitude.-- Indeed, sir, they are not without
a sense of their obligation; but what is my feeling, when I reflect to
whom I owe that they are now capable of expressing their
gratitude.-- Oh, sir, the little hearts which you have warmed had now
been cold as ice without your assistance."
  Here Jones attempted to prevent the poor man from proceeding; but
indeed the overflowing of his own heart would of itself have stopped
his words. And now Mrs. Miller likewise began to pour forth
thanksgivings, as well in her own name, as in that of her cousin,
and concluded with saying, "She doubted not but such goodness would
meet a glorious reward."
  Jones answered, "He had been sufficiently rewarded already. Your
cousin's account, madam," said he, "hath given me a sensation more
pleasing than I have ever known. He must be a wretch who is unmoved at
hearing such a story; how transporting then must be the thought of
having happily acted a part in this scene! If there are men who cannot
feel the delight of giving happiness to others, I sincerely pity them,
as they are incapable of tasting what is, in my opinion, a greater
honour, a higher interest, and a sweeter pleasure, than the ambitious,
the avaricious, or the voluptuous man can ever obtain."
  The hour of appointment being now come, Jones was forced to take a
hasty leave, but not before he had heartily shaken his friend by the
hand, and desired to see him again as soon as possible; promising that
he would himself take the first opportunity of visiting him at his own
house. He then stept into his chair, and proceeded to Lady
Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the happiness which he had procured
to this poor family; nor could he forbear reflecting, without
horror, on the dreadful consequences which must have attended them,
had he listened rather to the voice of strict justice, than to that of
mercy, when he was attacked on the high road.
  Mrs. Miller sung forth the praise of Jones during the whole evening,
in which Mr. Anderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied
her, that he was often on the very point of mentioning the
circumstance of the robbery. However, he luckily recollected
himself, and avoided an indiscretion which would have been so much the
greater, as he knew Mrs. Miller to be extremely strict and nice in her
principles. He was likewise well apprized of the loquacity of this
lady; and yet such was his gratitude, that it had almost got the
better both of discretion and shame, and made him publish that which
would have defamed his own character, rather than omit any
circumstances which might do the fullest honour to his benefactor.
                                Chapter 11

  In which the reader will be surprized

  Mr. Jones was rather earlier than the time appointed, and earlier
than the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only by the distance of
the place where she dined, but by some other cross accidents very
vexatious to one in her situation of mind. He was accordingly shown
into the drawing-room, where he had not been many minutes before the
door opened, and in came-- no other than Sophia herself, who had left
the play before the end of the first act; for this, as we have already
said, being a new play, at which two large parties met, the one to
damn, and the other to applaud, a violent uproar, and an engagement
between the two parties, had so terrified our heroine, that she was
glad to put herself under the protection of a young gentleman, who
safely conveyed her to her chair.
  As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be at
home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, came
hastily in, and went directly to a glass which almost fronted her,
without once looking towards the upper end of the room, where the
statue of Jones now stood motionless.- In this glass it was, after
contemplating her own lovely face, that she first discovered the
said statue; when, instantly turning about, she perceived the
reality of the vision: upon which she gave a violent scream, and
scarce preserved herself from fainting, till Jones was able to move to
her, and support her in his arms.
  To paint the looks or thoughts of either of these lovers, is
beyond my power. As their sensations, from their mutual silence, may
be judged to have been too big for their own utterance, it cannot be
supposed that I should be able to express them: and the misfortune is,
that few of my readers have been enough in love to feel by their own
hearts what past at this time in theirs.
  After a short pause, Jones, with faultering accents, said- "I see,
madam, you are surprized."- "Surprized!" answered she; "Oh heavens!
Indeed, I am surprized. I almost doubt whether you are the person
you seem."- "Indeed," cries she, "my Sophia, pardon me, madam, for
this once calling you so, I am that very wretched Jones, whom fortune,
after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly conducted to you.
Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand torments I have suffered in
this long, fruitless pursuit."- "Pursuit of whom?" said Sophia, a
little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserve air.- "Can you be
so cruel to ask that question?" cries Jones; "Need I say, of you?" "Of
me! answered Sophia: "Hath Mr. Jones, then, any such important
business with me?"- "To some, madam," cries Jones, "this might seem
an important business" (giving her the pocket-book), "I hope, madam,
you will find it of the same value as when it was lost." Sophia took
the pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted her
thus:- "Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious moments
which fortune hath so kindly sent us. O, my Sophia! I have business of
a much superior kind. Thus, on my knees, let me ask your pardon."- "My
pardon!" cries she; "Sure, sir, after what is past, you cannot expect,
after what I have heard."- "I scarce know what I say," answered Jones.
"By heavens! I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia!
henceforth never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any
remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment's uneasiness to
that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and let the remembrance
of what passed at Upton blot me for ever from your mind."
  Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter than
snow, and her heart was throbbing through her stays. But at the
mention of Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and her eyes, which
before she had scarce lifted up, were turned upon Jones with a
glance of disdain. He understood this silent reproach, and replied
to it thus: "O my Sophia! my only love! you cannot hate or despise
me more for what happened there, than I do myself; but yet do me the
justice to think, that my heart was never unfaithful to you. That
had no share in the folly I was guilty of; it was even then
unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay, almost
of ever seeing you more, I doated still on your charming idea, and
could seriously love no other woman. But if my heart had not been
engaged, she, into company I accidently fell at that cursed place, was
not an object of serious love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen
her from that day to this; and never intend or desire to see her
again." Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this; but
forcing into her face an air of more coldness than she had yet
assumed, "Why," said she, "Mr. Jones, do you take the trouble to
make a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it worth
while to accuse you, I have a charge of an unpardonable nature
indeed."- "What is it, for heaven's sake?" answered Jones, trembling
and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. "Oh,"
said she, "how is it possible! can everything noble, and everything
base, be lodged together in the same bosom?" Lady Bellaston, and the
ignominious circumstance of having been kept, rose again in his
mind, and stopt his mouth from any reply. "Could I have expected,"
proceeded Sophia, "such treatment from you? Nay, from any gentleman,
from any man of honour? To have my name traduced in public; in inns,
among the meanest vulgar! to have any little favours, that my
unguarded heart may have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted
of there! nay, even to hear that you had been forced to fly from my
love!"
  Nothing could equal Jones's surprize at these words of Sophia; but
yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed how to defend
himself, than if she had touched that tender string at which his
conscience had been alarmed. By some examination he presently found,
that her supposing him guilty of so shocking an outrage against his
love, and her reputation, was entirely owing to Partridge's talk at
the inns before landlords and servants; for Sophia confessed to him it
was from them that she received her intelligence. He had no very great
difficulty to make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an
offence so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to
hinder him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to
death, which he more than once swore he would do. This point being
cleared up, they soon found themselves so well pleased with each
other, that Jones quite forgot he had begun the conversation with
conjuring her to give up all thoughts of him; and she was in a
temper to have given ear to a petition of a very different nature; for
before they were aware they had both gone so far, that he let fall
some words that sounded like a proposal of marriage. To which she
replied, "That, did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow
her own inclinations, ruin with him would be more welcome to her
than the most affluent fortune with another man." At the mention of
the word ruin, he started, let drop her hand, which he had held for
some time, and striking his breast with his own, cried out, "Oh,
Sophia! can I then ruin thee? No; by heavens, no! I never will act
so base a part. Dearest Sophia, whatever it costs me, I will
renounce you; I will give you up; I will tear all such hopes from my
heart as are inconsistent with your real good. My love I will ever
retain, but it shall be in silence; it shall be at a distance from
you; it shall be in some foreign land; from whence no voice, no sigh
of my despair, shall ever reach and disturb your ears. And when I am
dead"- He would have gone on, but was stopt by a flood of tears which
Sophia let fall in his bosom, upon which she leaned, without being
able to speak one word. He kissed them off, which, for some moments,
she allowed him to do without any resistance; but then recollecting
herself, gently withdrew out of his arms; and, to turn the discourse
from a subject too tender, and which she found she could not
support, bethought herself to ask him a question she never had time to
put to him before, "How he came into that room?" He began to
stammer, and would, in all probability, have raised her suspicions
by the answer he was going to give, when, at once, the door opened,
and in came Lady Bellaston.
  Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia together,
she suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few moments, recollecting
herself with admirable presence of mind, she said- though with
sufficient indications of surprize both in voice and countenance- "I
thought, Miss Western, you had been at the play?"
  Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by what
means he had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least suspicion
of the real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston were acquainted,
so she was very little confounded; and the less, as the lady had, in
all their conversations on the subject, entirely taken her side
against her father. With very little hesitation, therefore, she went
through the whole story of what had happened at the play-house, and
the cause of her hasty return.
  The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an opportunity of
rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner to act. And as
the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that Jones had not betrayed
her, she put on an air of good humour, and said, "I should not have
broke in so abruptly upon you, Miss Western, if I had known you had
company."
  Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these
words. To which that poor young lady, having her face overspread
with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering voice, "I am
sure, madam, I shall always think the honour of your ladyship's
company--" "I hope, at least," cries Lady Bellaston, "I interrupt no
business."- "No, madam," answered Sophia, "our business was at an
end. Your ladyship may be pleased to remember I have often mentioned
the loss of my pocket-book, which this gentleman, having very
luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with the bill in it."
  Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to
sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with his fingers,
and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than a young booby
squire, when he is first introduced into a polite assembly. He
began, however, now to recover himself; and taking a hint from the
behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he saw did not intend to claim any
acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the
stranger on his part. He said, "Ever since he had the pocket-book in
his possession, he had used great diligence in inquiring out the
lady whose name was writ in it; but never till that day could be so
fortunate to discover her."
  Sophia indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to Lady
Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had never once
hinted to her that it was in his possession, she believed not one
syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonderfully admired the
extreme quickness of the young lady in inventing such an excuse. The
reason of Sophia's leaving the playhouse met with no better credit;
and though she could not account for the meeting. between these two
lovers, she was firmly persuaded it was not accidental.
  With an affected smile, therefore, she said, "Indeed, Miss
Western, you have had very good luck in recovering your money. Not
only as it fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but as he
happened to discover to whom it belonged. I think you would not
consent to have it advertised.- It was great good fortune, sir, that
you found out to whom the note belonged."
  "Oh, madam," cries Jones, "it was enclosed in a pocket-book, in
which the young lady's name was written."
  "That was very fortunate indeed," cries the lady:- "And it was no
less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house; for she is
very little known."
  Jones had at length perfectly recovered his spirits; and as he
conceived he had now an opportunity of satisfying Sophia, as to the
question she had asked him just before Lady Bellaston came in, he
proceeded thus: "Why, madam," answered he, "it was by the luckiest
chance imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I had
found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a lady at the
masquerade, who told me she believed she knew where I might see Miss
Western; and if I would come to her house the next morning she would
inform me. I went according to her appointment, but she was not at
home; nor could I ever meet with her till this morning, when she
directed me to your ladyship's house. I came accordingly, and did
myself the honour to ask for your ladyship; and upon my saying that
I had very particular business, a servant showed me into this room;
where I had not been long before the young lady returned from the
play."
  Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at Lady
Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked my Sophia; for she was
visibly too much confounded to make any observations. This hint a
little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; when Jones, who saw the
agitation of Sophia's mind, resolved to take the only method of
relieving her, which was by retiring; but, before he did this, he
said, believe, madam, it is customary to give some reward on these
occasions;- I must insist on a very high one for my honesty;- it is,
madam, no less than the honour of being permitted to pay another visit
here."
  "Sir," replied the lady, "I make no doubt that you are a
gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of fashion."
  Jones, then after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his own
satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly
alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she knew already
but too well.
  Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs. Honour, who,
notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well bred
to behave with great civility. This meeting proved indeed a lucky
circumstance, is he communicated to her the house where he lodged,
with which Sophia was unacquainted.
                                Chapter 12

  In which the thirteenth book is concluded

  The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling too much
truth: by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in some cases, to lie
is not only excusable, but commendable.
  And surely there are no persons who may so properly challenge a
right to this commendable deviation from truth, as young women in
the affair of love; for which they may plead precept, education, and
above all, the sanction, nay, I may say the necessity of custom, by
which they are restrained, not from submitting to the honest
impulses of nature (for that would be a foolish prohibition), but from
owning them.
  We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now
pursued the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable
philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady
Bellaston was ignorant of the person of Jones, so she determined to
keep her in that ignorance, though at the expense of a little fibbing.
  Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cryed, "Upton my
word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he is; for I don't
remember ever to have seen his face before."
  "Nor I neither, madam," cries Sophia. "I must say he behaved very
handsomely in relation to my note."
  "Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow," said the lady: "don't you
think so?"
  "I did not take much notice of him," answered Sophia, "but I thought
he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than otherwise."
  "You are extremely right," cries Lady Bellaston: "you may see, by
his manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, notwithstanding
his returning your note, and refusing the reward, I almost question
whether he is a gentleman.-- I have always observed there is a
something in persons well born, which others can never acquire.-- I
think I will give orders not to be at home to him."
  "Nay, sure, madam," answered Sophia, "one can't suspect after what
he hath done;- besides, if your ladyship observed him, there was an
elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a prettiness of expression
that, that--"
  "I confess," said Lady Bellaston, "the fellow hath words-- And
indeed Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must."
  "I forgive your ladyship!" said Sophia.
  "Yes, indeed you must," answered she, laughing; "for I had a
horrible suspicion when I first came into the room-- I vow you must
forgive it; but I suspected it was Mr. Jones himself."
  "Did your ladyship, indeed?" cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a
laugh.
  "Yes, I vow I did," answered she. "I can't imagine what put it
into my head: for, give the fellow his due, he was genteely drest;
which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with your
friend."
  "This raillery," cries Sophia, "is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston,
after my promise to your ladyship."
  "Not at all, child," said the lady;-- "It would have been cruel
before; but after you have promised me never to marry your father's
consent, in which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you
can bear a little raillery on a passion which was pardonable enough in
a young girl in the country, and of which you tell me you have so
entirely got the better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you
cannot bear a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall begin to fear
you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you have
dealt ingenuously with me."
  "Indeed, madam," cries Sophia, "your ladyship mistakes me, if you
imagine I had any concern on his account."
  "On his account!" answered the lady: "You must have mistaken me; I
went no farther than his dress;-- for I would not injure your taste by
any other comparison-- I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr.
Jones had been such a fellow as this-"
  "I thought," says Sophia, "your ladyship had allowed him to be
handsome"--
  "Whom, pray?" cried the lady hastily.
  "Mr. Jones," answered Sophia;- and immediately recollecting
herself, "Mr. Jones!- no, no; I ask your pardon;- I mean the gentleman
who was just now here."
  "O Sophy! Sophy!" cries the lady; "this Mr. Jones, I am afraid,
still runs in your head."
  "Then, upon my honour, madam," said Sophia, "Mr. Jones is as
entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now left us."
  "Upon my honour," said Lady Bellaston, "I believe it. Forgive me,
therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you I will
never mention his name any more."
  And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the delight
of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented
her rival a little longer, had not business of more importance
called her away. As for Sophia, her mind was not perfectly easy
under this first practice of deceit; upon which, when she retired to
her chamber, she reflected with the highest uneasiness and conscious
shame. Nor could the peculiar hardship of her situation, and the
necessity of the case, at all reconcile her mind to her conduct; for
the frame of her mind was too delicate to bear the thought of having
been guilty of a falsehood, however qualified by circumstances. Nor
did this thought once suffer her to close her eyes during the whole
succeeding night.
                                    BOOK XIV
                              CONTAINING TWO DAYS
                                Chapter 1

  An essay to prove that an author will write the better for having
some knowledge of the subject on which he writes

  As several gentlemen in these times, by the wonderful force of
genius only, without the least assistance of learning, perhaps without
being well able to read, have made a considerable figure in the
republic of letters; the modern critics, I am told, have lately
begun to assert, that all kind of learning is entirely useless to a
writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of fetters on the natural
sprightliness and activity of the imagination, which is thus weighed
down, and prevented from soaring to those high flights which otherwise
it would be able to reach.
  This doctrine, I am afraid, is at present carried much too far:
for why should writing differ so much from all other arts? The
nimbleness of a dancing-master is not at all prejudiced by being
taught to move; nor doth any mechanic, I believe, exercise his tools
the worse by having learnt to use them. For my own part, I cannot
conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with more fire, if,
instead of being masters of all the learning their times, they had
been as ignorant as most of the authors of the present age. Nor do I
believe that all the imagination, fire, and judgment of Pitt, could
have produced those orations that have made the senate of England,
in these our times, a rival in eloquence to Greece and Rome, if he had
not been so well read in the writings of Demosthenes and Cicero, as to
have transferred their whole spirit into his speeches, and, with their
spirit, their knowledge too.
  I would not here be understood to insist on the same fund of
learning in any of my brethren, as Cicero persuades us is necessary to
the composition of an orator. On the contrary, very little reading is,
I conceive, necessary to the poet, less to the critic, and the least
of all to the politician. For the first, perhaps, Byshe's Art of
Poetry, and a few of our modern poets, may suffice; for the second,
a moderate heap of plays; and, for the last, an indifferent collection
of political journals.
  To say the truth, I require no more than that a man should have some
little knowledge of the subject on which he treats, according to the
old maxim of law, Quam quisque norit artem in ed se exerceat. With
this alone a writer may sometimes do tolerably well; and, indeed,
without this, all the other learning in the world will stand him in
little stead.
  For instance, let us suppose that Homer and Virgil, Aristotle and
Cicero, Thucydides and Livy, could have met all together, and have
clubbed their several talents to have composed a treatise on the art
of dancing: I believe it will be readily agreed they could not have
equalled the excellent treatise which Mr. Essex hath given us on
that subject, entitled, The Rudiments of Genteel Education. And,
indeed, should the excellent Mr. Broughton be prevailed on to set fist
to paper, and to complete the above-said rudiments, by delivering down
the true principles of athletics, I question whether the world will
have any cause to lament, that none of the great writers, either
antient or modern, have ever treated about that noble and useful art.
  To avoid a multiplicity of examples in so plain a case, and to
come at once to my point, I am apt to conceive, that one reason why
many English writers have totally failed in describing the manners
of upper life, may possibly be, that in reality they know nothing of
it.
  This is a knowledge unhappily not in the power of many authors to
arrive at. Books will give us a very imperfect idea of it; nor will
the stage a much better: the fine gentleman formed upon reading the
former will almost always turn out a pedant, and he who forms
himself upon the latter, a coxcomb.
  Nor are the characters drawn from these models better supported.
Vanbrugh and Congreve copied nature; but they who copy them draw as
unlike the present age as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a
rout, or a drum, in the dresses of Titian and of Vandyke. In short,
imitation here will not do the business. The picture must be after
Nature herself. A true knowledge of the world is gained only by
conversation, and the manners of every rank must be seen in order to
be known.
  Now it happens that this higher order of mortals is not to be
seen, like all the rest of the human species, for nothing, in the
streets, shops, and coffee-house; nor are they shown, like the upper
rank of animals, for so much a-piece. In short, this is a sight to
which no persons are admitted without one or other of these
qualifications, viz., either birth or fortune, or, what is
equivalent to both, the honourable profession of a gamester. And, very
unluckily x , for the world, persons so qualified very seldom care
to take upon themselves the bad trade of writing; which is generally
entered upon by the lower and poorer sort, as it is a trade which many
think requires no kind of stock to set up with.
  Hence those strange monsters in lace and embroidery, in silks and
brocades, with vast wigs and hoops; which, under the name of lords and
ladies, strut the stage, to the great delight of attorneys and their
clerks in the pit, and of the citizens and their apprentices in the
galleries; and which are no more to be found in real life, than the
centaur, the chimera, or any other creature of mere fiction. But to
let my reader into a secret, this knowledge of upper life, though very
necessary for preventing mistakes, is no very great resource to a
writer whose province is comedy, or that kind of novels, which, like
this I am writing, is of the comic class.
  What Mr. Pope says of women is very applicable to most in this
station, who are, indeed, so entirely made up of form and affectation,
that they have no character at all, at least, none which appears. I
will venture to say the highest life is much the dullest, and
affords very little humour or entertainment. The various callings in
lower spheres produce the great variety of humorous characters;
whereas here, except among the few who are engaged in the pursuit of
ambition, and the fewer still who have a relish for pleasure, all is
vanity and servile imitation. Dressing and cards, eating and drinking,
bowing and courtesying, make up the business of their lives.
  Some there are, however, of this rank, upon whom passion exercises
its tryanny, and hurries them far beyond the bounds which decorum
prescribes; of these, the ladies are as much distinguished by their
noble intrepidity, and a certain superior contempt of reputation, from
the frail ones of meaner degree, as a virtuous woman of quality is
by the elegance and delicacy of her sentiments from the honest wife of
a yeoman or shopkeeper. Lady Bellaston was of this intrepid character;
but let not my country readers conclude from her, that this is the
general conduct of women of fashion, or that we mean to represent them
as such. They might as well suppose that every clergyman was
represented by Thwackum, or every soldier by ensign Northerton.
  There is not, indeed, a greater error than that which universally
prevails among the vulgar, who, borrowing their opinion from some
ignorant satirists, have affixed the character of lewdness to these
times. On the contrary, I am convinced there never was less of love
intrigue carried on among persons of condition, than now. Our
present women have been taught by their mothers to fix their
thoughts only on ambition and vanity, and to despise the pleasures
of love as unworthy their regard; and being afterwards, by the care of
such mothers, married without having husbands, they seem pretty well
confirmed in the justness of those sentiments; whence they content
themselves, for the dull remainder of life, with the pursuit of more
innocent, but I am afraid more childish amusements, the bare mention
of which would ill suit with the dignity of this history. In my humble
opinion, the true characteristic of the present beau monde is rather
folly than vice, and the only epithet which it deserves is that of
frivolous.
                                Chapter 2

  Containing letters and other matters which attend amours

  Jones had not been long at home, before he received the following
letter:-

  I was never more surprized than when I found you was gone. When
you left the room, I little imagined you intended to have left the
house without seeing me again. Your behaviour is all of a piece, and
convinces me how much I ought to despise a heart which can doat upon
an idiot; though I know not whether I should not admire her cunning
more than her simplicity: wonderful both! For though she understood
not a word of what passed between us, yet she had the skill, the
assurance, the-- what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she
knows you, or ever saw you before.-- Was this a scheme laid between
you, and have you been base enough to betray me?-- O how I despise
her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for-- I dare not
write what I should afterwards run mad to read; but remember, I can
detest as violently as I have loved.

  Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter,
before a second was brought him from the same hand; and this,
likewise, we shall set down in the precise words.

  When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have writ,
you cannot be surprized at any expressions in my former note.- Yet,
perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would,
if possible, think all owing to the odious playhouse, and to the
impertinence of a fool, which detained me beyond my appointment.-- How
easy is it to think in k well of those we love!-- Perhaps you desire I
should think so. I have resolved to see you to-night; so come to me
immediately.
  P.S.- I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself.
  P.S.- Mr. Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his defence; for
I believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to
impose on myself.
  P.S.- Come immediately.

  To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether the
angry or the tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to Jones.
Certain it is, he had no violent inclination to pay any more visits
that evening, unless to one single person. However, he thought his
honour engaged, and had not this been motive sufficient, he would
not have ventured to blow the temper of Lady Bellaston into that flame
of which he had reason to think it susceptible, and of which he feared
the consequence might be a discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded.
After some discontented walks, therefore, about the room, he was
preparing to depart, when the lady kindly prevented him, not by
another letter, but by her own presence. She entered the room very
disordered in her dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and
threw herself into a chair, where, having recovered her breath, she
said- "You see, sir, when women have gone one length too far, they
will stop at none. If any person would have sworn this to me a week
ago, I would not have believed it of myself." "I hope, madam," said
Jones, "my charming Lady Bellaston will be as difficult to believe
anything against one who is so sensible of the many obligations she
hath conferred upon him." "Indeed!" says she, "sensible of
obligations! Did I expect to hear such cold language from Mr.
Jones?" "Pardon me, my dear angel," said he, "if, after the letters
I have received, the terrors of your anger, though I know not how I
have deserved it"-- "And have I then," says she, with a smile, "so
angry a countenance?- Have I really brought a chiding face with me?"-
"If there be honour in man," said he, "I have done nothing to merit
your anger.- You remember the appointment you sent me; I went in
pursuance"- "I beseech you," cried she, "do not run through the
odious recital.- Answer me but one question, and I shall be easy.
Have you not betrayed my honour to her?"- Jones fell upon his knees,
and began to utter the most violent protestations, when Partridge came
dancing and capering into the room, like one drunk with joy, crying
out, "She's found! she's found!- Here, sir, here, she's here- Mrs.
Honour is upon the stairs." "Stop her a moment," cries Jones- "Here,
madam, step behind the bed, I have no other room nor closet, nor place
on earth to hide you in; sure never so damned an accident."- "D--n'd
indeed!" said the lady, as she went to her place of concealment; and
presently afterwards in came Mrs. Honour. "Hey-day!" says she, "Mr.
Jones, what's the matter?- That impudent rascal your servant would
scarce let me come upstairs. I hope he hath not the same reason to
keep me from you as he had at Upton.- I suppose you hardly expected
to see me; but you have certainly bewitched my lady. Poor dear young
lady! To be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if she was my own sister.
Lord have mercy upon you, if you don't make her a good husband! and to
be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad enough for you." Jones
begged her only to whisper, for that there was a lady dying in the
next room. "A lady!" cries she; ay, I suppose one of your ladies.- O
Mr. Jones, there are too many of them in the world; I believe we are
got into the house of one, for my Lady Bellaston, I darst to say, is
no better than she should be."- "Hush! hush!" cries Jones, every word
is overheard in the next room."- "I don't care a farthing," cries
Honour, "I speaks no scandal of any one; but to be sure the servants
make no scruple of saying as how her ladyship meets men at another
place- where the house goes under the name of a poor gentlewoman; but
her ladyship pays the rent, and many's the good thing besides, they
say, she hath of her."- Here Jones, after expressing the utmost
uneasiness, offered to stop her mouth:- "Hey-day! why sure, Mr.
Jones, you will let me speak; I speaks no scandal, for I only says
what I heard from others- and thinks I to myself, much good may it do
the gentlewoman with her riches, if she comes by it in such a wicked
manner. To be sure it is better to be poor and honest." "The
servants are villains," cries Jones, "and abuse their lady
unjustly."- "Ay, to be sure, servants are always villains, and so my
lady says, and won't hear a word of it."- "No, I am convinced," says
Jones, "my Sophia is above listening to such base scandal."- "Nay, I
believe it is no scandal, neither," cries Honour, "for why should
she meet men at another house?- It can never be for any good: for if
she had a lawful design of being courted, as to be sure any lady may
lawfully give her company to men upon that account: why, where can
be the sense?"- "I protest," cries Jones, "I can't hear all this of a
lady of such honour, and a relation of Sophia; besides, you will
distract the poor lady in the next room.- Let me entreat you to walk
with me down stairs."- "Nay, sir, if you won't let me speak, I have
done.- Here, sir, is a letter from my young lady- what would some men
give to have this? But, Mr. Jones, I think you are not over and
above generous, and yet I have heard some servants say-- but I am sure
you will do me the justice to own I never saw the colour of your
money." Here Jones hastily took the letter, and presently after
slipped five pieces into her hand. He then returned a thousand
thanks to his dear Sophia in a whisper, and begged her to leave him to
read her letter: she presently departed, not without expressing much
grateful sense of his generosity.
  Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How shall I
describe her rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of utterance; but
streams of fire darted from her eyes, and well indeed they might,
for her heart was all in a flame. And now, as soon as her voice
found way, instead of expressing any indignation against Honour or her
own servants, she began to attack poor Jones. "You see," said she,
"what I have sacrificed to you; my reputation, my honour- gone for
ever! And what return have I found? Neglected, slighted for a
country girl, for an idiot."- "What neglect, madam, or what slight,"
cries Jones, "have I been guilty of?"- "Mr. Jones," said she, "it is
in vain to dissemble; if you will make me easy, you must entirely give
her up; and as a proof of your intention, show me the letter."- "What
letter, madam?" said Jones. "Nay, surely," said she, "you cannot
have the confidence to deny your having received a letter by the hands
of that trollop."-"And can your ladyship," cries he, "ask of me what I
must part with my honour before I grant? Have I acted in such a manner
by your ladyship? Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent
girl to you, what security could you have that I should not act the
same part by yourself? A moment's reflection will, I am sure, convince
you, that a man with whom the secrets of a lady are not safe must be
the most contemptible of wretches."-"Very well," said she- "I need
not insist on your becoming this contemptible wretch in your own
opinion; for the inside of the letter could inform me of nothing
more than I know already. I see the footing you are upon."- Here
ensued a long conversation, which the reader, who is not too curious,
will thank me for not inserting at length. It shall suffice,
therefore, to inform him, that Lady Bellaston grew more and more
pacified, and at length believed, or affected to believe, his
protestations, that his meeting with Sophia that evening was merely
accidental, and every other matter which the reader already knows, and
which as Jones set before her in the strongest light, it is plain that
she had in reality no reason to be angry with him.
  She was not, however, in her heart perfectly satisfied with his
refusal to show her the letter; so deaf are we to the clearest reason,
when it argues against our prevailing passions. She was, indeed,
well convinced that Sophia possessed the first place in Jones's
affections; and yet, haughty and amorous as this lady was, she
submitted at last to bear the second place; or, to express it more
properly in a legal phrase, was contented with the possession of
that of which another woman had the reversion.
  It was at length agreed that Jones should for the future visit at
the house: for that Sophia, her maid, and all the servants, would
place these visits to the account of Sophia; and that she herself
would be considered as the person imposed upon.
  This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished by Jones,
who was indeed glad to have a prospect of seeing his Sophia at any
rate; and the lady herself was not a little pleased with the
imposition on Sophia, which Jones, she thought, could not possibly
discover to her for his own sake.
  The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after
proper ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned home.
                                Chapter 3

  Containing various matters

  Jones was no sooner alone, than he eagerly broke open his letter,
and read as follows:-

  Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you left
this house; and as I have reason to think you intend coming here
again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, as she tells me
she knows your lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by all the
regard you have for me, not to think of visiting here; for it will
certainly be discovered; nay, I almost doubt, from some things which
have dropt from her ladyship, that she is not already without some
suspicion. Something favourable, perhaps, may happen; we must wait
with patience; but I once more entreat you, if you have any concern
for my ease, do not think of returning hither.

  This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor Jones,
which job formerly received from his friends. Besides disappointing
all the hopes which he promised to himself from seeing Sophia, he
was reduced to an unhappy dilemma, with regard to Lady Bellaston;
for there are some certain engagements, which, as he well knew, do
very difficultly admit of any excuse for the failure; and to go, after
the strict prohibition from Sophia, he was not to be forced by any
human power. At length, after much deliberation, which during that
night supplied the place of sleep, he determined to feign himself
sick: for this suggested itself as the only means of failing the
appointed visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston, which he had more
than one reason of desiring to avoid.
  The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, to write
an answer to Sophia, which he inclosed in one to Honour. He then
despatched another to Lady Bellaston, containing the above-mentioned
excuse; and to this he soon received the following answer:-

  I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but more
concerned for the occasion; take great care of yourself, and have
the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger.- I am so
tormented all this morning with that I have scarce a moment's time to
write to you. Adieu.
  P.S.- I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine.- Be
sure to be alone.

  Mr. Jones now received a visit from Mrs. Miller, who, after some
formal introduction, began the following speech:- "I am very sorry,
sir, to wait upon you on such an occasion; but I hope you will
consider the ill consequence which it must be to the reputation of
my poor girls, if my house should once be talked of as a house of
ill-fame. I hope you won't think me, therefore, guilty of
impertinence, if I beg you not to bring any more ladies in at that
time of night. The clock had struck two before one of them went
away."- "I do assure you, madam," said Jones, "the lady who was here
last night, and who staid the latest (for the other only brought me a
letter), is a woman of very great fashion, and my near relation."- "I
don't know what fashion she is of," answered Mrs. Miller; "but I am
sure no woman of virtue, unless a very near relation indeed, would
visit a young gentleman at ten at night, and stay four hours in his
room with him alone; besides, sir, the behaviour of her chairmen shows
what she was; for they did nothing but make jests all the evening in
the entry, and asked Mr. Partridge, in the hearing of my own maid, if
madam intended to stay with his master all night; with a great deal of
stuff not proper to be repeated. I have really a great respect for
you, Mr. Jones, upon your own account; nay, I have a very high
obligation to you for your generosity to my cousin. Indeed, I did not
know how very good you had been till lately. Little did I imagine to
what dreadful courses the poor man's distress had driven him. Little
did I think, when you gave me the ten guineas, that you had given them
to a highwayman! O heavens! what goodness have you shown! How have you
preserved this family!- The character which Mr. Allworthy hath
formerly given me of you was, I find, strictly true.- And indeed, if I
had no obligation to you, my obligations to him are such, that, on his
account, I should show you the utmost respect in my power.- Nay,
believe me, dear Mr. Jones, if my daughters' and my own reputation
were out of the case, I should, for your own sake, be sorry that so
pretty a young gentleman should converse with these women; but if
you are resolved to do it, I must beg you to take another lodging; for
I do not myself like to have such things carried on under my roof; but
more especially upon the account of my girls, who have little,
heaven knows, besides their characters, to recommend them." Jones
started and changed colour at the name of Allworthy. "Indeed, Mrs.
Miller," answered he, a little warmly, "I do not take this at all
kind. I will never bring any slander on your house; but I must
insist on seeing what company I please in my own room; and if that
gives you any offence, I shall, as soon as I am able, look for another
lodging."- "I am sorry we must part then, sir," said she; "but I am
convinced Mr. Allworthy himself would never come within my doors, if
he had the least suspicion of my keeping an ill house."- "Very well,
madam," said Jones.- "I hope, sir," said she, "you are not angry; for
I would not for the world offend any of Mr. Allworthy's family. I have
not slept a wink all night about this matter."- "I am sorry I have
disturbed your rest, madam," said Jones, "but I beg you will send
Partridge up to me immediately"; which she promised to do, and then
with a very low courtesy retired.
  As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most
outrageous manner. "How often," said he, "am I to suffer for your
folly, or rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours
resolved upon my destruction?" "What have I done, sir?" answered
affrighted Partridge. "Who was it gave you authority to mention the
story of the robbery, or that the man you saw here was the person?"
"I, sir?" cries Partridge. "Now don't be guilty of a falsehood in
denying it," said Jones. "If I did mention such a matter," answers
Partridge, "I am sure I thought no harm; for I should not have
opened my lips, if it had not been to his own friends and relations,
who, I imagined, would have let it go no farther." "But I have a
much heavier charge against you," cries Jones, "than this. How durst
you, after all the precautions I gave you, mention the name of Mr.
Allworthy in this house?" Partridge denied that he ever had, with many
oaths. "How else," said Jones, "should Mrs. Miller be acquainted
that there was any connexion between him and me? And it is but this
moment she told me she respected me on his account." "O Lord, sir,"
said Partridge, "I desire only to be heard out; and to be sure,
never was anything so unfortunate: hear me but out, and you will own
how wrong. fully you have accused me. When Mrs. Honour came downstairs
last night, she met me in the entry, and asked me when my master had
heard from Mr. Allworthy; and to be sure Mrs. Miller heard the very
words; and the moment Madam Honour was gone, she called me into the
parlour to her. 'Mr. Partridge,' says she, 'what Mr. Allworthy is it
that the gentlewoman mentioned? is it the great Mr. Allworthy of
Somersetshire?' 'Upon my word, madam,' says I, 'I know nothing of
the matter.' 'Sure,' says she, 'your master is not the Mr. Jones I
have heard Mr. Allworthy talk of?' 'Upon my word, madam,' says I, 'I
know nothing of the matter.' 'Then,' says she, turning to her daughter
Nancy, says she, 'as sure as tenpence this is the very young
gentleman, and he agrees exactly with the squire's description.' The
Lord above knows who it was told her: for I am the arrantest villain
that ever walked upon two legs if ever it came out of my mouth. I
promise you, sir, I can keep a secret when I am desired. Nay, sir,
so far was I from telling her anything about Mr. Allworthy, that I
told her the very direct contrary; for, though I did not contradict it
at that moment, yet, as second thoughts, they say, are best, so when I
came to consider that somebody must have informed her, thinks I to
myself, I will put an end to the story; and so I went back again
into the parlour some time afterwards, and says I, upon my word,
says I, whoever, says I, told you that this gentleman was Mr. Jones;
that is, says I, that this Mr. Jones was that Mr. Jones, told you a
confounded lie: and I beg, says I, you will never mention any such
matter, says I; for my master, says I, will think I must have told you
so; and I defy anybody in the house ever to say I mentioned any such
word. To be certain, sir, it is a wonderful thing, and I have been
thinking with myself ever since, how it was she came to know it; not
but I saw an old woman here t'other day a begging at the door, who
looked as like her we saw in Warwickshire, that caused all that
mischief to us. To be sure it is never good to pass by an old woman
without giving her something, especially if she looks at you; for
all the world shall never persuade me but that they have a great power
to do mischief, and to be sure I shall never see an old woman again,
but I shall think to myself, Infandum, regina, jubes renovare
dolorem."
  The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final
end to his anger, which had indeed seldom any long duration in his
mind; and, instead of commenting on his defence, he told him he
intended presently to leave those lodgings, and ordered him to go
and endeavour to get him others.
                                Chapter 4

  Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young people of
both sexes

  Partridge had no sooner left Mr. Jones, than Mr. Nightingale, with
whom he had now contracted a great intimacy, came to him, and, after a
short salutation, said, "So, Tom, I hear you had company very late
last night. Upon my soul you are a happy fellow, who have not been
in town above a fortnight, and can keep chairs waiting at your door
till two in the morning." He then ran on with much commonplace
raillery of the same kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying,
"I suppose you have received all this information from Mrs. Miller,
who hath been up here a little while ago to give me warning. The
good woman is afraid, it seems, of the reputation of her daughters."
"Oh! she is wonderfully nice," says Nightingale, "upon that account;
if you remember, she would not let Nancy go with us to the
masquerade." "Nay, upon my honour, I think she's in the right of
it," says Jones: "however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent
Partridge to look for another lodging." "If you will," says
Nightingale, "we may, I believe, be again together; for, to tell you a
secret, which I desire you won't mention in the family, I intend to
quit the house to-day." "What, hath Mrs. Miller given you warning too,
my friend?" cries Jones. "No," answered the other; "but the rooms
are not convenient enough. Besides, I am grown weary of this part of
the town. I want to be nearer the places of diversion; so I am going
to Pall-mall." "And do you intend to make a secret of your going
away?" said Jones. "I promise you," answered Nightingale, "I don't
intend to bilk my lodgings; but I have a private reason for not taking
a formal leave." "Not so private," answered Jones; "I promise you, I
have seen it ever since the second day of my coming to the house. Here
will be some wet eyes on your departure. Poor Nancy, I pity her,
faith! Indeed, Jack, you have played the fool with that girl. You have
given her a longing, which I am afraid nothing will ever cure her of."
Nightingale answered, "What the devil would you have me do? would
you have me marry her to cure her?" "No," answered Jones, "I would not
have had you make love to her, as you have often done in my
presence. I have been astonished at the blindness of her mother in
never seeing it." "Pugh, see it!" cries Nightingale. "What the devil
should she see?" "Why, see," said Jones, "that you have made her
daughter distractedly in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal
it a moment; her eyes are never off from you, and she always colours
every time you come into the room. Indeed, I pity her heartily; for
she seems to be one of the best-natured and honestest of human
creatures." "And so," answered Nightingale, "according to your
doctrine, one must not amuse oneself by any common gallantries with
women, for fear they should fall in love with us." "Indeed, Jack,"
said Jones, "you wilfully misunderstand me; I do not fancy women are
so apt to fall in love; but you have gone far beyond common
gallantries." "What, do you suppose," says Nightingale, "that we
have been a-bed together?" "No, upon my honour, answered Jones, very
seriously, "I do not suppose so ill of you; nay, I will go farther,
I do not imagine you have laid a regular premeditated scheme for the
destruction of the quiet of a poor little creature, or have even
foreseen the consequence: for I am sure thou are a very good-natured
fellow, and such a one can never be guilty of a cruelty of that
kind; but at the same time you have pleased your own vanity, without
considering that this poor girl was made a sacrifice to it; and
while you have had no design but of amusing an idle hour, you have
actually given her reason to flatter herself that you had the most
serious designs in her favour. Prithee, Jack, answer me honestly; to
what have tended all those elegant and luscious descriptions of
happiness arising from violent and mutual fondness? all those warm
professions of tenderness, and generous disinterested love? Did you
imagine she would not apply them? or, speak ingenuously, did not you
intend she should?" "Upon my soul, Tom," cries Nightingale, "I did not
think this was in thee. Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So I
suppose you would not go to bed to Nancy now, if she would let you?"
"No," cries Jones, "may I be d--n'd if I would." "Tom, Tom," answered
Nightingale, "last night; remember last night--

     When every eye was closed, and the pale moon,
     And silent stars, shone conscious of the theft."

  "Lookee, Mr. Nightingale," said Jones, "I am no canting hypocrite,
nor do I pretend to the gift of chastity, more than my neighbours. I
have been guilty with women, I own it; but am not conscious that I
have ever injured any.- Nor would I, to procure pleasure to myself,
be knowingly the cause of misery to any human being."
  "Well, well," said Nightingale, "I believe you, and I am convinced
you acquit me of any such thing."
  "I do, from my heart," answered Jones, "of having debauched the
girl, but not from having gained her affections."
  "If I have," said Nightingale, "I am sorry for it; but time and
absence will soon wear off such impressions. It is a receipt I must
take myself; for, to confess the truth to you- I never liked any girl
half so much in my whole life; but I must let you into the whole
secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match for me with a woman I
never saw; and she is now coming to town, in order for me to make my
addresses to her."
  At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when
Nightingale cried- "Nay, prithee, don't turn me into ridicule. The
devil take me if I am not half mad about this matter! my poor Nancy!
Oh! Jones, Jones, I wish I had a fortune in my own possession."
  "I heartily wish you had," cries Jones; "for, if this be the case, I
sincerely pity you both; but surely you don't intend to go away
without taking your leave of her?"
  "I would not," answered Nightingale, "undergo the pain of taking
leave, for ten thousand pounds; besides, I am convinced, instead of
answering any good purpose, it would only serve to inflame my poor
Nancy the more. I beg, therefore, you would not mention a word of it
to-day, and in the evening, or to-morrow morning, I intend to depart."
  Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he
thought, as he had determined and was obliged to leave her, he took
the most prudent method. He then told Nightingale he should be very
glad to lodge in the same house with him; and it was accordingly
agreed between them, that Nightingale should procure him either the
ground floor, or the two pair of stairs; for the young gentleman
himself was to occupy that which was between them.
  This Nightingale, of whom, we shall be presently obliged to say a
little more, was in the ordinary transactions of life a man of
strict honour, and, what is more rare among young gentlemen of the
town, one of strict honesty too; yet in affairs of love he was
somewhat loose in his morals; not that he was even here as void of
principle as gentlemen sometimes are, and oftener affect to be; but it
is certain he had been guilty of some indefensible treachery to women,
and had, in a certain mystery, called making love, practised many
deceits, which, if he had used in trade, he would have been counted
the greatest villain upon earth.
  But as the world, I know not well for what reason, agree to see this
treachery in a better light, he was so far from being ashamed of his
iniquities of this kind, that he gloried in them, and would often
boast of his skill in gaining of women, and his triumphs over their
hearts, for which he had before this time received some rebukes from
Jones, who always exprest great bitterness against any misbehaviour to
the fair part of the species, who, if considered, he said, as they
ought to be, in the light of the dearest friends, were to be
cultivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost love and
tenderness; but, if regarded as enemies, were a conquest of which a
man ought rather to be ashamed than to value himself upon it.
                                Chapter 5

  A short account of the history of Mrs. Miller

  Jones this day eat a pretty good dinner for a sick man, that is to
say, the larger half of a shoulder of mutton. In the afternoon, he
received an invitation from Mrs. Miller to drink tea; for that good
woman, having learnt, either by means of Partridge, or by some other
means natural or supernatural, that he had a connexion with Mr.
Allworthy, could not endure the thoughts of parting with him in an
angry manner.
  Jones accepted the invitation; and no sooner was the teakettle
removed, and the girls sent out of the room, than the widow, without
much preface, began as follows: "Well, there are very surprizing
things happen in this world; but certainly it is a wonderful
business that I should have a relation of Mr. Allworthy in my house
and never know anything of the matter. Alas! sir, you little imagine
what a friend that best of gentlemen hath been to me and mine. Yes,
sir, I am not ashamed to own it; it is owing to his goodness that I
did not long since perish for want, and leave my poor little wretches,
two destitute, helpless, friendless orphans, to the care, or rather to
the cruelty, of the world.
  "You must know, sir, though I am now reduced to get my living by
letting lodgings, I was born and bred a gentlewoman. My father was
an officer of the army, and died in a considerable rank: but he
lived up to his pay; and, as that expired with him, his family, at his
death, became beggars. We were three sisters. One of us had the good
luck to die soon after of the small-pox; a lady was so kind as to take
the second out of charity, as she said, to wait upon her. The mother
of this lady had been a servant to my grandmother; and, having
inherited a vast fortune from her father, which he had got by
pawnbroking, was married to a gentleman of great estate and fashion.
She used my sister so barbarously, often upbraiding her with her birth
and poverty, calling her in derision a gentlewoman, that I believe she
at length broke the heart of the poor girl. In short, she likewise
died within a twelvemonth after my father. Fortune thought proper to
provide better for me, and within a month from his decease I was
married to a clergyman, who had been my lover a long time before,
and who had been very ill used by my father on that account: for
though my poor father could not give any of us a shilling, yet he bred
us up as delicately, considered us, and would have had us consider
ourselves, as highly as if we had been the richest heiresses. But my
dear husband forgot all this usage, and the moment we were become
fatherless, he immediately renewed his addresses to me so warmly, that
I, who always liked, and now more than ever esteemed him, soon
complied. Five years did I live in a state of perfect happiness with
that best of men, till at last- Oh! cruel! cruel fortune, that ever
separated us, that deprived me of the kindest of husbands and my
poor girls of the tenderest parent.- O my poor girls! you never know
the blessing which ye lost.-I am ashamed, Mr. Jones, of this
womanish weakness; but I shall never mention him without tears." "I
ought rather, madam," said Jones, "to be ashamed that I do not
accompany you." "Well, sir," continued she, "I was now left a second
time in a much worse condition than before; besides the terrible
affliction I was to encounter, I had now two children to provide
for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than ever; when that
great, that good, that glorious man, Mr. Allworthy, who had some
little acquaintance with my husband, accidentally heard of my
distress, and immediately writ this letter to me. Here, sir, here it
is; I put it into my pocket to shew it you. This is the letter, sir; I
must and will read it to you.

  "MADAM,
  "I heartily condole with you on your late grievous loss, which
your own good sense, and the excellent lessons you must have learnt
from the worthiest of men, will better enable you to bear than any
advice which I am capable of giving. Nor have I any doubt that you,
whom I have heard to be the tenderest of mothers, will suffer any
immoderate indulgence of grief to prevent you from discharging your
duty to those poor infants, who now alone stand in need of your
tenderness.
  "However, as you must be supposed at present to be incapable of much
worldly consideration, you will pardon my having ordered a person to
wait on you, and to pay you twenty guineas, which I beg you will
accept till I have the pleasure of seeing you, and believe me to be,
madam, &c.

  "This letter, sir, I received within a fortnight after the
irreparable loss I have mentioned; and within a fortnight
afterwards, Mr. Allworthy- the blessed Mr. Allworthy- came to pay me a
visit, when he placed me in the house where you now see me, gave me
a large sum of money to furnish it, and settled an annuity of L50
a-year upon me, which I have constantly received ever since. judge,
then, Mr. Jones, in what regard I must hold a benefactor, to whom I
owe the preservation of my life, and of those dear children, for whose
sake alone my life is valuable. Do not, therefore, think me
impertinent, Mr. Jones (since I must esteem one for whom I know Mr.
Allworthy hath so much value), if I beg you not to converse with these
wicked women. You are a young gentleman, and do not know half their
artful wiles. Do not be angry with me, sir, for what I said upon
account of my house; you must be sensible it would be the ruin of my
poor dear girls. Besides, sir, you cannot but be acquainted, that
Mr. Allworthy himself would never forgive my conniving at such
matters, and particularly with you."
  "Upon my word, madam," said Jones, "you need make no farther
apology; nor do I in the least take anything ill you have said; but
give me leave, as no one can have more value than myself for Mr.
Allworthy, to deliver you from one mistake, which, perhaps, would
not be altogether for his honour; I do assure you, I am no relation of
his."
  "Alas! sir," answered she, "I know you are not, I know very well who
you are; for Mr. Allworthy hath told me all; but I do assure you,
had you been twenty times his son, he could not have expressed more
regard for you than he hath often expressed in my presence. You need
not be ashamed, sir, of what you are; I promise you no good person
will esteem you the less on that account. No, Mr. Jones, the words
'dishonourable birth' are nonsense, as my dear, dear husband used to
say, unless the word 'dishonourable' be applied to the parents; for
the children can derive no real dishonour from an act of which they
are intirely innocent."
  Here Jones heaved a deep sigh, and then said, "Since I perceive,
madam, you really do know me, and Mr. Allworthy hath thought proper to
mention my name to you; and since you have been so explicit with me as
to your own affairs, I will acquaint you with some more
circumstances concerning myself." And these Mrs. Miller having
expressed great desire and curiosity to hear, he began and related
to her his whole history, without once mentioning the name of Sophia.
  There a kind of sympathy in honest minds, by means of which they
give an easy credit to each other. Mrs. Miller believed all which
Jones told her to be true, and exprest much pity and concern for
him. She was beginning to comment on the story, but Jones
interrupted her; for, as the hour of assignation now drew nigh, he
began to stipulate for a second interview with the lady that
evening, which he promised should be the last at her house;
swearing, at the same time, that she was one of great distinction, and
that nothing but what was intirely innocent was to pass between
them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep his word.
  Mrs. Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his
chamber, where he sat alone till twelve o'clock, but no Lady Bellaston
appeared.
  As we have said that this lady had a great affection for Jones,
and as it must have appeared that she really had so, the reader may
perhaps wonder at the first failure of her appointment, as she
apprehended him to be confined by sickness, a season when friendship
seems most to require such visits. This behaviour, therefore, in the
lady, may, by some, be condemned as unnatural; but that is not our
fault; for our business is only to record truth.
                                Chapter 6

  Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our readers

  Mr. Jones closed not his eyes during all the former part of the
night; not owing to any uneasiness which he conceived at being
disappointed by Lady Bellaston; nor was Sophia herself, though most of
his waking hours were justly to be charged to her account, the present
cause of dispelling his slumbers. In fact, poor Jones was one of the
best-natured fellows alive, and had all that weakness which is
called compassion, and which distinguishes this imperfect character
from that noble firmness of mind, which rolls a man, as it were,
within himself, and like a polished bowl, enables him to run through
the world without being once stopped by the calamities which happen to
others. He could not help, therefore, compassionating the situation of
poor Nancy, whose love for Mr. Nightingale seemed to him so
apparent, that he was astonished at the blindness of her mother, who
had more than once, the preceding evening, remarked to him the great
change in the temper of her daughter, "who from being," she said, "one
of the liveliest, merriest girls in the world, was, on a sudden,
become all gloom and melancholy."
  Sleep, however, at length got the better of all resistance; and
now as if he had already been a deity, as the antients imagined, and
an offended one too, he seemed to enjoy his dear-bought conquest.- To
speak simply, and without any metaphor, Mr. Jones slept till eleven
the next morning, and would, perhaps, have continued in the same quiet
situation much longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him.
  Partridge was now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter,
answered, "That there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that Miss
Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother, were
both crying and lamenting over her." Jones expressed much concern at
this news; which Partridge endeavoured to relieve, by saying, with a
smile, "He fancied the young lady was in no danger of death; for
that Susan" (which was the name of the maid) "had given him to
understand, it was nothing more than a common affair. In short,"
said he, "Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as wise as her mother;
that's all; she was a little hungry, it seems, and so sat down to
dinner before grace was said; and so there is a child coming for the
Foundling Hospital."-- "Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting," cries
Jones. "Is the misery of these poor wretches a subject of mirth? Go
immediately to Mrs. Miller, and tell her I beg leave- Stay, you will
make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to breakfast
with her." He then rose and dressed himself as fast as he could; and
while he was dressing, Partridge, notwithstanding many severe rebukes,
could not avoid throwing forth certain pieces of brutality, commonly
called jests, on this occasion. Jones was no sooner dressed than he
walked downstairs, and knocking at the door, was presently admitted by
the maid, into the outward parlour, which was as empty of company as
it was of any apparatus for eating. Mrs. Miller was in the inner
room with her daughter, whence the maid presently brought a message to
Mr. Jones, "That her mistress hoped he would excuse the
disappointment, but an accident had happened, which made it impossible
for her to have the pleasure of his company at breakfast that day; and
begged his pardon for not sending him up notice sooner." Jones
desired, "She would give herself no trouble about anything so trifling
as his disappointment; that he was heartily sorry for the occasion;
and that if he could be of any service to her, she might command him."
  He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs. Miller, who heard them
all, suddenly threw open the door, and coming out to him, in a flood
of tears, said, "O Mr. Jones! you are certainly one of the best
young men alive. I give you a thousand thanks for your kind offer of
your service; but, alas! sir, it is out of your power to preserve my
poor girl.-O my child! my child! she is undone, she is ruined
forever!" "I hope, madam," said Jones, "no villain"-- "O Mr. Jones!"
said she, "that villain who yesterday left my lodgings, hath
betrayed my poor girl; hath destroyed her.- I know you are a man of
honour. You have a good-a noble heart, Mr. Jones. The actions to which
I have been myself a witness, could proceed from no other. I will tell
you all: nay, indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to
keep it a secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous villain, hath
undone my daughter. She is- she is is- oh! Mr. Jones, my girl is with
child by him; and in that condition he hath deserted her. Here!
here, sir, is his cruel letter: read it, Mr. Jones, and tell me if
such another monster lives."
  The letter was as follows:

  DEAR NANCY,
  As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I am afraid, will
be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this method
to inform you, that my father insists upon my immediately paying my
addresses to a young lady of fortune, whom he hath provided for my-I
need not write the detested word. Your own good understanding will
make you sensible, how intirely I am obliged to an obedience, by which
I shall be forever excluded from your dear arms. The fondness of
your mother may encourage you to trust her with the unhappy
consequence of our love, which may be easily kept a secret from the
world, and for which I will take care to provide, as I will for you. I
wish you may feel less on this account than I nave suffered; but
summon all your fortitude to your assistance, and forgive and forget
the man, whom nothing but the prospect of certain ruin could have
forced to write this letter. I bid you forget me, I mean only as a
lover; but the best of friends you shall ever find in your faithful,
though unhappy,
                                                  J. N.

  When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during a
minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: "I cannot
express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have read; yet let
me beg you, in one particular, to take the writer's advice. Consider
the reputation of your daughter."-- "It is gone, it is lost, Mr.
Jones," cryed she, "as well as her innocence. She received the letter
in a room full of company, and immediately swooning away upon opening
it, the contents were known to every one present. But the loss of her
reputation, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she
hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though she hath
been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; nor could I
myself outlive any accident of that nature.- What then will become of
my little Betsy, a helpless infant orphan? and the poor little
wretch will, I believe, break her heart at the miseries with which she
sees her sister and myself distracted, while she is ignorant of the
cause. O 'tis the most sensible, and best-natured little thing! The
barbarous, cruel-- hath destroyed us all. O my poor children! Is this
the reward of all my cares? Is this the fruit of all my prospects?
Have I so chearfully undergone all the labours and duties of a mother?
Have I been so tender of their infancy, so careful of their education?
Have I been toiling so many years, denying myself even the
conveniences of life, to provide some little sustenance for them, to
lose one or both in such a manner?" "Indeed, madam," said Jones,
with tears in his eyes, "I pity you from my soul."- "O! Mr. Jones,"
answered she, "even you, though I know the goodness of your heart, can
have no idea of what I feel. The best, the kindest, the most dutiful
of children! O my poor Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of
my eyes! the pride of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to
those foolish, ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her
ruin. Alas! I saw with pleasure the liking which this young man had
for her. I thought it an honourable affection; and flattered my
foolish vanity with the thoughts of seeing her married to one so
much her superior. And a thousand times in my presence, nay, often
in yours, he hath endeavoured to soothe and encourage these hopes by
the most generous expressions of disinterested love, which he hath
always directed to my poor girl, and which I, as well as she, believed
to be real. Could I have believed that these were only snares laid
to betray the innocence of my child, and for the ruin of us all?"- At
these words little Betsy came running into the room, crying, "Dear
mamma, for heaven's sake come to my sister; for she is in another fit,
and my cousin can't hold her." Mrs. Miller immediately obeyed the
summons; but first ordered Betsy to stay with Mr. Jones, and begged
him to entertain her a few minutes, saying, in the most pathetic
voice, "Good heaven! let me preserve one of my children at least."
  Jones, in compliance with this request, did all he could to
comfort the little girl, though he was, in reality, himself very
highly affected with Mrs. Miller's story. He told her "Her sister
would be soon very well again; that by taking on in that manner she
would not only make her sister worse, but make her mother ill too."
"Indeed, sir," says she, "I would not do anything to hurt them for the
world. I would burst my heart rather than they should see me
cry.- But my poor sister can't see me cry.- I am afraid she will never
be able to see me cry any more. Indeed, I can't part with her;
indeed I can't.- And then poor mamma too, what will become of
her?- She says she will die too, and leave me: but I am resolved I
won't be left behind." "And are you not afraid to die, my little
Betsy?" said Jones. "Yes," answered she, "I was always afraid to
die; because I must have left my mamma, and my sister; but I am not
afraid of going anywhere with those I love."
  Jones was so pleased with this answer' that he eagerly kissed the
child; and soon after Mrs. Miller returned, saying, "She thanked
heaven, Nancy was now come to herself. And now, Betsy," says she, "you
may go in, for your sister is better, and longs to see you." She
then turned to Jones, and began to renew her apologies for having
disappointed him of his breakfast.
  "I hope, madam," said Jones, "I shall have a more exquisite repast
than any you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be
the case, if I can do any service to this little family of love. But
whatever success may attend my endeavours, I am resolved to attempt
it. I am very much deceived in Mr. Nightingale, if, notwithstanding
what hath happened, he hath not much goodness of heart at the
bottom, as well as a very violent affection for your daughter. If this
be the case, I think the picture which I shall lay before him will
affect him. Endeavour, madam, to comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy,
as well as you can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr. Nightingale;
and I hope to bring you good news."
  Mrs. Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings of
heaven upon Mr. Jones; to which she afterwards added the most
passionate expressions of gratitude. He then departed to find Mr.
Nightingale, and the good woman returned to comfort her daughter,
who was somewhat cheared at what her mother told her; and both
joined in resounding the praises of Mr. Jones.
                                Chapter 7

  The interview between Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale

  The good or evil we confer on others, very often, I believe, recoils
on ourselves. For as men of a benign disposition enjoy their own
acts of beneficence equally with those to whom they are done, so there
are scarce any natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of
doing injuries, without paying themselves some pangs for the ruin
which they bring on their fellow creatures.
  Mr. Nightingale, at least, was not such a person. On the contrary,
Jones found him in his new lodgings, sitting melancholy by the fire,
and silently lamenting the unhappy situation in which he had placed
poor Nancy. He no sooner saw his friend appear, than he arose
hastily to meet him; and after much congratulation said, "Nothing
could be more opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more
in the spleen in my life."
  "I am sorry," answered Jones, "that I bring news very unlikely to
relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you
the most. However, it is necessary you should know it. Without further
preface, then, I come to you, Mr. Nightingale, from a worthy family,
which you have involved in misery and ruin." Mr. Nightingale changed
colour at these words; but Jones, without regarding it, proceeded,
in the liveliest manner, to paint the tragical story with which the
reader was acquainted in the last chapter.
  Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he
discovered violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it was
concluded, after fetching a deep sigh, he said, "What you tell me,
my friend, affects me in the tenderest manner. Sure there never was so
cursed an accident as the poor girl's betraying my letter. Her
reputation might otherwise have been safe, and the affair might have
remained a profound secret; and then the girl might have gone off
never the worse; for many such things happen in this town: and if
the husband should suspect a little, when it is too late, it will be
his wiser conduct to conceal his suspicion both from his wife and
the world."
  "Indeed, my friend," answered Jones, "this could not have been the
case with your poor Nancy. You have so intirely gained her affections,
that it is the loss of you, and not of her reputation, which
afflicts her, and will end in the destruction of her and her
family." "Nay, for that matter, I promise you," cries Nightingale,
"she hath my affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever she is to
be, will have very little share in them." "And is it possible,
then," said Jones, "you can think of deserting her?" "Why, what can
I do?" answered the other. "Ask Miss Nancy," replied Jones warmly. "In
the condition to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she
ought to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her interest
alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. But if
you ask me what you shall do, what can you do less," cries Jones,
"than fulfil the expectations of her family, and her own? Nay, I
sincerely tell you, they were mine too, ever since I first saw you
together. You will pardon me if I presume on the friendship you have
favoured me with, moved as I am with compassion for those poor
creatures. But your own heart will best suggest to you, whether you
have never intended, by your conduct, to persuade the mother, as
well as the daughter, into an opinion, that you designed honourably:
and if so, though there may have been no direct promise of marriage in
the case, I will leave to your own good understanding, how far you are
bound to proceed."
  "Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted," said
Nightingale; "but I am afraid even that very promise you mention I
have given." "And can you, after owning that," said Jones, "hesitate a
moment?" "Consider, my friend," answered the other; "I know you are
a man of honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its rules;
if there were no other objection, can I, after this publication of her
disgrace, think of such an alliance with honour?" "Undoubtedly,"
replied Jones, "and the very best and truest honour, which is
goodness, requires it of you. As you mention a scruple of this kind,
you will give me leave to examine it. Can you with honour be guilty of
having under false pretences deceived a young woman and her family,
and of having by these means treacherously robbed her of her
innocence? Can you, with honour, be the knowing, the wilful
occasion, nay, the artful contriver of the ruin of a human being?
Can you, with honour, destroy the fame, the peace, nay, probably, both
the life and soul too, of this creature? Can honour bear the
thought, that this creature is a tender, helpless, defenceless,
young woman? A young woman, who loves, who doats on you, who dies
for you; who hath placed the utmost confidence in your promises; and
to that confidence hath sacrificed everything which is dear to her?
Can honour support such contemplations as these a moment?"
  "Common sense, indeed," said Nightingale, "warrants all you say; but
yet you well know the opinion of the world is so contrary to it, that,
was I to marry a whore, though my own, I should be ashamed of ever
showing my face again."
  "Fie upon it, Mr. Nightingale!" said Jones, "do not call her by so
ungenerous a name: when you promised to marry her, she became your
wife; and she hath sinned more against prudence than virtue. And
what is this world, which you would be ashamed to face, but the
vile, the foolish, and the profligate? Forgive me if I say such a
shame must proceed from false modesty, which always attends false
honour as its shadow.- But I am well assured there is not a man of
real sense and goodness in the world, who would not honour and applaud
the action. But, admit no other would, would not your own heart, my
friend, applaud it? And do not the warm, rapturous sensations, which
we feel from the consciousness of an honest, noble, generous,
benevolent action, convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved
praise of millions? Set the alternative fairly before your eyes. On
the one side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing girl, in the
arms of her wretched mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking
heart in agonies, sighing out your name; and lamenting, rather than
accusing, the cruelty which weighs her down to destruction. Paint to
your imagination the circumstance of her fond bespairing parent,
driven to madness, or, perhaps, to death, by the loss of her lovely
daughter. View the poor, helpless, orphan infant; and when your mind
hath dwelt a moment only on such ideas, consider yourself as the cause
of all the ruin of this poor, little, worthy, defenceless family. On
the other side, consider yourself, as relieving them from their
temporary sufferings. Think with what joy, with what transports that
lovely creature will fly to your arms. See her blood returning to
her pale cheeks, her fire to her languid eyes, and raptures to her
tortured breast. Consider the exultations of her mother, the happiness
of all. Think of this little family made by one act of yours
completely happy. Think of this alternative, and sure I am mistaken in
my friend, if it requires any long deliberation, whether he will
sink these wretches down for ever, or, by one generous, noble
resolution, raise them all from the brink of misery and despair to the
highest pitch of human happiness. Add to this but one consideration
more; the consideration that it is your duty so to do- That the
misery from which you will relieve these poor people, is the misery
which you yourself have wilfully brought upon them."
  "O, my dear friend!" cries Nightingale, "I wanted not your eloquence
to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and would willingly
give anything in my power that no familiarities had ever passed
between us. Nay, believe me, I had many struggles with my passion
before I could prevail with myself to write that cruel letter, which
hath caused all the misery in that unhappy family. If I had no
inclinations to consult but my own, I would marry her to-morrow
morning: I would, by heaven! but you will easily imagine how
impossible it would be to prevail on my father to consent to such a
match; besides, he hath provided another for me; and to-morrow, by his
express command, I am to wait on the lady."
  "I have not the honour to know your father," said Jones; "but,
suppose he could be persuaded, would you yourself consent to the
only means of preserving these poor people?" "As eagerly as I would
pursue my happiness," answered Nightingale: "for I never shall find it
in any other woman.- O, my dear friend! could you imagine what I have
felt within these twelve hours for my poor girl, I am convinced she
would not engross all your pity. Passion leads me only to her; and, if
I had any foolish scruples of honour, you have fully satisfied them:
could my father be induced to comply with my desires, nothing would be
wanting to compleat my own happiness, or that of my Nancy."
  "Then I am resolved to undertake it," said Jones. "You must not be
angry with me, in whatever light it may be necessary to set this
affair, which, you may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid
from him: for things of this nature make a quick progress when once
they get abroad, as this unhappily hath already. Besides, should any
fatal accident follow, as upon my soul I am afraid will, unless
immediately prevented, the public would ring of your name in a
manner which, if your father hath common humanity, must offend him. If
you will therefore tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I
will not lose a moment in the business; which, while I pursue, you
cannot do a more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor
girl. You will find I have not exaggerated in the account I have given
of the wretchedness of the family."
  Nightingale immediately consented to the proposal; and now, having
acquainted Jones with his father's lodging, and the coffee-house where
he would most probably find him, he hesitated a moment, and then said,
"My dear Tom, you are going to undertake an impossibility. If you knew
my father, you would never think of obtaining his consent.-- Stay,
there is one way- suppose you told him I was already married, it might
be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; and, upon my
honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I love my
Nancy so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be
the consequence."
  Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. They
then separated, Nightingale, to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of
the old gentleman.
                                Chapter 8

  What passed between Jones and old Mr. Nightingale; with the
arrival of a person not yet mentioned in this history

  Notwithstanding the sentiment of the Roman satirist, which denies
the divinity of fortune, and the opinion of Seneca to the same
purpose; Cicero, who was, I believe, a wiser man than either of
them, expressly holds the contrary; and certain it is, there are
some incidents in life so very strange and unaccountable, that it
seems to require more than human skill and foresight in producing
them.
  Of this kind was what now happened to Jones, who found Mr.
Nightingale the elder in so critical a minute, that Fortune, if she
was really worthy all the worship she received at Rome, could not have
contrived such another. In short, the old gentleman, and the father of
the young lady whom he intended for his son, had been hard at it for
many hours; and the latter was just now gone, and had left the
former delighted with the thoughts that he had succeeded in a long
contention, which had been between the two fathers of the future bride
and bridegroom; in which both endeavoured to overreach the other, and,
as it not rarely happens in such cases, both had retreated fully
satisfied of having obtained the victory.
  This gentleman, whom Mr. Jones now visited, was what they call a man
of the world; that is to say, a man who directs his conduct in this
world as one who, being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved
to make the most of this. In his early years he had been bred to
trade; but, having acquired a very good fortune, he had lately
declined his business; or, to speak more properly, had changed it from
dealing in goods, to dealing only in money, of which he had always a
plentiful fund at command, and of which he knew very well how to
make a very plentiful advantage, sometimes of the necessities of
private men, and sometimes of those of the public. He had indeed
conversed so intirely with money, that it may be almost doubted
whether he imagined there was any other thing really existing in the
world; this at least may be certainly averred, that he firmly believed
nothing else to have any real value.
  The reader will, I fancy, allow that Fortune could not have culled
out a more improper person for Mr. Jones to attack with any
probability of success; nor could the whimsical lady have directed
this attack at a more unseasonable time.
  As money then was always uppermost in this gentleman's thoughts,
so the moment he saw a stranger within his doors, it immediately
occurred to his imagination, that such stranger was either come to
bring him money, or to fetch it from him. And according as one or
other of these thoughts prevailed, he conceived a favourable or
unfavourable idea of the person who approached him.
  Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the ascendant at
present; for as a young gentleman had visited him the day before, with
a bill from his son for a play debt, he apprehended, at the first
sight of Jones, that he was come on such another errand. Jones
therefore had no sooner told him that he was come on his son's
account, than the old gentleman, being confirmed in his suspicion,
burst forth into an exclamation, "That he would lose his labour."
"Is it then possible, sir," answered Jones, "that you can guess my
business?" "If I do guess it," replied the other, "I repeat again to
you, you will lose your labour. What, I suppose you are one of those
sparks who lead my son into all those scenes of riot and debauchery,
which will be his destruction? but I shall pay no more of his bills, I
promise you. I expect he will quit all such company for the future. If
I had imagined otherwise, I should not have provided a wife for him;
for I would be instrumental in the ruin of nobody." "How, sir," said
Jones, "and was this lady of your providing?" "Pray, sir," answered
the old gentleman, "how comes it to be any concern of yours?"- "Nay,
dear sir," replied Jones, "be not offended that I interest myself in
what regards your son's happiness, for whom I have so great an
honour and value. It was upon that very account I came to wait upon
you. I can't express the satisfaction you have given me by what you
say; for I do assure you, your son is a person for whom I have the
highest honour.- Nay, sir, it is not easy to express the esteem I
have for you; who could be so generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent
to provide such a match for your son; a woman, who, I dare swear, will
make him one of the happiest men upon earth."
  There is scarce anything which so happily introduces men to our good
liking, as having conceived some alarm at their first appearance; when
once those apprehensions begin to vanish, we soon forget the fears
which they occasioned, and look on ourselves as indebted for our
present ease to those very persons who at first raised our fears.
  Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones
had no demand on him, as he suspected, than he began to be pleased
with his presence. "Pray, good sir," said he, "be pleased to sit down.
I do not remember to have ever had the pleasure of seeing you
before; but if you are a friend of my son, and have anything to say
concerning this young lady, I shall be glad to hear you. As to her
making him happy, it will be his own fault if she doth not. I have
discharged my duty, in taking care of the main article. She will bring
him a fortune capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober man,
happy." "Undoubtedly" cries Jones, "for she is in herself a fortune;
so beautiful, so genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so well-educated; she
is indeed a most accomplished young lady; sings admirably well, and
hath a most delicate hand at the harpsichord." "I did not know any
of these matters," answered the old gentleman, "for I never saw the
lady: but I do not like her the worse for what you tell me; and I am
the better pleased with her father for not laying any stress on
these qualifications in our bargain. I shall always think it a proof
of his understanding. A silly fellow would have brought in these
articles as an addition to her fortune; but, to give him his due, he
never mentioned any such matter; though to be sure they are no
disparagements to a woman." "I do assure you, sir," cries Jones,
"she hath them all in the most eminent degree: for my part, I own I
was afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less
inclined to the match; for your son told me you had never seen the
lady; therefore I came, sir, in that case, to entreat you, to
conjure you, as you value the happiness of your son, not to be
averse to his match with a woman who hath not only all the good
qualities I have mentioned, but many more."- "If that was your
business, sir," said the old gentleman, "we are both obliged to you;
and you may be perfectly easy; for I give you my word I was very
well satisfied with her fortune." "Sir," answered Jones, "I honour you
every moment more and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very
moderate on that account, is a proof of the soundness of your
understanding, as well as the nobleness of your mind."--"Not so very
moderate, young gentleman, not so very moderate," answered the
father.-- "Still more and more noble," replied Jones; "and give me
leave to add, sensible: for sure it is little less than madness to
consider money as the sole foundation of happiness. Such a woman as
this with her little, her nothing of a fortune"- "I find," cries the
old gentleman, "you have a pretty just opinion of money, my friend, or
else you are better acquainted with the person of the lady than with
her circumstances. Why, pray, what fortune do you imagine this lady to
have?" "What fortune?" cries Jones, "why, too contemptible a one to be
named for your son."- "Well, well, well," said the other, "perhaps he
might have done better."- "That I deny," said Jones, "for she is one
of the best of women."- "Ay, ay, but in point of fortune I mean,"
answered the other. "And yet, as to that now, how much do you imagine
your friend is to have?"- "How much?" cries Jones, "how much? Why, at
the utmost, perhaps L200." "Do you mean to banter me, young
gentleman?" said the father, a little angry. "No, upon my soul,"
answered Jones, "I am in earnest: nay, I believe I have gone to the
utmost farthing. If I do the lady an injury, I ask her pardon."
"Indeed you do," cries the father; "I am certain she hath fifty times
that sum, and she shall produce fifty to that before I consent that
she shall marry my son." "Nay," said Jones, "it is too late to talk of
consent now; if she had not fifty farthings, your son is married."-
"My son married!" answered the old gentleman, with surprize. "Nay,"
said Jones, "I thought you was unacquainted with it." "My son married
to Miss Harris!" answered he again. "To Miss Harris!" said Jones; "no,
sir; to Miss Nancy Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house
he lodged; a young lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let
lodgings-"- "Are you bantering, or are you in earnest?" cries the
father, with a most solemn voice. "Indeed, sir," answered Jones, "I
scorn the character of a banterer. I came to you in most serious
earnest, imagining, as I find true, that your son had never dared to
acquaint you with a match so much inferior to him in point of fortune,
though the reputation of the lady will suffer it no longer to remain a
secret."
  While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this news, a
gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the name of brother.
  But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly related, they
were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The
brother who now arrived had likewise been bred to trade, in which he
no sooner saw himself worth L6000 than he purchased a small estate
with the greatest part of it, and retired into the country; where he
married the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman; a young lady, who,
though she had neither beauty nor fortune, had recommended herself
to his choice entirely by her good humour, of which she possessed a
very large share.
  With this woman he had, during twenty-five years, lived a life
more resembling the model which certain poets ascribe to the golden
age, than any of those patterns which are furnished by the present
times. By her he had four children, but none of them arrived at
maturity, except only one daughter, whom, in vulgar language, he and
his wife had spoiled; that is, had educated with the utmost tenderness
and fondness, which she returned to such a degree, that she had
actually refused a very extraordinary match with a gentleman a
little turned of forty, because she could not bring herself to part
with her parents.
  The young lady whom Mr. Nightingale had intended for his son was a
near neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of his niece; and
in reality it was upon the account of his projected match, that he was
now come to town; not, indeed, to forward, but to dissuade his brother
from a purpose which he conceived would inevitably ruin his nephew;
for he foresaw no other event from a union with Miss Harris,
notwithstanding the largeness of her fortune, as neither her person
nor mind seemed to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity: for she
was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very silly, and
very ill-natured.
  His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage of his
nephew with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost satisfaction;
and when the father had very bitterly reviled his son, and
pronounced sentence of beggary upon him, the uncle began in the
following manner:
  "If you was a little cooler, brother, I would ask you whether you
love your son for his sake or for your own. You would answer, I
suppose, and so I suppose you think, for his sake; and doubtless it is
his happiness which you intended in the marriage you proposed for him.
  "Now, brother, to prescribe rules of happiness to others hath always
appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this, very
tyrannical. It is a vulgar error, I know; but it is, nevertheless,
an error. And if this be absurd in other things, it is mostly so in
the affair of marriage, the happiness of which depends intirely on the
affection which subsists between the parties.
  "I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in parents to
desire to chuse for their children on this occasion; since to force
affection is an impossible attempt; nay, so much doth love abhor
force, that I know not whether, through an unfortunate but uncurable
perverseness in our natures, it may not be even impatient of
persuasion.
  "It is, however, true that, though a parent will not, I think,
wisely prescribe, he ought to be consulted on this occasion; and, in
strictness, perhaps, should at least have a negative voice. My nephew,
therefore, I own, in marrying, without asking your advice, hath been
guilty of a fault. But, honestly speaking, brother, have you not a
little promoted this fault? Have not your frequent declarations on
this subject given him a moral certainty of your refusal, where
there was any deficiency in point of fortune? Nay, doth not your
present anger arise solely from that deficiency? And if he hath failed
in his duty here, did you not as much exceed that authority, when
you absolutely bargained with him for a woman, without his
knowledge, whom you yourself never saw, and whom, if you had seen
and known as well as I, it must have been madness in you to have
ever thought of bringing her into your family?
  "Still I own my nephew in a fault; but surely it is not an
unpardonable fault. He hath acted indeed without your consent, in a
matter in which he ought to have asked it, but it is in a matter in
which his interest is principally concerned; you yourself must and
will acknowledge, that you consulted his interest only, and if he
unfortunately differed from you, and hath been mistaken in his
notion of happiness, will you, brother, if you love your son, carry
him still wider from the point? Will you increase the ill consequences
of his simple choice? Will you endeavour to make an event certain
misery to him, which may accidentally prove so? In a word, brother,
because he hath put it out of your power to make his circumstances
as affluent as you would, will you distress them as much as you can?"
  By the force of the true Catholic faith, St. Anthony won upon the
fishes. Orpheus and Amphion went a little farther, and by the charms
of music enchanted things merely inanimate. Wonderful, both! but
neither history nor fable have ever yet ventured to record an instance
of any one, who, by force of argument and reason, hath triumphed
over habitual avarice.
  Mr. Nightingale, the father, instead of attempting to answer his
brother, contented himself with only observing, that they had always
differed in their sentiments concerning the education of their
children. "I wish," said he, "brother, you would have confined your
care to your own daughter, and never have troubled yourself with my
son, who hath, I believe, as little profited by your precepts, as by
your example." For young Nightingale was his uncle's godson, and had
lived more with him than with his father. So that the uncle had
often declared, he loved his nephew almost equally with his own child.
  Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; and when, after
much persuasion, they found the father grew still more and more
irritated, instead of appeased, Jones conducted the uncle to his
nephew at the house of Mrs. Miller.
                                Chapter 9

  Containing strange matters

  At his return to his lodgings, Jones found the situation of
affairs greatly altered from what they had been in at his departure.
The mother, the two daughters, and young Mr. Nightingale, were now sat
down to supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire,
introduced without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom he
was well known; for he had several times visited his nephew at that
house.
  The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and
wished her joy, as he did afterwards the mother and the other
sister; and lastly, he paid the proper compliments to his nephew, with
the same good humour and courtesy, as if his nephew had married his
equal or superior in fortune, with all the previous requisites first
performed.
  Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and looked
rather foolish than otherwise upon this occasion; but Mrs. Miller took
the first opportunity of withdrawing; and, having sent for Jones
into the dining-room, she threw herself at his feet, and in a most
passionate flood of tears, called him her good angel, the preserver of
her poor little family, with many other respectful and endearing
appellations, and made him every acknowledgment which the highest
benefit can extract from the most grateful heart.
  After the first gust of her passion was a little over, which she
declared, if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded
to inform Mr. Jones that all matters were settled between Mr.
Nightingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married the
next morning; at which Mr. Jones having expressed much pleasure, the
poor woman fell again into a fit of joy and thanksgiving, which he
at length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return
with him back to the company, whom they found in the same good
humour in which they had left them.
  This little society now past two or three very agreeable hours
together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover of his
bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, though not
drunk, began to be somewhat flustered; and now Mr. Nightingale, taking
the old gentleman with him upstairs into the apartment he had lately
occupied, unbosomed himself as follows:-
  "As you have been always the best and kindest of uncles to me, and
as you have shown such unparalleled goodness in forgiving this
match, which to be sure may be thought a little improvident, I
should never forgive myself if I attempted to deceive you in
anything." He then confessed the truth, and opened the whole affair.
  "How, Jack?" said the old gentleman, "and are you really then not
married to this young woman?" "No, upon my honour," answered
Nightingale, "I have told you the simple truth." "My dear boy,"
cries the uncle, kissing him, "I am heartily glad to hear it. I
never was better pleased in my life. If you had been married, I should
have assisted you as much as was in my power to have made the best
of a bad matter; but there is a great difference between considering a
thing which is already done and irrecoverable, and that which is yet
to do. Let your reason have fair play, Jack, and you will see this
match in so foolish and preposterous a light, that there will be no
need of any dissuasive arguments." "How, sir?" replies young
Nightingale, "is there this difference between having already done
an act, and being in honour engaged to do it?" "Pugh!" said the uncle,
"honour is a creature of the world's making, and the world hath the
power of a creator over it, and may govern and direct it as they
please. Now you well know how trivial these breaches of contract are
thought; even the grossest make but the wonder and conversation of a
day. Is there a man who afterwards will be more backward in giving you
his sister, or daughter? or is there any sister or daughter who
would be more backward to receive you? Honour is not concerned in
these engagements." "Pardon me, dear sir," cries Nightingale, "I can
never think so; and not only honour, but conscience and humanity,
are concerned. I am well satisfied, that, was I now to disappoint
the young creature, her death would be the consequence, and I should
look upon myself as her murderer; nay, as her murderer by the
cruellest of all methods, by breaking her heart." "Break her heart,
indeed! no, no, Jack," cries the uncle, "the hearts of women are not
so soon broke; they are tough, boy, they are tough." "But, sir,"
answered Nightingale, "my own affections are engaged, and I never
could be happy with any other woman. How often have I heard you say,
that children should be always suffered to chuse for themselves, and
that you would let my cousin Harriet do so?" "Why, ay," replied the
old gentleman, "so I would have them; but then I would have them chuse
wisely.- Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave the girl."-- "Indeed,
uncle," cries the other, "I must and will have her." "You will,
young gentleman!" said the uncle; "I did not expect such a word from
you. I should not wonder if you had used such language to your father,
who hath always treated you like a dog, and kept you at the distance
which a tyrant preserves over his subjects; but I, who have lived with
you upon an equal footing, might surely expect better usage: but I
know how to account for it all: it is all owing to your preposterous
education, in which I have had too little share. There is my daughter,
now, whom I have brought up as my friend, never doth anything
without my advice, nor ever refuses to take it when I give it her."
"You have never yet given her advice in an affair of this kind,"
said Nightingale; "for I am greatly mistaken in my cousin, if she
would be very ready to obey even your most positive commands in
abandoning her inclinations." "Don't abuse my girl," answered the
old gentleman with some emotion; "don't abuse my Harriet. I have
brought her up to have no inclinations contrary to my own. By
suffering her to do whatever she pleases, I have enured her to a habit
of being pleased to do whatever I like." Pardon me, sir," said
Nightingale, "I have not the least design to reflect on my cousin, for
whom I have the greatest esteem; and indeed I am convinced you will
never put her to so severe a tryal, or lay such hard commands on her
as you would do on me.- But, dear sir, let us return to the company;
for they will begin to be uneasy at our long absence. I must beg one
favour of my dear uncle, which is that he would not say anything to
shock the poor girl or her mother." "Oh! you need not fear me,"
answered he, "I understand myself too well to affront women; so I will
readily grant you that favour; and in return I must expect another
of you." "There are but few of your commands, sir," said
Nightingale, "which I shall not very chearfully obey." "Nay, sir, I
ask nothing," said the uncle, "but the honour of your company home
to my lodging, that I may reason the case a little more fully with
you; for I would, if possible, have the satisfaction of preserving
my family, notwithstanding the headstrong folly of my brother, who, in
his opinion, is the wisest man in the world."
  Nightingale, who well knew his uncle to be as headstrong as his
father, submitted to attend him home, and then they both returned back
into the room, where the old gentleman promised to carty himself
with the same decorum which he had before maintained.
                                Chapter 10

  A short chapter, which concludes the book

  The long absence of the uncle and nephew had occasioned some
disquiet in the minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the
more, as, during the preceding dialogue, the uncle had more than
once elevated his voice, so as to be heard downstairs; which, though
they could not distinguish what he said, had caused some evil
foreboding in Nancy and her mother, and, indeed, even in Jones
himself.
  When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there was a
visible alteration in all their faces; and the good humour which, at
their last meeting, universally shone forth in every countenance,
was now changed into a much less agreeable aspect. It was a change,
indeed, common enough to the weather in this climate, from sunshine to
clouds, from June to December.
  This alteration was not, however, greatly remarked by any present;
for as they were all now endeavouring to conceal their own thoughts,
and to act a part, they became all too busily engaged in the scene
to be spectators of it. Thus neither the uncle nor nephew saw any
symptoms of suspicion in the mother or daughter; nor did the mother or
daughter remark the overacted complacence of the old man, nor the
counterfeit satisfaction which grinned in the features of the young
one.
  Something like this, I believe, frequently happens, where the
whole attention of two friends being engaged in the part which each is
to act, in order to impose on the other, neither sees nor suspects the
arts practised against himself; and thus the thrust of both (to borrow
no improper metaphor on the occasion) alike takes place.
  From the same reason it is no unusual thing for both parties to be
overreached in a bargain, though the one must be always the greater
loser; as was he who sold a blind horse, and received a bad note in
payment.
  Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle carried
off his nephew; but not before the latter had assured Miss Nancy, in a
whisper, that he would attend her early in the morning, and fulfil all
his engagements.
  Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the most. He
did indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observing the great
alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the distance he assumed, and
his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; the carrying off a bridegroom
from his bride at that time of night was so extraordinary a
proceeding, that it could be accounted for only by imagining that
young Nightingale had revealed the whole truth, which the apparent
openness of his temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too
probable.
  While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should acquaint
these poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the house informed
him that a gentlewoman desired to speak with him.-- He went
immediately out, and, taking the candle from the maid, ushered his
visitant upstairs, who, in the person of Mrs. Honour, acquainted him
with such dreadful news concerning his Sophia, that he immediately
lost all consideration for every other person; and his whole stock
of compassion was entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own
misery, and on that of his unfortunate angel.
  What this dreadful matter was, the reader will be informed, after we
have first related the many preceding steps which produced it, and
those will be the subject of the following book.
                                    BOOK XV
                  IN WHICH THE HISTORY ADVANCES ABOUT TWO DAYS
                                Chapter 1

  Too short to need a preface

  There are a set of religious, or rather moral writers, who teach
that virtue is the certain road to happiness, and vice to misery, in
this world. A very wholesome and comfortable doctrine, and to which we
have but one objection, namely, that it is not true.
  Indeed, if by virtue these writers mean the exercise of those
cardinal virtues, which like good housewives stay at home, and mind
only the business of their own family, I shall very readily concede
the point; for so surely do all these contribute and lead to
happiness, that I could almost wish, in violation of all the antient
and modern sages, to call them rather by the name of wisdom, than by
that of virtue; for, with regard to this life, no system, I
conceive, was ever wiser than that of the antient Epicureans, who held
this wisdom to constitute the chief good; nor foolisher than that of
their opposites, those modern epicures, who place all felicity in
the abundant gratification of every sensual appetite.
  But if by virtue is meant (as I almost think it ought) a certain
relative quality, which is always busying itself without-doors, and
seems as much interested in pursuing the good of others as its own;
I cannot so easily agree that this is the surest way to human
happiness; because I am afraid we must then include poverty and
contempt, with all the mischiefs which backbiting, envy, and
ingratitude, can bring on mankind, in our idea of happiness; nay,
sometimes perhaps we shall be obliged to wait upon the said
happiness to a jail; since many by the above virtue have brought
themselves thither.
  I have not now leisure to enter upon so large a field of
speculation, as here seems opening upon me; my design was to wipe
off a doctrine that lay in my way; since, while Mr. Jones was acting
the most virtuous part imaginable, in labouring to preserve his
fellow-creatures from destruction, the devil, or some other evil
spirit, one perhaps cloathed in human flesh, was hard at work to
make him completely miserable in the ruin of his Sophia.
  This, therefore, would seem an exception to the above rule, if
indeed it was a rule; but as we have in our voyage through life seen
so many other exceptions to it, we chuse to dispute the doctrine on
which it is founded, which we don't apprehend to be Christian, which
we are convinced is not true, and which is indeed destructive of one
of the noblest arguments that reason alone can furnish for the
belief of immortality.
  But as the reader's curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake,
and hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.
                                Chapter 2

  In which is opened a very black design against Sophia

  I remember a wise old gentleman who used to say, "When children
are doing nothing, they are doing mischief." I will not enlarge this
quaint saying to the most beautiful part of the creation in general;
but so far I may be allowed, that when the effects of female
jealousy do not appear openly in their proper colours of rage and
fury, we may suspect that mischievous passion to be at work privately,
and attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.
  This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, under
all the smiles which she wore in her countenance, concealed much
indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young
lady stood between her and the full indulgence of her desires, she
resolved to get rid of her by some means other; nor was it long before
a very favourable opportunity of accomplishing this presented itself
to her.
  The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown
into that consternation at the playhouse, by the wit and humour of a
set of young gentlemen who call themselves the town, we informed
him, that she had put herself under the protection of a young
nobleman, who had very safely conducted her to her chair.
  This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had more
than once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, and had
conceived a very great liking to her; which liking, as beauty never
looks more amiable than in distress, Sophia had in this fright so
encreased, that he might now, without any great impropriety, be said
to be actually in love with her.
  It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so handsome an
occasion of improving his acquaintance with the beloved object as
now offered itself to elapse, when even good breeding alone might have
prompted him to pay her a visit.
  The next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on
Sophia, with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no
harm from her last night's adventure.
  As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon blown into
a flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her conquest. Time now
flew away unperceived, and the noble lord had been two hours in
company with the lady, before it entered into his head that he had
made too long a visit. Though this circumstance alone would have
alarmed Sophia, who was somewhat more a mistress of computation at
present; she had indeed much more pregnant evidence from the eyes of
her lover of what past within his bosom; nay, though he did not make
any open declaration of his passion, yet many of his expressions
were rather too warm, and too tender, to have been imputed to
complacence, even in the age when such complacence was in fashion; the
very reverse of which is well known to be the reigning mode at
present.
  Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship's visit at his
first arrival; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that
things went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected the
second time she saw this young couple together. This business, she
rightly, I think, concluded, that she should by no means 'forward by
mixing in the company while they were together; she therefore
ordered her servants, that when my lord was going, they should tell
him she desired to speak with him; and employed the intermediate
time in meditating how best to accomplish a scheme, which she made
no doubt but his lordship would very readily embrace the execution of.
  Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young nobleman) was no
sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she attacked him in the
following strain: "Bless me, my lord, are you here yet? I thought my
servants had made a mistake, and let you go away; and I wanted to
see you about an affair of some importance."-- "Indeed, Lady
Bellaston," said he, "I don't wonder you are astonished at the length
of my visit; for I have staid above two hours, and I did not think I
had staid above half-a-one."-- "What am I to conclude from thence, my
lord?" said she. "The company must be very agreeable which can make
time slide away so very deceitfully."-- "Upon my honour," said he,
"the most agreeable I ever saw. Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is
this blazing star which you have produced among us all of a sudden?"--
"What blazing star, my lord?" said she, affecting a surprize. "I
mean," said he, "the lady I saw here the other day, whom I had last
night in my arms at the playhouse, and to whom I have been making that
unreasonable visit."-- "O, my cousin Western!" said she; "why, that
blazing star, my lord, is the daughter of a country booby squire,
and hath been in town about a fortnight, for the first time."-- "Upon
my soul," said he, "I should swear she had been bred up in a court;
for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so genteel, so sensible,
so polite."--"O brave!" cries the lady, "my cousin hath you, I
find."-- "Upon my honour," answered he, "I wish she had; for I am in
love with her to distraction."-- "Nay, my lord," said she, "it is not
wishing yourself very ill neither, for she is a very great fortune:
I assure you she is an only child, and her father's estate is a good
L3000 a-year." "Then I can assure you, madam," answered the lord, "I
think her the best match in England." "Indeed, my lord," replied
she, "if you like her, I heartily wish you had her." "If you think
so kindly of me, madam," said he, "as she is a relation of yours, will
you do me the honour to propose it to her father?" "And are you really
then in earnest?" cries the lady, with an affected gravity. "I hope,
madam," answered he, "you have a better opinion of me, than to imagine
I would jest with your ladyship in an affair of this kind." "Indeed,
then," said the lady, "I will most readily propose your lordship to
her father; and I can, I believe, assure you of his joyful
acceptance of the proposal; but there is a bar, which I am almost
ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you will never be able to
conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and a rival who, though I blush to
name him, neither you, nor all the world, will ever be able to
conquer." "Upon my word, Lady Bellaston," cries he, "you have struck a
damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me of being." "Fie, my
lord," said she, "I should rather hope I had struck fire into you. A
lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I rather imagined you would
have asked your rival's name, that you might have immediately
entered the lists with him." "I promise you, madam," answered he,
"there are very few things I would not undertake for your charming
cousin; but pray, who is this happy man?"- "Why, he is," said she,
"what I am sorry to say most happy men with us are, one of the
lowest fellows in the world. He is a beggar, a bastard, a foundling, a
fellow in meaner circumstances than one of your lordship's footmen."
"And is it possible," cried he, "that a young creature with such
perfections should think of bestowing herself so unworthily?" "Alas!
my lord," answered she, "consider the country- the bane of all young
women is the country. There they learn a set of romantic notions of
love, and I know not what folly, which this town and good company
can scarce eradicate in a whole winter." "Indeed, madam," replied my
lord, "your cousin is of too immense a value to be thrown away; such
ruin as this must be prevented." "Alas!" cries she, "my lord, how
can it be prevented? The family have already done all in their
power; but the girl is, I think, intoxicated, and nothing less than
ruin will content her. And to deal more openly with you, I expect
every day to hear she is run away with him." "What you tell me, Lady
Bellaston," answered his lordship, "affects me most tenderly, and only
raises my compassion, instead of lessening my adoration of your
cousin. Some means must be found to preserve so inestimable a jewel.
Hath your ladyship endeavoured to reason with her?" Here the lady
affected a laugh, and cried, "My dear lord, sure you know us better
than to talk of reasoning a young woman out of her inclinations? These
inestimable jewels are as deaf as the jewels they wear: time, my lord,
time is the only medicine to cure their folly; but this is a
medicine which I am certain she will not take; nay, I live in hourly
horrors on her account. In short, nothing but violent methods will
do." "What is to be done?" cries my lord; "what methods are to be
taken?- Is there any method upon earth?- Oh! Lady Bellaston! there is
nothing which I would not undertake for such a reward."-- "I really
know not," answered the lady, after a pause; and then pausing again,
she cried out- "Upon my soul, I am at my wit's end on this girl's
account.- If she can be preserved, something must be done
immediately; and, as I say, nothing but violent methods will do.- If
your lordship hath really this attachment to my cousin (and to do
her justice, except in this silly inclination, of which she will
soon see her folly, she is every way deserving), I think there may
be one way, indeed it is a very disagreeable one, and what I am almost
afraid to think of.- It requires a great spirit, I promise you." "I
am not conscious, madam," said he, "of any defect there; nor am I, I
hope, suspected of any such. It must be an egregious defect indeed,
which could make me backward on this occasion." "Nay, my lord,"
answered she, "I am so far from doubting you, I am much more
inclined to doubt my own courage; for I must run a monstrous risque.
In short, I must place such a confidence in your honour as a wise
woman will scarce ever place in a man on any consideration." In this
point likewise my lord very well satisfied her; for his reputation was
extremely clear, and common fame did him no more than justice, in
speaking well of him. "Well, then," said she, "my lord,- I- I vow, I
can't bear the apprehension of it.- No, it must not be.-- At least
every other method shall be tried. Can you get rid of your
engagements, and dine here to-day? Your lordship will have an
opportunity of seeing a little more of Miss Western.- I promise you
we have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady Betty, and
Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they will all go
soon-and I shall be at home to nobody. Then your lordship may be a
little more explicit. Nay, I will contrive some method to convince you
of her attachment to this fellow." My lord made proper compliments,
accepted the invitation, and then they parted to dress, it being now
past three in in the morning, or to reckon by the old style, in the
afternoon.
                                Chapter 3

  A further explanation of the foregoing design

  Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be
a member (and no inconsiderable one) of the great world; she was in
reality a very considerable member of the little world; by which
appellation was distinguished a very worthy and honourable society
which not long since flourished in this kingdom.
  Among other good principles upon which this society was founded,
there was one very remarkable; for, as it was a rule of an
honourable club of heroes, who assembled at the close of the late war,
that all the members should every day fight once at least; so 'twas in
this, that every member should, within the twenty-four hours, tell
at least one merry fib, which was to be propagated by all the brethren
and sisterhood.
  Many idle stories were told about this society, which from a certain
quality may be, perhaps not unjustly, supposed to have come from the
society themselves. As, that the devil was the president; and that
he sat in person in an elbow-chair at the upper end of the table; but,
upon very strict inquiry, I find there is not the least truth in any
of those tales, and that the assembly consisted in reality of a set of
very good sort of people, and the fibs which they propagated were of a
harmless kind, and tended only to produce mirth and good humour.
  Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To him
therefore Lady Bellaston applied as a proper instrument for her
purpose, and furnished him with a fib, which he was to vent whenever
the lady gave him her cue; and this was not to be till the evening,
when all the company but Lord Fellamar and himself were gone, and
while they were engaged in a rubbers at whist.
  To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the evening,
we will convey our reader; when Lady Bellaston, Lord Fellamar, Miss
Western, and Tom, being engaged at whist, and in the last game of
their rubbers, Tom received his cue from Lady Bellaston, which was, "I
protest, Tom, you are grown intolerable lately; you used to tell us
all the news of the town, and now you know no more of the world than
if you lived out of it."
  Mr. Edwards then began as follows: "The fault is not mine, madam: it
lies in the dulness of the age, that doth nothing worth talking
of.-- O la! though now I think on't, there hath a terrible accident
befallen poor Colonel Wilcox.-- Poor Ned.-- You know him, my lord,
everybody knows him; faith! I am very much concerned for him."
  "What is it, pray?" says Lady Bellaston.
  "Why, he hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that's all."
  His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom he
had killed? To which Edwards answered, "A young fellow we none of us
know; a Somersetshire lad just came to town, one Jones his name is;
a near relation of one Mr. Allworthy, of whom your lordship I
believe hath heard. I saw the lad lie dead in a coffee-house.- Upon
my soul, he is one of the finest corpses I ever saw in my life!"
  Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a man
was killed, stopt her hand, and listened with attention (for all
stories of that kind affected her), but no sooner had he arrived at
the latter part of the story than she began to deal again; and
having dealt three cards to one, and seven to another, and ten to a
third, at last dropt the rest from her hand, and fell back in her
chair.
  The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The usual
disturbance ensued, the usual assistance was summoned, and Sophia at
last, as it is usual, returned again to life, and was soon after, at
her earnest desire, led to her own apartment; where, at my lord's
request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with the truth, attempted to
carry it off as a jest of her own, and comforted her with repeated
assurances, that neither his lordship nor Tom, though she had taught
him the story, were in the true secret of the affair.
  There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord Fellamar
how justly the case had been represented to him by Lady Bellaston; and
now, at her return into the room, a scheme was laid between these
two noble persons, which, though it appeared in no very heinous
light to his lordship (as he faithfully promised, and faithfully
resolved too, to make the lady all the subsequent amends in his
power by marriage), yet many of our readers, we doubt not, will see
with just detestation.
  The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal purpose,
when Lady Bellaston undertook that Sophia should be alone, and his
lordship should be introduced to her. The whole family were to be
regulated for the purpose, most of the servants dispatched out of
the house; and for Mrs. Honour, who, to prevent suspicion, was to be
left with her mistress till his lordship's arrival, Lady Bellaston
herself was to engage her in an apartment as distant as possible
from the scene of the intended mischief, and out of the hearing of
Sophia.
  Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, and her
ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with a project, of which
she had no reason to doubt the success, and which promised so
effectually to remove Sophia from being any further obstruction to her
amour with Jones, by a means of which she should never appear to be
guilty, even if the fact appeared to the world; but this she made no
doubt of preventing by huddling up a marriage, to which she thought
the ravished Sophia would easily be brought to consent, and at which
all the rest of her family would rejoice.
  But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of the
other conspirator; his mind was tost in all the distracting anxiety so
nobly described by Shakespear-

     Between the acting of a dreadful thing,
     And the first motion, all the interim is
     Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
     The genius and the mortal instruments
     Are then in council; and the state of man,
     Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
     The nature of an insurrection.--

  Though the violence of his passion had made him eagerly embrace
the first hint of this design, especially as it came from a relation
of the lady, yet when that friend to reflection, a pillow, had
placed the action itself in all its natural black colours before his
eyes, with all the consequences which must, and those which might
probably attend it, his resolution began to abate, or rather indeed to
go over to the other side; and after a long conflict, which lasted a
whole night, between honour and appetite, the former at length
prevailed, and he determined to wait on Lady Bellaston, and to
relinquish the design.
  Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, and
Sophia sitting by her bedside, when the servant acquainted her that
Lord Fellamar was below in the parlour; upon which her ladyship
desired him to stay, and that she would see him presently; but the
servant was no sooner departed than poor Sophia began to intreat her
cousin not to encourage the visits of that odious lord (so she
called him, though a little unjustly) upon her account. "I see his
design," said she; "for he made downright love to me yesterday
morning; but as I am resolved never to admit it, I beg your ladyship
not to leave us alone together any more, and to order the servants
that, if he inquires for me, I may be always denied to him."
  "La! child," says Lady Bellaston, "you country girls have nothing
but sweethearts in your head; you fancy every man who is civil to
you is making love. He is one of the most gallant young fellows
about town, and I am convinced means no more than a little
gallantry. Make love to you indeed! I wish with all my heart he would,
and you must be an arrant mad woman to refuse him."
  "But I shall certainly be that mad woman," cries Sophia, "I hope his
visits shall not be intruded upon me."
  "O child!" said Lady Bellaston, "you need not be so fearful; if
you resolve to run away with that Jones, I know no person who can
hinder you."
  "Upon my honour, madam," cries Sophia, "your ladyship injures me.
I will never run away with any man; nor will I ever marry contrary
to my father's inclinations."
  "Well, Miss Western," said the lady, "if you are not in a humour
to see company this morning, you may retire to your own apartment; for
I am not frightened at his lordship, and must send for him up into
my dressing-room."
  Sophia thanked her ladyship, and withdrew; and presently
afterwards Fellamar was admitted upstairs.
                                Chapter 4

  By which it will appear how dangerous an advocate a lady is when she
applies her eloquence to an ill purpose

  When Lady Bellaston heard the young lord's scruples, she treated
them with the same disdain with which one of those sages of the law,
called Newgate solicitors, treats the qualms of conscience in a
young witness. "My dear lord," said she, "you certainly want a
cordial. I must send to Lady Edgely for one of her best drams. Fie
upon it! have more resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape? Or
are you apprehensive--? Well! if the story of Helen was modern, I
should think it unnatural. I mean the behaviour of Paris, not the
fondness of the lady; for all women love a man of spirit. There is
another story of the Sabine ladies- and that too, I thank heaven, is
very antient. Your lordship, perhaps, will admire my reading; but I
think Mr. Hook tells us, they made tolerable good wives afterwards.
I fancy few of my married acquaintance were ravished by their
husbands." "Nay, dear Lady Bellaston," cried he, "don't ridicule me in
this manner." "Why, my good lord," answered she, "do you think woman
in England would not laugh at you in her heart, whatever prudery she
might wear in her countenance?-- You force me to use a strange kind of
language, and to betray my sex most abominably; but I am contented
with knowing my intentions are good, and that I am endeavouring to
serve my cousin; for I think you will make her a husband
notwithstanding this; or, upon my soul, I would not even persuade
her to fling herself away upon an empty title. She should not
upbraid me hereafter with having lost a man of spirit; for that his
enemies allow this poor young fellow to be."
  Let those who have had the satisfaction of hearing reflections of
this kind from a wife or a mistress, declare whether they are at all
sweetened by coming from a female tongue. Certain it is, they sunk
deeper into his lordship than anything which Demosthenes or Cicero
could have said on the occasion.
  Lady Bellaston, perceiving she had fired the young lord's pride,
began now, like a true orator, to rouse other passions to its
assistance. "My Lord," says she, in a graver voice, "you will be
pleased to remember, you mentioned this matter to me first; for I
would not appear to you in the light of one who is endeavouring to put
off my cousin upon you. Fourscore thousand pounds do not stand in need
of an advocate to recommend them." "Nor doth Miss Western," said he,
"require any recommendation from her fortune; for, in my opinion, no
woman ever had half her charms." "Yes, yes, my lord," replied the
lady, looking in the glass, there have been women with more than
half her charms, I assure you; not that I need lessen her on that
account: she is a most delicious girl, that's certain; and within
these few hours she will be in the arms of one, who surely doth not
deserve her, though I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a
man of spirit."
  "I hope so, madam," said my lord; "though I must own he doth not
deserve her; for, unless heaven or your ladyship disappoint me, she
shall within that time be in mine."
  "Well spoken, my lord," answered the lady; "I promise you no
disappointment shall happen from my side; and within this week I am
convinced I shall call your lordship my cousin in public."
  The remainder of this scene consisted entirely of raptures, excuses,
and compliments, very pleasant to have heard from the parties; but
rather dull when related at second hand. Here, therefore, shall put an
end to this dialogue, and hasten to the fatal hour when everything was
prepared for the destruction of poor Sophia.
  But this being the most tragical matter in our whole history, we
shall treat it in a chapter by itself.
                                Chapter 5

  Containing some matters which may affect, and others which may
surprize, the reader

  The clock had now struck seven, and poor Sophia, alone and
melancholy, sat reading a tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and
she was now come to that part where the poor distrest Isabella
disposes of her wedding-ring.
  Here the book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears ran down
into her bosom. In this situation she had continued a minute, when the
door opened, and in came Lord Fellamar. Sophia started from her
chair at his entrance; and his lordship advancing forwards, and making
a low bow, said, "I am afraid, Miss Western, I break in upon you
abruptly." "Indeed, my lord," says she, "I must own myself a little
surprized at this unexpected visit." "If this visit be unexpected,
madam," answered Lord Fellamar, "my eyes must have been very faithless
interpreters of my heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you;
for surely you could not otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in
your possession, without receiving a visit from its owner." Sophia,
confused as she was, answered this bombast (and very properly I think)
with a look of inconceivable disdain. My lord then made another and
a longer speech of the same sort. Upon which Sophia, trembling,
said, "Am I really to conceive your lordship to be out of your senses?
Sure, my lord, there is no other excuse for such behaviour." "I am,
indeed, madam, in the situation you suppose," cries his lordship; "and
sure you will pardon the effects of a frenzy which you yourself have
occasioned; for love hath so totally deprived me of reason, that I
am scarce accountable for any of my actions." "Upon my word, my lord,"
said Sophia, "I neither understand your words nor your behaviour."
"Suffer me then, madam," cries he, "at your feet to explain both, by
laying open my soul to you, and declaring that I doat on you to the
highest degree of distraction. O most adorable, most divine
creature! what language can express the sentiments of my heart?" "I do
assure you, my lord," said Sophia, "I shall not stay to hear any
more of this." "Do not," cries he, "think of leaving me thus
cruelly; could you know half the torments which I feel, that tender
bosom must pity what those eyes have caused." Then fetching a deep
sigh, and laying hold of her hand, he ran on for some minutes in a
strain which would be little more pleasing to the reader than it was
to the lady; and at last concluded with a declaration, "That if he was
master of the world, he would lay it her feet." Sophia then,
forcibly pulling away her hand from his, answered with much spirit, "I
promise you, sir, your world and its master I should spurn from me
with equal contempt." She then offered to go; and Lord Fellamar, again
laying hold of her hand, said, "Pardon me, my beloved angel,
freedoms which nothing but despair could have tempted me to
take.-- Believe me, could I have had any hope that my title and
fortune, neither of them inconsiderable, unless when compared with
your worth, would have been accepted, I had, in the humblest manner,
presented them to your acceptance.- But I cannot lose you.- By heaven,
I will sooner part with my soul!- You are, you must, you shall be only
mine." "My lord," says she, "I intreat you to desist from a vain
pursuit; for, upon my honour, I will never hear you on this subject.
Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from you this moment;
nor will I ever see you more." "Then, madam," cries his lordship, "I
must make the best use of this moment; for I cannot live, nor will I
live without you."-- "What do you mean, my lord?" said Sophia; "I will
raise the family." "I have no fear, madam," answered he, "but of
losing you, and that I am resolved to prevent, the only way which
despair points to me."- He then caught her in his arms: upon which
she screamed so loud, that she must have alarmed some one to her
assistance, had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove all ears.
  But a more lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; another
noise now broke forth, which almost drowned her cries; for now the
whole house rang with, "Where is she? D--n me, I'll unkennel her this
instant. Show me her chamber, I say. Where is my daughter? I know
she's in the house, and I'll see her if she's above-ground. Show me
where she is."- At which last words the door flew open, and in came
Squire Western, with his parson and a set of myrmidons at his heels.
  How miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, when
the enraged voice of her father was welcome to her ears! Welcome
indeed it was, and luckily did he come; for it was the only accident
upon earth which could have preserved the peace of her mind from being
for ever destroyed.
  Sophia, notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father's
voice; and his lordship, notwithstanding his passion, knew the voice
of reason, which peremptorily assured him, it was not now a time for
the perpetration of his villany. Hearing, therefore, the voice
approach, and hearing likewise whose it was (for as the squire more
than once roared forth the word daughter, so Sophia, in the midst of
her struggling, cried out upon her father), he thought proper to
relinquish his prey, having only disordered her handkerchief, and with
his rude lips committed violence on her lovely neck.
  If the reader's imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be
able to describe the situation of these two persons when Western
came into the room. Sophia tottered into a chair, where she sat
disordered, pale, breathless, bursting with indignation at Lord
Fellamar; affrighted, and yet more rejoiced, at the arrival of her
father.
  His lordship sat down near her, the bag of his wig hanging over
one of his shoulders, the rest of his dress being somewhat disordered,
and rather a greater proportion of linen than is usual appearing at
his bosom. As to the rest, he was amazed, affrighted, vexed, and
ashamed.
  As to Squire Western, he happened at this time to be overtaken by an
enemy, which very frequently pursues, and seldom fails to overtake,
most of the country gentlemen in this kingdom. He was, literally
speaking, drunk; which circumstance, together with his natural
impetuosity, could produce no other effect than his running
immediately up to his daughter, upon whom he fell foul with his tongue
in the most inveterate manner; nay, he had probably committed violence
with his hands, had not the parson interposed, saying, "For heaven's
sake, sir, animadvert that you are in the house of a great lady. Let
me beg you to mitigate your wrath; it should minister a fulness of
satisfaction that you have found your daughter; for as to revenge,
it belongeth not unto us. I discern great contrition in the
countenance of the young lady. I stand assured, if you will forgive
her, she will repent her of all past offences, and return unto her
duty."
  The strength of the parson's arms had at first been of more
service than the strength of his rhetoric. However, his last words
wrought some effect, and the squire answered, "I'll forgee her if
she wull ha' un. If wot ha' un, Sophy, I'll forgee thee all. Why
dost unt speak? Shat ha' un! d--n me, shat ha' un! Why dost unt
answer? Was ever such a stubborn tuoad?"
  "Let me intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate," said the
parson; "you frighten the young lady so, that you deprive her of all
power of utterance."
  "Power of mine a--," answered the squire. "You take her part then,
you do? A pretty parson, truly, to side with an undutiful child!
Yes, yes, I will gee you a living with a pox. I'll gee un to the devil
sooner."
  "I humbly crave your pardon," said the parson; "I assure your
worship I meant no such matter."
  My Lady Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to the squire,
who no sooner saw her, than, resolving to follow the instructions of
his sister, he made her a very civil bow, in the rural manner, and
paid her some of his best compliments. He then immediately proceeded
to his complaints, and said, "There, my lady cousin; there stands
the most undutiful child in the world; she hankers after a beggarly
rascal, and won't marry one of the greatest matches in all England,
that we have provided for her."
  "Indeed, cousin Western," answered the lady, "I am persuaded you
wrong my cousin. I am sure she hath a better understanding. I am
convinced she will not refuse what she must be sensible is so much
to her advantage."
  This was a wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well knew
whom Mr. Western meant; though perhaps she thought he would easily
be reconciled to his lordship's proposals.
  "Do you hear there," quoth the squire, "what her ladyship say? All
your family are for the match. Come, Sophy, be a good girl, and be
dutiful, and make your father happy."
  "If my death will make you happy, sir," answered Sophia, "you will
shortly be so."
  "It's a lye, Sophy; it's a d--n'd lye, and you know it," said the
squire.
  "Indeed, Miss Western"' said Lady Bellaston, "you injure your
father; he hath nothing in view but your interest in this match; and I
and all your friends must acknowledge the highest honour done to
your family in the proposal."
  "Ay, all of us," quoth the squire; "nay, it was no proposal of mine.
She knows it was her aunt proposed it to me first.- Come, Sophy, once
more let me beg you to be a good girl, and gee me your consent
before your cousin."
  "Let me give him your hand, cousin," said the lady. "It is the
fashion now-a-days to dispense with time and long courtships."
  "Pugh!" said the squire, "what signifies time; won't they have
time enough to court afterwards? People may court very well after they
have been a-bed together."
  As Lord Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant by Lady
Bellaston, so, never having heard nor suspected a word of Blifil, he
made no doubt of his being meant by the father. Coming up,
therefore, to the squire, he said, "Though I have not the honour, sir,
of being personally known to you, yet, as I find I have the
happiness to have my proposals accepted, let me intercede, sir, in
behalf of the young lady, that she may not be more solicited at this
time."
  "You intercede, sir!" said the squire; "why, who the devil are you?"
  "Sir, I am Lord Fellamar," answered he, "and am the happy man whom I
hope you have done the honour of accepting for a son-in-law."
  "You are a son of a b--," replied the squire, "for all your laced
coat. You my son-in-law, and be d--n'd to you!"
  "I shall take more from you, sir, than from any man," answered the
lord; "but I must inform you that I am not used to hear such
language without resentment."
  "Resent my a--," quoth the squire. "Don't think I am afraid of such
a fellow as thee art! because hast got a spit there dangling at thy
side. Lay by your spit, and I'll give thee enough of meddling with
what doth not belong to thee. I'll teach you to father-in-law me. I'll
lick thy jacket."
  "It's very well, sir," said my lord, "I shall make no disturbance
before the ladies. I am very well satisfied. Your humble servant, sir;
Lady Bellaston, your most obedient."
  His lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, coming up to
Mr. Western, said, "Bless me, sir, what have you done? You know not
whom you have affronted; he is a nobleman of the first rank and
fortune, and yesterday made proposals to your daughter; and such as
I am sure you must accept with the highest pleasure."
  "Answer for yourself, lady cousin," said the squire, "I will have
nothing to do with any of your lords. My daughter shall have an honest
country gentleman; I have pitched upon one for her- and she shall ha'
un.- I am sorry for the trouble she hath given your ladyship with all
my heart." Lady Bellaston made a civil speech upon the word trouble;
to which the squire answered- "Why, that's kind- and I would do as
much for your ladyship. To be sure relations should do for one
another. So I wish your ladyship a good night.- Come, madam, you must
go along with me by fair means, or I'll have you carried down to the
coach."
  Sophia said she would attend him without force; but begged to go
in a chair, for she said she should not be able to ride any other way.
  "Prithee," cries the squire, "wout unt persuade me canst not ride in
a coach, wouldst? That's a pretty thing surely! No, no, I'll never let
thee out of my sight any more till art married, that I promise
thee." Sophia told him, she saw he was resolved to break her heart. "O
break thy heart and be d--n'd," quoth he, "if a good husband will
break it. I don't value a brass varden, not a halfpenny, of any
undutiful b-- upon earth." He then took a violent hold of her hand;
upon which the parson once more interfered, begging him to use gentle
methods. At that the squire thundered out a curse, and bid the parson
hold his tongue, saying, "At'nt in pulpit now? when art a got up there
I never mind what dost say; but I won't be priest-ridden, nor taught
how to behave myself by thee. I wish your ladyship a good night. Come
along, Sophy; be a good girl, and all shall be well. Shat ha' un,
d--n me, shat ha' un!"
  Mrs. Honour appeared below-stairs, and with a low curtesy to the
squire offered to attend her mistress; but he pushed her away, saying,
"Hold, madam, hold, you come no more near my house." "And will you
take my maid away from me?" said Sophia. "Yes, indeed, madam, will I,"
cries the squire: "you need not fear being without a servant; I will
get you another maid, and a better maid than this, who, I'd lay five
pounds to a crown, is no more a maid than my grannum. No, no, Sophy,
she shall contrive no more escapes, I promise you." He then packed
up his daughter and the parson into the hackney coach, after which
he mounted himself, and ordered it to drive to his lodgings. In the
way thither he suffered Sophia to be quiet, and entertained himself
with reading a lecture to the parson on good manners, and a proper
behaviour to his betters.
  It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his
daughter from Lady Bellaston, had that good lady desired to have
detained her; but, in reality, she was not a little pleased with the
confinement into which Sophia was going; and as her project with
Lord Fellamar had failed of success, she was well contented that other
violent methods were now going to be used in favour of another man.
                                Chapter 6

  By what means the squire came to discover his daughter

  Though the reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest much more
unaccountable appearances than this of Mr. Western, without any
satisfaction at all; yet, as we dearly love to oblige him whenever
it is in our power, we shall now proceed to show by what method the
squire discovered where his daughter was.
  In the third chapter, then, of the preceding book, we gave a hint
(for it is not our custom to unfold at any time more than is necessary
for the occasion) that Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of
reconciling her uncle and aunt Western, thought she had a probable
opportunity, by the service of preserving Sophia from committing the
same crime which had drawn on herself the anger of her family. After
much deliberation, therefore, she resolved to inform her aunt
Western where her cousin was, and accordingly she writ the following
letter, which we shall give the reader at length, for more reasons
than one.

  HONOURED MADAM,
  The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a letter of mine
agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of her nieces, though I
have little reason to hope it will be so on the account of another.
  Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my unhappy self at
your feet, I met, by the strangest accident in the world, my cousin
Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted with than myself,
though, alas! I know infinitely too much; enough indeed to satisfy me,
that unless she is immediately prevented, she is in danger of
running into the same fatal mischief which, by foolishly and
ignorantly refusing your most wise and prudent advice, I have
unfortunately brought on myself.
  In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most Part of yesterday
in his company, and a charming young fellow I promise you he is. By
what accident he came acquainted with me is too tedious to tell you
now; but I have this morning changed my lodgings to avoid him, lest he
should by my means discover my cousin; for he doth not yet know
where she is, and it is adviseable he should not, till my uncle hath
secured her.-- No time therefore is to be lost; and I need only inform
you, that she is now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen, and who
hath, I find, a design of concealing her from her family. You know,
madam, she is a strange woman; but nothing could misbecome me more,
than to presume to give any hint to one of your great understanding
and great knowledge of the world, besides barely informing you of
the matter of fact.
  I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this occasion for
the good of my family, will recommend me again to the favour of a lady
who hath always exerted so much zeal for the honour and true
interest of us all; and that it may be a means of restoring me to your
friendship, which hath made so great a part of my former, and is so
necessary to my future happiness.
                 I am,
                     with the utmost respect,
                        honoured madam,
                           your most dutiful obliged niece,
                              and most obedient humble
                                 servant,
                                        HARRIET FITZPATRICK

  Mrs. Western was now at her brother's house, where she had resided
ever since the flight of Sophia, in order to administer comfort to the
poor squire in his affliction. Of this comfort, which she doled out to
him in daily portions, we have formerly given a specimen.
  She was now standing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of
snuff in her hand, dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort to
the squire, while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received the
above letter; which she had no sooner read than she delivered it to
him, saying, "There, sir, there is an account of your lost sheep.
Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you will be governed by
my advice, it is possible you may yet preserve her."
  The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from his
chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for joy. He
then summoned his servants, called for his boots, and ordered the
Chevalier and several other horses to be saddled, and that parson
Supple should be immediately sent for. Having done this, he turned
to his sister, caught her in his arms, and gave her a close embrace,
saying, "Zounds! you don't seem pleased; one would imagine you was
sorry I have found the girl."
  "Brother," answered she, "the deepest politicians, who see to the
bottom, discover often a very different aspect of affairs, from what
swims on the surface. It is true, indeed, things do look rather less
desperate than they did formerly in Holland, when Lewis the Fourteenth
was at the gates of Amsterdam; but there is a delicacy required in
this matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you want.
There is a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, such as Lady
Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of the world, superior,
I am afraid, to yours."
  "Sister," cries the squire, "I know you have no opinion of my parts;
but I'll shew you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowledge, quotha! I
have not been in the country so long without having some knowledge
of warrants and the law of the land. I know I may take my own wherever
I can find it. Shew me my own daughter, and if I don't know how to
come at her, I'll suffer you to call me a fool as long as I live.
There be justices of peace in London, as well as in other places."
  "I protest," cries she, "you make me tremble for the event of this
matter, which, if you will proceed by my advice, you may bring to so
good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that the house of a
woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and brutal justices of
the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. As soon as you arrive
in town, and have got yourself into a decent dress (for indeed,
brother, you have none at present fit to appear in), you must send
your compliments to Lady Bellaston, and desire leave to wait on her.
When you are admitted to her presence, as you certainly will be, and
have told her your story, and have made proper use of my name (for I
think you just know one another only by sight, though you are
relations), I am confident she will withdraw her protection from my
niece, who hath certainly imposed upon her. This is the only
method.- Justices of peace, indeed! do you imagine any such event can
arrive to a woman of figure in a civilised nation?"
  "D--n their figures," cries the squire; "a pretty civilised nation,
truly, where women are above the law. And what must I stand sending
a parcel of compliments to a confounded whore, that keeps away a
daughter from her own natural father? I tell you, sister, I am not
so ignorant as you think me-- I know you would have women above the
law, but it is all a lye; I heard his lordship say at size, that no
one is above the law. But this of yours is Hanover law, I suppose."
  "Mr. Western," said she, "I think you daily improve in
ignorance.-- I protest you are grown an arrant bear."
  "No more a bear than yourself, sister Western," said the
squire.- "Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am sure
you never show any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog neither, though
I know somebody, that is something that begins with a b; but pox! I
will show you I have got more good manners than some folks."
  "Mr. Western," answered the lady, "you may say what you please, je
vous mesprise de tout mon coeur.* I shall not therefore be
angry.-- Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, justly
says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest of my
family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, that I
have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; for indeed,
indeed, brother you are not a fit minister to be employed at a
polite court.- Greenland- Greenland should always be the scene of the
tramontane negociation."

  *I despise you with all my heart.

  "I thank Heaven," cries the squire, "I don't understand you now. You
are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I'll shew you I scorn to
be behindhand in civility with you; and as you are not angry for
what I have said, so I am not angry for what you have said. Indeed,
I have always thought it a folly for relations to quarrel; and if they
do now and then give a hasty word, why, people should give and take;
for my part, I never bear malice; and I take it very kind of you to go
up to London; for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I
did not stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can't be
expected to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. I
never denied that you know'd all these matters better than I. For me
to dispute that would be all as one as for you to dispute the
management of a pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, with
me."- "Which I promise you," says she, "I never will."- "Well, and I
promise you," returned he, "that I never will dispute the t'other."
  Here then a league was struck (to borrow a phrase from the lady)
between the contending parties; and now the parson arriving, and the
horses being ready, the squire departed, having promised his sister to
follow her advice, and she prepared to follow him the next day.
  But having communicated these matters to the parson on the road,
they both agreed that the prescribed formalities might very well be
dispensed with; and the squire, having changed his mind, proceeded
in the manner we have already seen.
                                Chapter 7

  In which various misfortunes befel poor Jones

  Affairs were in the aforesaid situation, when Mrs. Honour arrived at
Mrs. Miller's, and called Jones out from the company, as we have
before seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, she began as
follows:-
  "O, my dear sir! how shall I get spirits to tell you; you are
undone, sir, and my poor lady's undone, and I am undone." "Hath
anything happened to Sophia?" cries Jones, staring like a madman. "All
that is bad," cries Honour: "Oh, I shall never get such another
lady! Oh that I should ever live to see this day!" At these words
Jones turned pale as ashes, trembled, and stammered; but Honour went
on- "O! Mr. Jones, I have lost my lady for ever." "How? what! for
Heaven's sake, tell me. O, my dear Sophia!" "You may well call her
so," said Honour; "she was the dearest lady to me. I shall never
have such another place."-- "D--n your place!" cries Jones; "where
is- what- what is become of my Sophia?" "Ay, to be sure," cries she,
"servants may be d--n'd. It signifies nothing what becomes of them,
though they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure
they are not flesh and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it
signifies nothing what becomes of them." "If you have any pity, and
compassion," cries Jones, "I beg you will instantly tell me what
hath happened to Sophia?" "To be sure, I have more pity for you than
you have for me," answered Honour; "I don't d--n you because you have
lost the sweetest lady in the world. To be sure, you are worthy to
be pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too: for, to be sure, if
ever there was a good mistress--" "What hath happened?" cries Jones,
in almost a raving fit. "What?- What?" said Honour: "Why, the worst
that could have happened both for you and for me.- Her father is come
to town, and hath carried ied away from us both." Here Jones fell on
his knees in thanksgiving that it was no worse. "No worse!" repeated
Honour; "what could be worse for either of us? He carried her off,
swearing she should marry Mr. Blifil; that's for your comfort; and,
for poor me, I am turned out of doors." "Indeed, Mrs. Honour,"
answered Jones, "you frightened me out of my wits. I imagined some
most dreadful sudden accident had happened to Sophia; something,
compared to which, even seeing her married to Blifil would be a
trifle; but while there is life there are hopes, my dear Honour.
Women, in this land of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal
force." "To be sure, sir," said she, that's true. There may be some
hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are there for poor me?
And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer all this upon
your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is for taking your
part, as I have done, against Mr. Blifil." "Indeed, Mrs. Honour,"
answered he, "I am sensible of my obligations to you, and will leave
nothing in my power undone to make you amends." "Alas! sir," said she,
"what can make a servant amends for the loss of one place but the
getting another altogether as good?" "Do not despair, Mrs. Honour,"
said Jones, "I hope to reinstate you again in the same."
"Alack-a-day, sir," said she, "how can I flatter myself with such
hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire is so set
against me: and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as to be sure I
now hopes heartily you will; for you are a generous, good-natured
gentleman; and I am sure you loves her, and to be sure she loves you
as dearly as her own soul; it is a matter in vain to deny it;
because as why, everybody, that is in the least acquainted with my
lady, must see it; for, poor dear lady, she can't dissemble: and if
two people who loves one another a'n't happy, why who should be so?
Happiness don't always depend upon what people has; besides, my lady
has enough for both. To be sure, therefore, as one may say, it would
be all the pity in the world to keep two such loviers asunder; nay,
I am convinced, for my part, you will meet together at last; for, if
it is to be, there is no preventing it. If a marriage is made in
heaven, all the justices of peace upon earth can't break it off. To be
sure I wishes that parson Supple had but a little more spirit, to tell
the squire of his wickedness in endeavouring to force his daughter
contrary to her liking; but then his whole dependance is on the
squire; and so the poor gentleman, though he is a very religious
good sort of man, and talks of the badness of such doings behind the
squire's back, yet he dares not say his soul is his own to his face.
To be sure I never saw him make so bold as just now; I was afeard
the squire would have struck him. I would not have your honour be
melancholy, sir, nor despair; things may go better, as long as you are
sure of my lady, and that I am certain you may be; for she never
will be brought to consent to marry any other man. Indeed, I am
terribly afeared the squire will do her a mischief in his passion, for
he is a prodigious passionate gentleman; and I am afeared too the poor
lady will be brought to break her heart, for she is as
tender-hearted as a chicken. It is pity, methinks, she had not a
little of my courage. If I was in love with a young man, and my father
offered to lock me up, I'd tear his eyes out but I'd come at him;
but then there's a great fortune in the case, which it is in her
father's power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may make
some difference."
  Whether Jones gave strict attention to all the foregoing harangue,
or whether it was for want of any vacancy in the discourse, I cannot
determine; but he never once attempted to answer, nor did she once
stop till Partridge came running into the room, and informed him
that the great lady was upon the stairs.
  Nothing could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced.
Honour knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted between him and
Lady Bellaston, and she was almost the last person in the world to
whom he would have communicated it. In this hurry and distress, he
took (as is common enough) the worst course, and, instead of
exposing her to the lady, which would have been of little consequence,
he chose to expose the lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide
Honour, whom he had but just time to convey behind the bed, and to
draw the curtains.
  The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on account of
his poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned by Mrs.
Honour, and the confusion into which he was thrown by the sudden
arrival of Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven former thoughts out
of his head; so that it never once occurred to his memory to act the
part of a sick man; which, indeed, neither the gaiety of his dress,
nor the freshness of his countenance, would have at all supported.
  He received her ladyship, therefore, rather agreeably to her desires
than to her expectations, with all the good humour he could muster
in his countenance, and without any real or affected appearance of the
least disorder.
  Lady Bellaston no sooner entered the room, than she squatted herself
down on the bed: "So, my dear Jones," said she, "you find nothing
can detain me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you,
that I have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive
your distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, I
suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like a
fine lady to see company after a lying-in; but, however, don't think I
intend to scold you; for I never will give you an excuse for the
cold behaviour of a husband, by putting on the ill-humour of a wife."
  "Nay, Lady Bellaston," said Jones, "I am sure your ladyship will not
upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only waited for orders. Who,
my dear creature, hath reason to complain? Who missed an
appointment, last night, and left an unhappy man to expect, and
wish, and sigh, and languish?"
  "Do not mention it, my dear Mr. Jones," cried she. "If you knew
the occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible to
conceive what women of condition are obliged to suffer from the
impertinence of fools, in order to keep up the farce of the world. I
am glad, however, all your languishing and wishing have done you no
harm; for you never looked better in your life. Upon my faith!
Jones, you might at this instant sit for the picture of Adonis."
  There are certain words of provocation which men of honour hold
can properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers possibly there
may be some expressions which can be answered only by a kiss. Now
the compliment which Lady Bellaston now made Jones seems to be of this
kind, especially as it was attended with a look, in which the lady
conveyed more soft ideas than it was possible to express with her
tongue.
  Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most
disagreeable and distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on
the comparison we made use of before, though the provocation was given
by the lady, Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor so much as
offer to ask it, in the presence of a third person; seconds in this
kind of duels not being according to the law of arms. As this
objection did not occur to Lady Bellaston, who was ignorant of any
other woman being there but herself, she waited some time in great
astonishment for an answer from Jones, who, conscious of the
ridiculous figure he made, stood at a distance, and, not daring to
give the proper answer, gave none at all. Nothing can be imagined more
comic, nor yet more tragical, than this scene would have been if it
had lasted much longer. The lady had already changed colour two or
three times; had got up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones
was wishing the ground to sink under him, or the house to fall on
his head, when an odd accident freed him from an embarrassment, out of
which neither the eloquence of a Cicero, nor the politics of a
Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter disgrace.
  This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, dead drunk;
or rather in that state of drunkenness which deprives men of the use
of their reason, without depriving them of the use of their limbs.
  Mrs. Miller and her daughters were in bed, and Partridge was
smoaking his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr.
Jones's chamber-door without any interruption. This he burst open, and
was entering without any ceremony, when Jones started from his scat
and ran to oppose him, which he did so effectually, that Nightingale
never came far enough within the door to see who was sitting on the
bed.
  Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones's apartment for that in
which himself had lodged; he therefore strongly insisted on coming in,
often swearing that he would not be kept from his own bed. Jones,
however, prevailed over him, and delivered him into the hands of
Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs soon summoned to his
master's assistance.
  And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own
apartment, where at the very instant of his entrance he heard Lady
Bellaston venting an exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at
the same time saw her flinging herself into a chair in a vast
agitation, which in a lady of tender constitution would have been an
hysteric fit.
  In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the two
men, of which she did not know what would be the issue, as she heard
Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to his own bed, attempted
to retire to her known place of hiding, which to her great confusion
she found already occupied by another.
  "Is this usage to be borne, Mr. Jones?" cries the lady.- "Basest of
men!-- What wretch is this to whom you have exposed me?" "Wretch!"
cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her place of
concealment-- "Marry come up!-- Wretch forsooth?-- as poor a wretch as
I am, I am honest; this is more than some folks who are richer can
say."
  Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the edge
of Mrs. Honour's resentment, as a more experienced gallant would
have done, fell to cursing his stars, and lamenting himself as the
most unfortunate man in the world; and presently after, addressing
himself to Lady Bellaston, he fell to some very absurd protestations
of innocence. By this time the lady, having recovered the use of her
reason, which she had as ready as any woman in the world, especially
on such occasions, calmly replied: "Sir, you need make no apologies, I
see now who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs. Honour: but
now I do, I can suspect nothing wrong between her and you; and I am
sure she is a woman of too good sense to put any wrong constructions
upon my visit to you; I have been always her friend, and it may be
in my power to be much more hereafter."
  Mrs. Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate.
Hearing, therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the soft tone, she
likewise softened hers.--"I'm sure, madam," says she, "I have been
always ready to acknowledge your ladyship's friendships to me; sure
I never had so good a friend as your ladyship-- and to be sure, now I
see it is your ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my tongue
off for very mad.- I constructions upon your ladyship-to be sure it
doth not become a servant as I am to think about such a great lady- I
mean I was a servant: for indeed I am nobody's servant now, the more
miserable wretch is me.- I have lost the best mistress--" Here Honour
thought fit to produce a shower of tears.- "Don't cry, child," says
the good lady; "ways perhaps may be found to make you amends. Come to
me to-morrow morning." She then took up her fan which lay on the
ground, and without even looking at Jones, walked very majestically
out of the room; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of
women of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain to in
circumstances of this nature.
  Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, which
she absolutely refused him, and got into her chair without taking
any notice of him, as he stood bowing before her.
  At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and Mrs.
Honour, while she was adjusting herself after the discomposure she had
undergone. The subject of this was his infidelity to her young lady;
on which she enlarged with great bitterness; but Jones at last found
means to reconcile her, and not only so, but to obtain a promise of
most inviolable secrecy, and that she would the next morning endeavour
to find out Sophia, and bring him a further account of the proceedings
of the squire.
  Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction only of
Mrs. Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will perhaps
acknowledge from experience) is often a very valuable possession:
and that not only to those who faithfully keep it, but sometimes to
such as whisper it about till it come to the ears of every one, except
the ignorant person who pays for the supposed concealing of what is
publickly known.
                                Chapter 8

  Short and sweet

  Nothwithstanding all the obligations she had received from Jones,
Mrs. Miller could not forbear in the morning some gentle for the
hurricane which had happened the preceding night in his chamber. These
were, however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed
truly, to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr. Jones himself,
that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the admonition
of the good woman, expressed much concern for what had past, excused
it aswell as he could, and promised never more to bring the same
disturbances into the house.
  But though Mrs. Miller did not refrain from a short expostulation in
private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his being summoned
downstairs that morning was of a more agreeable kind, being indeed
to perform the office of a father to Miss Nancy, and to give her in
wedlock to Mr. Nightingale, who was now ready drest, and full as sober
as many of my readers will think a man ought to be who receives a wife
in so imprudent a manner.
  And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape which
this young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for his appearance
in the condition in which we have seen him the night before.
  Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his nephew,
partly to indulge his own inclinations (for he dearly loved his
bottle), and partly to disqualify his nephew from the immediate
execution of his purpose, he ordered wine to be set on the table; with
which he so briskly plyed the young gentleman, that this latter,
who, though not much used to drinking, did not detest it so as to be
guilty of disobedience or want of complacence by refusing, was soon
completely finished.
  Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing a bed
for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, which so
entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a moment lost all
consideration for his nephew, and his whole mind became entirely taken
up with his own concerns.
  This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his daughter
had taken the opportunity of almost the first moment of his absence,
and had gone off with a neighbouring young clergyman; against whom,
though her father could have had but one objection, namely, that he
was worth nothing, yet she had never thought proper to communicate her
amour even to that father; and so artfully had she managed, that it
had never been once suspected by any, till now that it was
consummated.
  Old Mr. Nightingale no sooner received this account, than in the
utmost confusion he ordered a post-chaise to be instantly got ready,
and, having recommended his nephew to the care of a servant, he
directly left the house, scarce knowing what he did, nor whither he
went.
  The uncle thus departed, when the servant came to attend the
nephew to bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at last made
him sensible that his uncle was gone, he, instead of accepting the
kind offices tendered him, insisted on a chair being called; with this
the servant, who had received no strict orders to the contrary,
readily complied; and, thus being conducted back to the house of
Mrs. Miller, he had staggered up to Mr. Jones's chamber, as hath
been before recounted.
  This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young Nightingale
knew not as yet in what manner), and all parties being quickly
ready, the mother, Mr. Jones, Mr. Nightingale, and his love, stept
into a hackney-coach, which conveyed them to Doctors' Commons; where
Miss Nancy was, in vulgar language, soon made an honest woman, and the
poor mother became, in the purest sense of the word, one of the
happiest of all human beings.
  And now Mr. Jones, having seen his good offices to that poor woman
and her family brought to a happy conclusion, began to apply himself
to his own concerns; but here, lest many of my readers should
censure his folly for thus troubling himself with the affairs of
others, and lest some few should think he acted more disinterestedly
than indeed he did, we think proper to assure our reader, that he
was so far from being unconcerned in this matter, that he had indeed a
very considerable interest in bringing it to that final consummation.
  To explain this seeming paradox at once, he was one who could
truly say with him in Terence, Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum
puto.* He was never an indifferent spectator of the misery or
happiness of any one; and he felt either the one or the other in
greater proportion as he himself contributed to either. He could
not, therefore, be the instrument of raising a whole family from the
lowest state of wretchedness to the highest pitch of joy without
conveying great felicity to himself; more, perhaps, than worldly men
often purchase to themselves by undergoing the most severe labour, and
often by wading through the deepest iniquity.

  *I am a man; I hold as indifferent nothing that concerns man.

  Those readers who are of the same complexion with him will, perhaps,
think this short chapter contains abundance of matter; while others
may probably wish, short as it is, that it had been totally spared
as impertinent to the main design, which I suppose they conclude is to
bring Mr. Jones to the gallows, or, if possible, to a more
deplorable catastrophe.
                                Chapter 9

  Containing love-letters of several sorts

  Mr. Jones, at his return home, found the following letters lying
on his table, which he luckily opened in the order they were sent.

                                 LETTER I
  Surely I am under some strange infatuation; I cannot keep my
resolutions a moment, however strong made or justly founded. Last
night I resolved never to see you more; this morning I am willing to
hear if you can, as you say, clear up this affair. And yet I know that
to be impossible. I have said everything to myself which you can
invent.-- Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come to me,
therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge an excuse,
I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too- I will think no
more.-- Come to me directly.-- This is the third letter I have writ,
the two former are burnt-- I am almost inclined to burn this too-I
wish I may preserve senses.-- Come to me presently.

                                LETTER II
  If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my doors,
come to me this instant.

                                LETTER III
  I now find you was not at home when my notes came to your
lodgings. The moment you receive this let me see you;-- I shall not
stir out; nor shall anybody be let in but yourself. Sure nothing can
detain you long.

  Jones had just read over these three billets, when Mr. Nightingale
came into the room. "Well, Tom," said he, "any news from Lady
Bellaston, after last night's adventure?" (for it was now no secret to
any one in that house who the lady was). "The Lady Bellaston?"
answered Jones very gravely.-- "Nay, dear Tom," cries Nightingale,
"don't be so reserved to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see
her last night, I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am
ignorant who the queen of the fairies is?" "And did you really then
know the lady at the masquerade?" said Jones. "Yes, upon my soul,
did I," said Nightingale, "and have given you twenty hints of it
since, though you seemed always so tender on that point, that I
would not speak plainly. I fancy, my friend, by your extreme nicety in
this matter, you are not so well acquainted with the character of
the lady as with her person. Don't be angry, Tom, but upon my
honour, you are not the first young fellow she hath debauched. Her
reputation is in no danger, believe me."
  Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have been of the
vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was thoroughly ignorant
of the town, and had very little acquaintance in it, he had no
knowledge of that character which is vulgarly called a demirep; that
is to say, a woman who intrigues with every man she likes, under the
name and appearance of virtue; and who, though some overnice ladies
will not be seen with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole
town, in short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her.
  When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly
acquainted with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so
scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not quite
necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend's
tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever
heard of the lady.
  Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too effeminate
in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to
tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore, received a full liberty of
speaking from Jones, than he entered upon a long narrative
concerning the lady; which, as it contained many particulars highly to
her dishonour, we have too great a tenderness for all women of
condition to repeat. We would cautiously avoid giving an opportunity
to the future commentators on our works, of making any malicious
application, and of forcing us to be, against our will, the author
of scandal, which never entered into our head.
  Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to
say, fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried,
"Heyday! why, thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined my
stories would have affected you, I promise you should never have heard
them." "O my dear friend!" cries Jones, "I am so entangled with this
woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In love, indeed! no,
my friend, but I am under obligations to her, and very great ones.
Since you know so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing,
perhaps, solely to her, that I have not, before this, wanted a bit
of bread. How can I possibly desert such a woman? and yet I must
desert her, or be guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves
infinitely better of me than she can; a woman, my Nightingale, for
whom I have a passion which few can have an idea of. I am half
distracted with doubts how to act." "And is this other, pray, an
honourable mistress?" cries Nightingale. "Honourable!" answered Jones;
"no breath ever yet durst sully her reputation. The sweetest air is
not purer, the limpid stream not clearer, than her honour. She is
all over, both in mind and body, consummate perfection. She is the
most beautiful creature in the universe: and yet she is mistress of
such noble elevated qualities, that, though she is never from my
thoughts, I scarce ever think of her beauty but when I see it."- "And
can you, my good friend," cries Nightingale, "with such an
engagement as this upon your hands, hesitate a moment about quitting
such a-" "Hold," said Jones, "no more abuse of her: I detest the
thought of ingratitude." "Pooh!" answered the other, "you are not
the first upon whom she hath conferred obligations of this kind. She
is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her
favours are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise a
man's vanity than his gratitude." In short, Nightingale proceeded so
far on this head, and told his friend so many stories of the lady,
which he swore to the truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem
for her from the breast of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in
proportion. Indeed, he began to look on all the favours he had
received rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated not only
her, but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of
humour with both. From this digust, his mind, by a natural transition,
turned towards Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her love to him, her
sufferings on his account, filled all his thoughts, and made his
commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still more odious. The result of
all was, that, though his turning himself out of her service, in which
light he now saw his affair with her, would be the loss of his
bread; yet he determined to quit her, if he could but find a
handsome pretence: which being communicated to his friend, Nightingale
considered a little, and then said, "I have it, my boy! I have found
out a sure method; propose marriage to her, and I would venture
hanging upon the success." "Marriage?" cries Jones. "Ay, propose
marriage," answered Nightingale, "and she will declare off in a
moment. I knew a young fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the
offer to her in earnest, and was presently turned off for his pains."
  Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. "Perhaps,"
said he, "she may be less shocked at this proposal from one man than
from another. And if she should take me at my word, where am I then?
caught in my own trap, and undone for ever." "No," answered
Nightingale, "not if I can give you an expedient by which you may at
any time get out of the trap."-- "What expedient can that be?" replied
Jones. "This," answered Nightingale. "The young fellow I mentioned,
who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in the world,
is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since done him,
that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give you a sight of
her letters; upon which you may decently break with her; and declare
off before the knot is tied, if she should really be willing to tie
it, which I am convinced she will not."
  After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of this assurance,
consented; but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to propose the
matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, which Nightingale
dictated:-

  MADAM,
  I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate engagement abroad,
I should have missed receiving the honour of your ladyship's
commands the moment they came; and the delay which I must now suffer
of vindicating myself to your ladyship greatly adds to this
misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! what a terror have I been in, for
fear your reputation should be exposed by these perverse accidents!
There is one only way to secure it. I need not name what that is. Only
permit me to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so
my sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your
feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made completely
happy, without you generously bestow on me a legal right of calling
you mine for ever.- I am,
                                    madam,
                            with most profound respect,
                               your ladyship's most obliged,
                                  obedient, humble servant,
                                                   THOMAS JONES

  To this she presently returned the following answer:

  SIR,
  When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from its coldness
and formality, have sworn that you already had the legal right you
mention; nay, that we had for many years composed that monstrous
animal a husband and wife. Do you really then imagine me a fool? or do
you fancy yourself capable of so entirely persuading me out of my
senses, that I should deliver my whole fortune into your power, in
order to enable you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are these
the proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for--? but I
scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your Profound
respect.
  P.S. I am prevented from revising:-- Perhaps I have said more than I
meant.-- Come to me at eight this evening.

  Jones, by the advice of his privy-council, replied:

  MADAM,
  It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at the suspicion
you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have conferred favours on a
man whom she could believe capable of so base a design? or can she
treat the most solemn tie of love with contempt? Can you imagine,
madam, that if the violence of my passion, in an unguarded moment,
overcame the tenderness which I have for your honour, I would think of
indulging myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could
not possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when
discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be your
opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of returning those
pecuniary obligations, which I have been so unfortunate to receive
at your hands; and for those of a more tender kind, I shall ever
remain, &c. And so concluded in the very words with which he had
concluded the former letter.

  The lady answered as follows:

  I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If you come
here I shall not be at home.

  Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a thraldom
which those who have ever experienced it will, I apprehend, allow to
be none of the lightest, he was not, however, perfectly easy in his
mind. There was in this scheme too much of fallacy to satisfy one
who utterly detested every species of falshood or dishonesty: nor
would he, indeed, have submitted to put it in practice, had he not
been involved in a distressful situation, where he was obliged to be
guilty of some dishonour, either to the one lady or the other; and
surely the reader will allow, that every good principle, as well as
love, pleaded strongly in favour of Sophia.
  Nightingale highly exulted in the success of his stratagem, upon
which he received many thanks and much applause from his friend. He
answered, "Dear Tom, we have conferred very different obligations on
each other. To me you owe the regaining your liberty; to you I owe the
loss of mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in
the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in England."
  The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, where Mrs.
Miller, who performed herself the office of cook, had exerted her best
talents to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. This joyful
circumstance she ascribed principally to the friendly behaviour of
Jones; her whole soul was fired with gratitude towards him, and all
her looks, words, and actions, were so busied in expressing it, that
her daughter, and even her new son-in-law, were very little objects of
her consideration.
  Dinner was just ended when Mrs. Miller received a letter; but as
we have had letters enow in this chapter, we shall communicate its
contents in our next.
                                Chapter 10

  Consisting partly of facts, and partly of observations upon them

  The letter, then, which arrived at the end of the preceding
chapter was from Mr. Allworthy, and the purport of it was, his
intention to come immediately to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a
desire to be accommodated with his usual lodgings, which were the
first floor for himself, and the second for his nephew.
  The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the
countenance of the poor woman was a little clouded on his occasion.
This news did indeed a good deal disconcert her. To requite so
disinterested a match with her daughter, by presently turning her
new son-in-law out of doors, appeared to her very unjustifiable on the
one hand; and on the other, she could scarce bear the thoughts of
making any excuse to Mr. Allworthy, after all the obligations received
from him, for depriving him of lodgings which were indeed strictly his
due; for that gentleman, in conferring all his numberless benefits
on others, acted by a rule diametrically opposite to what is practised
by most generous people. He contrived, on all occasions, to hide his
beneficence, not only from the world, but even from the object of
it. He constantly used the words Lend and Pay, instead of Give; and by
every other method he could invent, always lessened with his tongue
the favours he conferred, while he was heaping them with both hands.
When he settled the annuity of L50 a year therefore on Mrs. Miller, he
told her, "it was in consideration of always having her first-floor
when he was in town (which he scarce ever intended to be), but that
she might let it at any other time, for that he would always send
her a month's warning." He was now, however, hurried to town so
suddenly, that he had no opportunity of giving such notice; and this
hurry probably prevented him, when he wrote for his lodgings,
adding, if they were then empty; for he would most certainly have been
well satisfied to have relinquished them, on a less sufficient
excuse than what Mrs. Miller could now have made.
  But there are a sort of persons, who, as Prior excellently well
remarks, direct their conduct by something

     Beyond the fix'd and settled rules
     Of vice and virtue in the schools,
     Beyond the letter of the law.

  To these it is so far from being sufficient that their defence would
acquit them at the Old Bailey, that they are not even contented,
though conscience, the severest of all judges, should discharge
them. Nothing short of the fair and honourable will satisfy the
delicacy of their minds; and if any of their actions fall short of
this mark, they mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a
murderer, who is afraid of a ghost, or of the hangman.
  Mrs. Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her uneasiness
at this letter; with the of which she had no sooner acquainted the
company, and given some hints of her distress, than Jones, her good
angel, presently relieved her anxiety. "As for myself, madam,' said
he, "my lodging is at your service at a moment's warning; and Mr.
Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to
receive his lady, will consent to return to his new lodging, whither
Mrs. Nightingale will certainly consent to go." With which proposal
both husband and wife agreed.
  The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs. Miller began
again to glow with additional gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may
be more difficult to persuade him, that Mr. Jones having in his last
speech called her daughter Mrs. Nightingale (it being the first time
that agreeable sound had ever reached her ears), gave the fond
mother more satisfaction, and warmed her heart more towards Jones,
than his having dissipated her present anxiety.
  The next day was then appointed for the removal of the new-married
couple, and of Mr. Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the
same house with his friend. And now the serenity of the company was
again restored, and they past the day in the utmost chearfulness,
all except Jones, who, though he outwardly accompanied the rest in
their mirth, felt many a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia,
which were not a little heightened by the news of Mr. Blifil's
coming to town for he clearly saw the intention of his journey); and
what greatly aggravated his concern was, that Mrs. Honour, who had
promised to inquire after Sophia, and to make her report to him
early the next evening, had disappointed him.
  In the situation that he and his mistress were in at this time,
there were scarce any grounds for him to hope that he should hear
any good news; yet he was as impatient to see Mrs. Honour as if he had
expected she would bring him a letter with an assignation in it from
Sophia, and bore the disappointment as ill. Whether this impatience
arose from that natural weakness of the human mind, which makes it
desirous to know the worst, and renders uncertainty the most
intolerable of pains; or whether he still flattered himself with
some secret hopes, we will not determine. But that it might be the
last, whoever has loved cannot but know. For of all the powers
exercised by this passion over our minds, one of the most wonderful is
that of supporting hope in the midst of despair. Difficulties,
improbabilities, nay, impossibilities, are quite overlooked by it;
so that to any man extremely in love, may be applied what Addison says
of Caesar,

     The Alps, and Pyrenaeans, sink before him!

Yet it is equally true, that the same passion will sometimes make
mountains of molehills, and produce despair in the midst of hope;
but these cold fits last not long in good constitutions. Which
temper Jones was now in, we leave the reader to guess, having no exact
information about it; but this is certain, that he had spent two hours
in expectation, when, being unable any longer to conceal his
uneasiness, he retired to his room; where his anxiety had almost
made him frantick, when the following letter was brought him from Mrs.
Honour, with which we shall present the reader verbatim et literatim.

  SIR,
  I shud sartenly haf kaled on you a cordin too mi prommiss haddunt
itt bin that hur lashipp prevent mee; for to bee sur, Sir, you nose
very well that evere persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such
anuther offar mite not have ever hapned, so as I shud ave bin justly
to blam, had I not excepted of it when her lashipp was so veri kind as
to offar to mak mee hur one uman without mi ever askin any such thing,
to be sur shee is won of thee best ladis in thee wurld, and pepil
who sase to the kontrari must bee veri wiket pepil in thare harts.
To bee sur if ever I ave sad any thing of that kine it as bin thru
ignorens, and I am hartili sorri for it. I nose your onur to be a
genteelman of more onur and onesty, if I ever said ani such thing,
to repete it to hurt a pore servant that as alwais add thee gratest
respect in thee wurld for ure onur. To be sur won shud kepe wons
tung within wons teeth, for no boddi nose what may hapen; and to bee
sur if ani boddi ad tolde mee yesterday, that I shud haf ben in so gud
a plase to day, I shud not haf beleeved it; for to be sur I never
was a dremd of an); such thing, nor shud I ever have soft after ani
other bodi's plase; but as her lashipp wass so kine of her one a
cord too give it mee without askin, to be sur Mrs. Etoff herself,
nor no other boddi can blam mee for exceptin such a thing when it fals
in mi waye. I beg ure Onur not to menshion ani thing of what I haf
sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud luk in the wurld; and I don't
cuestion butt thatt u will haf Madam Sofia in the end; butt ass to
miself ure onur nose I kant bee of ani farder sarvis to u in that
matar, nou bein under thee cumand off anuther parson, and note one
mistress, I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and belive me
to be, sir, ure Onur's umble servant to cumand till deth,
                                                HONOUR BLACKMORE

  Various were the conjectures which Jones entertained on this step of
Lady Bellaston; who, in reality, had little farther design than to
secure within her own house the repository of a secret, which she
chose should make no farther progress than it had made already; but
mostly, she desired to keep it from the ears of Sophia; for though
that young lady was almost the only one who would never have
repeated it again, her ladyship could not persuade herself of this;
since, as she now hated poor Sophia with most implacable hatred, she
conceived a reciprocal hatred to herself to be lodged in the tender
breast of our heroine, where no such passion had ever yet found an
entrance.
  While Jones was terrifying himself with the apprehension of a
thousand dreadful machinations, and deep political designs, which he
imagined to be at the bottom of the promotion of Honour, Fortune,
who hitherto seems to have been an utter enemy to his match with
Sophia, tried a new method to put a final end to it, by throwing a
temptation in his way, which in his present desperate situation it
seemed unlikely he should be able to resist.
                                Chapter 11

  Containing curious, but not unprecedented matter

  There was a lady, one Mrs. Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the
house where he lodged, being intimately acquainted with the women
there, and indeed a very great friend to Mrs. Miller. Her age was
about thirty, for she owned six-and-twenty; her face and person very
good, only inclining a little too much to be fat. She had been married
young by her relations to an old Turkey merchant, who, having got a
great fortune, had left off trade. With him she lived without
reproach, but not without pain, in a state of great self-denial, for
about twelve years; and her virtue was rewarded by his dying and
leaving her very rich. The first year of her widowhood was just at
an end, and she had past it in a good deal of retirement, seeing
only a few particular friends, and dividing her time between her
devotions and novels, of which she was always extremely fond. Very
good health, a very warm constitution, and a good deal of religion,
made it absolutely necessary for her to marry again; and she
resolved to please herself in her second husband, as she had done
her friends in the first. From her the following billet was brought to
Jones:-

  SIR,
  From the first day I saw you, I doubt my eyes have told you too
plainly that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my tongue nor
my hand should have ever avowed it, had not the ladies of the family
where you are lodged given me such a character of you, and told me
such proofs of your virtue and goodness, as convince me you are not
only the most agreeable, but the most worthy of men. I have also the
satisfaction to hear from them, that neither my person, understanding,
or character, are disagreeable to you. I have a fortune sufficient
to make us both happy, but which cannot make me so without you. In
thus disposing of myself, I know I shall incur the censure of the
world; but if I did not love you more than I fear the world, I
should not be worthy of you. One only difficulty stops me; I am
informed you are engaged in a commerce of gallantry with a woman of
fashion. If you think it worth while to sacrifice that to the
possession of me, I am yours; if not, forget my weakness, and let this
remain an eternal secret between you and
                                                  ARABELLA HUNT

  At the reading of this, Jones was put into a violent flutter. His
fortune was then at a very low ebb, the source being stopt from
which hitherto he had been supplied. Of all he had received from
Lady Bellaston, not above five guineas remained; and that very morning
he had been dunned by a tradesman for twice that sum. His honourable
mistress was in the hands of her father, and he had scarce any hopes
ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her expense,
from that little fortune she had independent of her father, went
much against the delicacy both of his pride and his love. This
lady's fortune would have been exceeding convenient to him, and he
could have no objection to her in any respect. On the contrary, he
liked her as well as he did any woman except Sophia. But to abandon
Sophia, and marry another, that was impossible; he could not think
of it upon any account. Yet why should he not, since it was plain
she could not be his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to
continue longer engaged to a hopeless passion for him? Ought he not to
do so in friendship to her? This notion prevailed some moments, and he
had almost determined to be false to her from a high point of
honour: but that refinement was not able to stand very long against
the voice of nature, which cried in his heart that such friendship was
treason to love. At last he called for pen, ink, and paper, and writ
as follows to Mrs. Hunt:-

  MADAM,
  It would be but a poor return to the favour have done me to
sacrifice any gallantry to the possession of you, and I would
certainly do it, though I were not disengaged, as at present I am,
from any affair of that kind. But I should not be the honest man you
think me, if I did not tell you that my affections are engaged to
another, who is a woman of virtue, and one that I never can leave,
though it is probable I shall never possess her. God forbid that, in
return of your kindness to me, I should do you such an injury as to
give you my hand when I cannot give my heart. No; I had much rather
starve than be guilty of that. Even though my mistress were married to
another, I would not marry you unless my heart had entirely effaced
all impressions of her. Be assured that your secret was not more
safe in your own breast, than in that of your most obliged, and
grateful humble servant,
                                               T. JONES

  When our heroe had finished and sent this letter, he went to his
scrutore, took out Miss Western's muff, kissed it several times, and
then strutted some turns about his room, with more satisfaction of
mind than ever any Irishman felt in carrying off a fortune of fifty
thousand pounds.
                                Chapter 12

  A discovery made by Partridge

  While Jones was exulting in the consciousness of his integrity,
Partridge came capering into the room, as was his custom when he
brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had been
dispatched that morning by his master, with orders to endeavour, by
the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other means, to discover
whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he now returned, and with a
joyful countenance told our heroe that he had found the lost bird.
"I have seen, sir," says he, "Black George, the gamekeeper, who is one
of the servants whom the squire hath brought with him to town. I
knew him presently, though I have not seen him these several years;
but you know, sir, he is a very remarkable man, or, to use a purer
phrase, he hath a most remarkable beard, the largest and blackest I
ever saw. It was some time, however, before Black George could
recollect me." "Well, but what is your good news?" cries Jones;
"what do you know of my Sophia?" "You shall know presently, sir,"
answered Partridge, "I am coming to it as fast as I can. You are so
impatient, sir, you would come at the infinitive mood before you can
get to the imperative. As I was saying, sir, it was some time before
he recollected my face."- "Confound your face!" cries Jones, "what of
my Sophia?" "Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "I know nothing more of
Madam Sophia than what I am going to tell you; and I should have
told you all before this if you had not interrupted me; but if you
look so angry at me, you will frighten all of it out of my head, or,
to use a purer phrase, out of my memory. I never saw you look so angry
since the day we left Upton, which I shall remember if I was to live a
thousand years."-- "Well, pray go on your own way," said Jones: "you
are resolved to make me mad, I find." "Not for the world," answered
Partridge, "I have suffered enough for that already; which, as I said,
I shall bear in my remembrance the longest day I have to live." "Well,
but Black George?" cries Jones. "Well, sir, as I was saying, it was
a long time before he could recollect me; for, indeed, I am very
much altered since I saw him. Non sum qualis eram.* I have had
troubles in the world, and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I
have heard it will change the colour of a man's hair in a night.
However, at last, know me he did, that's sure enough; for we are
both of an age, and were at the same charity school. George was a
great dunce, but no matter for that; all men do not thrive in the
world according to their learning. I am sure I have reason to say
so; but it will be all one a thousand years hence. Well, sir, where
was I?-- O- well, we no sooner knew each other, than, after many
hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed to go to an alehouse and take a
pot, and by good luck the beer was some of the best I have met with
since I have been in town. Now, sir, I am coming to the point; for no
sooner did I name you, and told him that you and I came to town
together, and had lived together ever since, than he called for
another pot, and swore he would drink to your health; and indeed he
drank your health so heartily that I was overjoyed to see there was so
much gratitude left in the world; and after we had emptied that pot I
said I would be my pot too, and so we drank another to your health;
and then I made haste home to tell you the news."

  *I am not as I was.

  "What news?" cries Jones, "yon have not mentioned a word of my
Sophia!" "Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we
mentioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George told me
all; that Mr. Blifil. is coming to town in order to be married to her.
He had best make haste then, says I, or somebody will have her
before he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr. Seagrim, it is a thousand
pities somebody should not have her; for he certainly loves her
above all the women in the world. I would have both you and she
know, that it is not for her fortune he follows her; for I can
assure you, as to matter of that, there is another lady, one of much
greater quality and fortune than she can pretend to, who is so fond of
somebody that she comes after him day and night."
  Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as he
said, betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had mentioned
no name: "Besides, sir," said he, "I can assure you, George is
sincerely your friend, and wished Mr. Blifil at the devil more than
once; nay, he said he would do anything in his power upon earth to
serve you; and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed! why, I
question whether you have a better friend than George upon earth,
except myself, or one that would go farther to serve you."
  "Well," says Jones, a little pacified, "you say this fellow, who,
I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives in the
same house with Sophia?"
  "In the same house!" answered Partridge; "why, sir, he is one of the
servants of the family, and very well drest I promise you he is; if it
was not for black beard you would hardly know him."
  "One service then at least he may do me," says Jones: "sure he can
certainly convey a letter to my Sophia."
  "You have hit the nail ad unguem," cries Partridge; "how came I
not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first
mentioning."
  "Well, then," said Jones, "do you leave me at present, and I will
write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow morning;
for I suppose you know where to find him." "O yes, sir," answered
Partridge, "I shall certainly find him again; there is no fear of
that. The liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no
doubt but he will be there every day he stays in town."
  "So you don't know the street then where my Sophia is lodged?" cries
Jones.
  "Indeed, sir, I do," says Partridge.
  "What is the name of the street?" cries Jones.
  "The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by," answered Partridge, "not
above a street or two off. I don't, indeed, know the very name; for,
as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it might have put
some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let me alone for that. I am
too cunning for that, I promise you."
  "Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed," replied Jones;
"however, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will be
cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the alehouse."
  And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr. Jones sat
himself down to write, in which employment we shall leave him for a
time. And here we put an end to the fifteenth book.
                                    BOOK XVI
                       CONTAINING THE SPACE OF FIVE DAYS
                                Chapter 1

  Of prologues

  I have heard of a dramatic writer who used to say, he would rather
write a play than a prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less
pains write one of the books of this history, than the prefatory
chapter to each of them.
  To say the truth, I believe many a hearty curse hath been devoted on
the head of that author who first instituted the method of prefixing
to his play that portion of matter which is called the prologue; and
which at first was part of the piece itself, but of latter years
hath had usually so little connexion with the drama before which it
stands, that the prologue to one play might as well serve for any
other. Those indeed of more modern date, seem all to be written on the
same three topics, viz., an abuse of the taste of the town, a
condemnation of all contemporary authors, and an eulogium on the
performance just about to be represented. The sentiments in all
these are very little varied, nor is it possible they should; and
indeed I have often wondered at the great invention of authors, who
have been capable of finding such various phrases to express the
same thing.
  In like manner, I apprehend, some future historian (if any one shall
do me the honour of imitating my manner) will, after much scratching
his pate, bestow some good wishes on my memory, for having first
established these several initial chapters; most of which, like modern
prologues, may as properly be prefixed to any other book in this
history as to that which they introduce, or indeed to any other
history as to this.
  But however authors may suffer by either of these inventions, the
reader will find sufficient emolument in the one as the spectator hath
long found in the other.
  First, it is well known that the prologue serves the critic for an
opportunity to try his faculty of hissing, and to tune his catcall
to the best advantage; by which means, I have known those musical
instruments so well prepared, that they have been able to play in full
concert at the first rising of the curtain.
  The same advantages may be drawn from these chapters, in which the
critic will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as
a whetstone to his noble spirit; so that he may fall with a more
hungry appetite for censure on the history itself. And here his
sagacity must make it needless to observe how artfully these
chapters are calculated for that excellent purpose; for in these we
have always taken care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid
kind, in order to sharpen and stimulate the said spirit of criticism.
  Again, the indolent reader, as well as spectator, finds great
advantage from both these; for, as they are not obliged either to
see the one or read the others, and both the play and the book are
thus protracted, by the former they have a quarter of an hour longer
allowed them to sit at dinner, and by the latter they have the
advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth page instead
of the first, a matter by no means of trivial consequence to persons
who read books with no other view than to say they have read them, a
more general motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from
which not only law books, and good books, but the pages of Homer and
Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes, have been often turned over.
  Many other are the emoluments which arise from both these, but
they are for the most part so obvious, that we shall not at present
stay to enumerate them; especially since it occurs to us that the
principal merit of both the prologue and the preface is that they be
short.
                                Chapter 2

  A whimsical adventure which befel the squire, with the distressed
situation of Sophia

  We must now convey the reader to Mr. Western's lodgings, which
were in Piccadilly, where he was placed by the recommendation of the
landlord at the Hercules Pillars at Hyde Park Corner; for at the
inn, which was the first he saw on his arrival in town, he placed
his horses, and in those lodgings, which were the first he heard of,
he deposited himself.
  Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which brought her
from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to retire to the
apartment provided for her; to which her father very readily agreed,
and whither he attended her himself. A short dialogue, neither very
material nor pleasant to relate minutely, then passed between them, in
which he pressed her vehemently to give her consent to the marriage
with Blifil, who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few
days; but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and
resolute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed her
father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her to have
him whether she would or no, he departed from her with many hard words
and curses, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket.
  While Sophia was left with no other company than what attend the
closest state prisoner, namely, fire and candle, the squire sat down
to regale himself over a bottle of wine, with his parson and the
landlord of the Hercules Pillars, who, as the squire said, would
make an excellent third man, and could inform them of the news of
the town, and how affairs went; for to be sure, says he, he knows a
great deal, since the horses of many of the quality stand at his
house.
  In this agreeable society Mr. Western past that evening and great
part of the succeeding day, during which period nothing happened of
sufficient consequence to find a place in this history. All this
time Sophia past by herself; for her father swore she should never
come out of her chamber alive, unless she first consented to marry
Blifil; nor did he ever suffer the door to be unlocked, unless to
convey her food, on which occasions he always attended himself.
  The second morning after his arrival, while he and the parson were
at breakfast together on a toast and tankard, he was informed that a
gentleman was below to wait on him.
  "A gentleman!" quoth the squire, "who the devil can he be? Do,
doctor, go down and see who 'tis. Mr. Blifil can hardly be come to
town yet.- Go down, do, and know what his business is."
  The doctor returned with an account that it was a very well-drest
man, and by the ribbon in his hat he took him for an officer of the
army; that he said he had some particular business, which he could
deliver to none but Mr. Western himself.
  "An officer!" cries the squire; "what can any such fellow have to do
with me? If he wants an order for baggage-waggons, I am no justice
of peace here, nor can I grant a warrant.- Let un come up then, if he
must speak to me."
  A very genteel man now entered the room; who, having made his
compliments to the squire, and desired the favour of being alone
with him, delivered himself as follows:-
  "Sir, I come to wait upon you by the command of my Lord Fellamar;
but with a very different message from what I suppose you expect,
after what past the other night."
  "My lord who?" cries the squire; "I never heard the name o' un."
  "His lordship," said the gentleman, "is willing to impute everything
to the effect of liquor, and the most trifling acknowledgment of
that kind will set everything right; for as he hath the most violent
attachment to your daughter, you, sir, are the last person upon
earth from whom he would resent an affront; and happy is it for you
both that he hath given such public demonstrations of his courage as
to be able to put up an affair of this kind without danger of any
imputation on his honour. All he desires, therefore, is, that you will
before me make some acknowledgment; the slightest in the world will be
sufficient; and he intends this afternoon to pay his respects to
you, in order to obtain your leave of visiting the young lady on the
footing of a lover."
  "I don't understand much of what you say, sir," said the squire;
"but I suppose, by what you talk about my daughter, that this is the
lord which my cousin, Lady Bellaston, mentioned to me, and said
something about his courting my daughter. If so be that how that be
the case-you may give my service to his lordship, and tell un the girl
is disposed of already."
  "Perhaps, sir," said the gentleman, "you are not sufficiently
apprized of the greatness of this offer. I believe such a person,
title, and fortune would be nowhere refused."
  "Lookee, sir," answered the squire; "to be very plain, my daughter
is bespoke already; but if she was not, I would not marry her to a
lord upon any account; I hate all lords; they are a parcel of
courtiers and Hanoverians, and I will have nothing to do with them."
  "Well, sir," said the gentleman, "if that is your resolution, the
message I am to deliver to you is, that my lord desires the favour
of your company this morning in Hyde Park."
  "You may tell my lord, answered the squire, "that I am busy and
cannot come. I have enough to look after at home, and can't stir
abroad on any account."
  "I am sure, sir," quoth the other, "you are too much a gentleman
to send such a message; you will not, I am convinced, have it said
of you, that, after having affronted a noble peer, you refuse him
satisfaction. His lordship would have been willing, from his great
regard to the young lady, to have made up matters in another way;
but unless he is to look on you as a father, his honour will not
suffer his putting up such an indignity as you must be sensible you
offered him."
  "I offered him!" cries the squire; "it is a d--n'd lie! I never
offered him anything."
  Upon these words the gentleman returned a very short verbal
rebuke, and this he accompanied at the same time with some manual
remonstrances, which no sooner reached the ears of Mr. Western, than
that worthy squire began to caper very briskly about the room,
bellowing at the same time with all his might, as if desirous to
summon a greater number of spectators to behold his agility.
  The parson, who had left great part of the tankard unfinished, was
not retired far; he immediately attended, therefore, on the squire's
vociferation, crying, "Bless me! sir, what's the matter?"- "Matter!"
quoth the squire, "here's a highwayman, I believe, who wants to rob
and murder me-for he hath fallen upon me with that stick there in
his hand, when I wish I may be d--n'd if I gid un the least
provocation."
  "How, sir," said the captain, "did you not tell me I lyed?"
  "No, as I hope to be saved," answered the squire, "-I believe I
might say, 'Twas a lie that I had offered any affront to my lord- but
I never said the word, 'you lie.'- I understand myself better, and you
might have understood yourself better than to fall upon a naked man.
If I had a stick in my hand, you would not have dared strike me. I'd
have knocked thy lantern jaws about thy ears. Come down into yard this
minute, and I'll take a bout with thee at single stick for a broken
head, that I will; or I will go into naked room and box thee for a
belly-full. At unt half a man, at unt, I'm sure."
  The captain, with some indignation, replied, "I see, sir, you are
below my notice, and I shall inform his lordship you are below his.
I am sorry I have dirtied my fingers with you." At which words he
withdrew, the parson interposing to prevent the squire from stopping
him, in which he easily prevailed, as the other, though he made some
efforts for the purpose, did not seem very violently bent on
success. However, when the captain was departed, the squire sent
many curses and some menaces after him; but as these did not set out
from his lips till the officer was at the bottom of the stairs, and
grew louder and louder as he was more and more remote, they did not
reach his ears, or at least did not retard his departure.
  Poor Sophia, however, who, in her prison, heard all her father's
outcries from first to last, began now first to thunder with her foot,
and afterwards to scream as loudly as the gentleman himself had done
before, though in a much sweeter voice. These screams soon silenced
the squire, and turned all his consideration towards his daughter,
whom he loved so tenderly, that the least apprehension of any harm
happening to her, threw him presently into agonies; for, except in
that single instance in which the whole future happiness of her life
was concerned, she was sovereign mistress of his inclinations.
  Having ended his rage against the captain, with swearing he would
take the law of him, the squire now mounted upstairs to Sophia,
whom, as soon as he had unlocked and opened the door, he found all
pale and breathless. The moment, however, that she saw her father, she
collected all her spirits, and, catching him hold by the hand, she
cryed passionately, "O my dear sir, I am almost frightened to death! I
hope to heaven no harm hath happened to you." "No, no," cries the
squire, "no great harm. The rascal hath not hurt me much, but rat me
if I don't ha the la o' un." "Pray, dear sir," says she, "tell me
what's the matter; who is it that hath insulted you?" "I don't know
the name o' un," answered Western; "some officer fellow, I suppose,
that we are to pay for beating us; but I'll make him pay this bout, if
the rascal hath got anything, which I suppose he hath not. For thof he
was drest out so vine, I question whether he had got a voot of land in
the world." "But, dear sir," cries she, "what was the occasion of your
quarrel?" "What should it be, Sophy," answered the squire, "but
about you, Sophy? All my misfortunes are about you; you will be the
death of your poor father at last. Here's a varlet of a lord, the Lord
knows who, forsooth! who hath a taan a liking to you, and because I
would not gi un my consent, he sent me a kallenge. Come, do be a
good girl, Sophy, and put an end to all your father's troubles;
come, do consent to ha un; he will be in town within this day or
two; do but promise me to marry un as soon as he comes, and you will
make me the happiest man in the world, and I will make you the
happiest woman; you shall have the finest cloaths in London, and the
finest jewels, and a coach and six at your command. I promised
Allworthy already to give up half my estate- od rabbet it! I should
hardly stick at giving up the whole." "Will my papa be so kind,"
says she, "as to hear me speak?"- "Why wout ask, Sophy?" cries he,
"when dost know I had rather hear thy voice than the musick of the
best pack of dogs in England.- Hear thee, my dear litle girl! I hope
I shall hear thee as long as I live; for if I was ever to lose that
pleasure, I would not gee a brass varden to live a moment longer.
Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed you don't, or
you never could have run away and left your poor father, who hath no
other joy, no other comfort upon earth, but his little Sophy." At
these words the tears stood in his eyes; and Sophia (with the tears
streaming from hers) answered, "Indeed, my dear papa, I know you
have loved me tenderly, and heaven is my witness how sincerely I
have returned your affection; nor could anything but an apprehension
of being forced into the arms of this man have driven me to run from a
father whom I love so passionately, that I would, with pleasure,
sacrifice my life to his happiness; nay, I have endeavoured to
reason myself into doing more, and had almost worked up a resolution
to endure the most miserable of all lives, to comply with your
inclination. It was that resolution alone to which I could not force
my mind; nor can I ever." Here the squire began to look wild, and
the foam appeared at his lips, which Sophia observing, begged to be
heard out, and then proceeded: "If my father's life, his health, or
any real happiness of his was at stake, here stands your resolved
daughter; may heaven blast me if there is a misery I would not
suffer to preserve you!- No, that most detested, most loathsome of
all lots would I embrace. I would give my hand to Blifil for your
sake."- "I tell thee, it will preserve me," answers the father; "it
will give me health, happiness, life, everything.- Upon my soul I
shall die if dost refuse me; I shall break my heart, I shall, upon my
soul."- "Is it possible," says she, "you can have such a desire to
make me miserable?"- "I tell thee noa," answered he loudly, "d--n me
if there is a thing upon earth I would not do to see thee happy."-
"And will not my dear papa allow me to have the least knowledge of
what will make me so? If it be true that happiness consists in
opinion, what must be my condition, when I shall think myself the most
miserable of all the wretches upon earth?" "Better think yourself so,"
said he, "than know it by being married to a poor bastardly vagabond."
"If it will content you, sir," said Sophia, "I will give you the most
solemn promise never to marry him, nor any other, while my papa lives,
without his consent. Let me dedicate my whole life to your service;
let me be again your poor Sophy, and my whole business and pleasure
be, as it hath been, to please and divert you." "Lookee, Sophy,"
answered the squire, "I am not to be choused in this manner. Your aunt
Western would then have reason to think me the fool she doth. No,
no, Sophy, I'd have you to know I have a got more wisdom, and know
more of the world, than to take the word of a woman in a matter
where a man is concerned." "How, sir, have I deserved this want of
confidence?" said she; "have I ever broke a single promise to you?
or have I ever been found guilty of a falsehood from my cradle?"
"Lookee, Sophy," cries he; "that's neither here nor there. I am
determined upon this match, and have him you shall, d--n me if shat
unt. D--n me if shat unt, though dost hang thyself the next morning."
At repeating which words he clinched his fist, knit his brows, bit his
lips, and thundered so loud, that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia
sunk trembling into her chair, and, had not a flood of tears come
immediately to her relief, perhaps worse had followed.
  Western beheld the deplorable condition of his daughter with no more
contrition or remorse than the turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the
agonies of a tender wife, when taking her last farewell of her
condemned husband; or rather he looked down on her with the same
emotions which arise in an honest fair tradesman, who sees his
debtor dragged to prison for L10, which, though a just debt, the
wretch is wickedly unable to pay. Or, to hit the case still more
nearly, he felt the same compunction with a bawd, when some poor
innocent, whom she hath ensnared into her hands, falls into fits at
the first proposal of what is called seeing company. Indeed this
resemblance would be exact, was it not that the bawd hath an
interest in what she doth, and the father, though perhaps he may
blindly think otherwise, can, in reality, have none in urging his
daughter to almost an equal prostitution.
  In this condition he left his poor Sophia, and, departing with a
very vulgar observation on the effect of tears, he locked the room,
and returned to the parson, who said everything he durst in behalf
of the young lady, which, though perhaps it was not quite so much as
his duty required, yet was it sufficient to throw the squire into a
violent rage, and into many indecent reflections on the whole body
of the clergy, which we have too great an honour for that sacred
function to commit to paper.
                                Chapter 3

  What happened to Sophia during her confinement

  The landlady of the house where the squire lodged had begun very
early to entertain a strange opinion of her guests. However, as she
was informed that the squire was a man of vast fortune, and as she had
taken care to exact a very extraordinary price for her rooms, she
did not think proper to give any offence; for, though she was not
without some concern for the confinement of poor Sophia, of whose
great sweetness of temper and affability the maid of the house had
made so favourable a report, which was confirmed by all the squire's
servants, yet she had much more concern for her own interest, than
to provoke one, whom, as she said, she perceived to be a very
hastish kind of a gentleman.
  Though Sophia cat but little, yet she was regularly served with
her meals; indeed, I believe, if she had liked any one rarity, that
the squire, however angry, would have spared neither pains nor cost to
have procured it for her; since, however strange it may appear to some
of my readers, he really doated on his daughter, and to give her any
kind of pleasure was the highest satisfaction of his life.
  The dinner-hour being arrived, Black George carried her up a pullet,
the squire himself (for he had sworn not to part with the key)
attending the door. As George deposited the dish, some compliments
passed between him and Sophia (for he had not seen her since she
left the country, and she treated every servant with more respect than
some persons shew to those who are in a very slight degree their
inferiors). Sophia would have had him take the pullet back, saying,
she could not eat; but George begged her to try, and particularly
recommended to her the eggs, of which he said it was full.
  All this time the squire was waiting at the door; but George was a
great favourite with his master, as his employment was in concerns
of the highest nature, namely, about the game, and was accustomed to
take many liberties. He had officiously carried up the dinner,
being, as he said, very desirous to see his young lady; he made
therefore no scruple of keeping his master standing above ten minutes,
while civilities were passing between him and Sophia, for which he
received only a good-humoured rebuke at the door when he returned.
  The eggs of pullets, partridges, pheasants, &c., were, as George
well knew, the most favourite dainties of Sophia. It was therefore
no wonder that he, who was a very good-natured fellow, should take
care to supply her with this kind of delicacy, at a time when all
the servants in the house were afraid she would be starved; for she
had scarce swallowed a single morsel in the last forty hours.
  Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as it
usually hath on a widow, whose appetite it often renders sharper
than it can be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury
Plain; yet the sublimest grief, notwithstanding what some people may
say to the contrary, will eat at last. And Sophia, herself, after some
little consideration, began to dissect the fowl, which she found to be
as full of eggs as George had reported it.
  But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something which
would have delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a fowl with
three legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when perhaps time hath
produced a thousand such, at what price shall we esteem a bird which
so totally contradicts all the laws of animal oecconomy, as to contain
a letter in its belly? Ovid tells us of a flower into which Hyacinthus
was metamorphosed, that bears letters on its leaves, which Virgil
recommended as a miracle to the Royal Society of his day; but no age
nor nation hath ever recorded a bird with a letter in its maw.
  But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all the
Academies des Sciences in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless
inquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue
which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be very
easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it found its
passage into the fowl.
  Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding her
favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter than she
immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows:-

  MADAM,
  Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writing, I should
endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors of my mind at the
account brought me by Mrs. Honour; but as tenderness alone can have
any true idea of the pangs which tenderness is capable of feeling,
so can this most amiable quality, which my Sophia possesses in the
most eminent degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must
have suffered on this melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance
in the world which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any
misfortune which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and with
that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful consideration
that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do myself too much
honour, but none will envy me an honour which costs me so extremely
dear. Pardon me this presumption, and pardon me a greater still, if
I ask you, whether my advice, my assistance, my presence, my
absence, my death, or my tortures can bring you any relief? Can the
most Perfect admiration, the most watchful observance, the most ardent
love, the most melting tenderness, the most resigned submission to
your will, make you amends for what you are to sacrifice to my
happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely angel, to those arms which
are ever open to receive and protect you; and to which, whether you
bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world with you, is, in my
opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If, on the contrary,
wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature reflection, inform
you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if there be no way left to
reconcile your father, and restore the peace of your dear mind, but by
abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for ever from your thoughts,
exert your resolution, and let no compassion for my sufferings bear
the least weight in that tender bosom. Believe me, madam, I so
sincerely love you better than myself, that my great and principal end
is your happiness. My first wish (why would not fortune indulge me
in it?) was, and pardon me if I say, still is, to see you every moment
the happiest of women; my second wish is, to hear you are so; but no
misery on earth can equal mine, while I think you owe an uneasy moment
to him who is,
  Madam,
     in every sense, and to every purpose,
                                 your devoted,
                                        THOMAS JONES

  What Sophia said, or did, or thought, upon this letter, how often
she read it, or whether more than once, shall all be left to our
reader's imagination. The answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter,
but not at present: for this reason, among others, that she did not
now write any, and that for several good causes, one of which was
this, she had no paper, pen, nor ink.
  In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter she had
received, or on something else, a violent noise from below disturbed
her meditations. This noise was no other than a round bout at
altercation between two persons. One of the combatants, by his
voice, she immediately distinguished to be her father; but she did not
so soon discover the shriller pipes to belong to the organ of her aunt
Western, who was just arrived in town, where having, by means of one
of her servants, who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where
her brother lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings.
  We shall therefore take our leave at present of Sophia, and, with
our usual good-breeding, attend her ladyship.
                                Chapter 4

  In which Sophia is delivered from her confinement

  The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now otherwise
engaged) were smoaking their pipes together, when the arrival of the
lady was first signified. The squire no sooner heard her name, than he
immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; for he was a great
observer of such ceremonials, especially to his sister, of whom he
stood more in awe than of any other human creature, though he never
would own this, nor did he perhaps know it himself.
  Mrs. Western, on her arrival in the dining room, having flung
herself into a chair, began thus to harangue: "Well, surely, no one
ever had such an intolerable journey. I think the roads, since so many
turnpike acts, are grown worse than ever. La, brother, how could you
get into this odious place? no person of condition, I dare swear, ever
set foot here before." "I don't know," cries the squire, "I think they
do well enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he
knew most of the quality, he could best shew me where to get among
um." "Well, and where's my niece?" says the lady; "have you been to
wait upon Lady Bellaston yet?" "Ay, ay," cries the squire, "your niece
is safe enough; she is upstairs in chamber. "How!" answered the
lady, "is my niece in this house, and does she not know of my being
here?" "No, nobody can well get to her," says the squire, "for she
is under lock and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my lady
cousin the first night I came to town, and I have taken care o' her
ever since; she is as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise you."
"Good heaven!" returned Mrs. Western, "what do I hear? I thought
what a fine piece of work would be the consequence of my consent to
your coming to town yourself! nay, it was indeed your own headstrong
will, nor can I charge myself with having ever consented to it. Did
not you promise me, brother, that you would take none of these
headstrong measures? Was it not by these headstrong measures that
you forced my niece to run away from you in the country? Have you a
mind to oblige her to take such another step?" "Z--ds and the
devil!" cries the squire, dashing his pipe on the ground; "did ever
mortal hear the like? when I expected you would have commended me
for all I have done, to be fallen upon in this manner!" "How,
brother!" said the lady, "have I ever given you the least reason to
imagine I should commend you for locking up your daughter? Have I
not often told you that women in a free country are not to be
treated with such arbitrary power? We are as free as the men, and I
heartily wish I could not say we deserve that freedom better. If you
expect I should stay a moment longer in this wretched house, or that I
should ever own you again as my relation, or that I should ever
trouble myself again with the affairs of your family, I insist upon it
that my niece be set at liberty this instant." This she spoke with
so commanding an air, standing with her back to the fire, with one
hand behind her, and a pinch of snuff in the other, that I question
whether Thalestris, at the head of her Amazons, ever made a more
tremendous figure. It is no wonder, therefore, that the poor squire
was not proof against the awe which she inspired. "There," he cried,
throwing down the key, "there it is, do whatever you please. I
intended only to have kept her up till Blifil came to town, which
can't be long; and now if any harm happens in the mean time,
remember who is to be blamed for it."
  "I will answer it with my life," cries Mrs. Western, "but I shall
not intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and that is, that
you will commit the whole entirely to my care, without taking any
one measure yourself, unless I shall eventually appoint you to act. If
you ratify these preliminaries, brother. I yet will endeavour to
preserve the honour of your family; if not, I shall continue in a
neutral state."
  "I pray you, good sir," said the parson, "permit yourself this
once to be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by communing with
young Madam Sophia, she will effect more than you have been able to
perpetrate by more rigorous measures."
  "What, dost thee open upon me?" cries the squire: "if thee dost
begin to babble, I shall whip thee in presently."
  "Fie, brother," answered the lady, "is this language to a clergyman?
Mr. Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the best advice; and the
whole world, I believe, will concur in his opinion; but I must tell
you I expect an immediate answer to my categorical proposals. Either
cede your daughter to my disposal, or take her wholly to your own
surprizing discretion, and then I here, before Mr. Supple, evacuate
the garrison, and renounce you and your family for ever."
  "I pray you let me be a mediator," cries the parson, "let me
supplicate you."
  "Why, there lies the key on the table," cries the squire. "She may
take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?"
  "No, brother," answered the lady, "I insist on the formality of
its being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the
concessions stipulated."
  "Why then I will deliver it to you.- There 'tis," cries the squire.
"I am sure, sister, you can't accuse me of ever denying to trust my
daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi' you a whole year and muore to
a time, without my ever zeeing her."
  "And it would have been happy for her," answered the lady, "if she
had always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would have happened
under my eye."
  "Ay, certainly," cries he, "I only am to blame."
  "Why, you are to blame, brother," answered she. "I have been often
obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to tell you so.
However, I hope you will now amend, and gather so much experience from
past errors, as not to defeat my wisest machinations by your blunders.
Indeed, brother, you are not qualified for these negociations. All
your whole scheme of politics is wrong. I once more, therefore,
insist, that you do not intermeddle. Remember only what is past."--
  "Z--ds and bl-d, sister," cries the squire, what would you have me
say? You are enough to provoke the devil."
  "There, now," said she, "just according to the old custom. I see,
brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to Mr. Supple,
who is a man of sense, if I said anything which could put any human
creature into a passion; but you are so wrongheaded every way."
  "Let me beg you, madam," said the parson, not to irritate his
worship."
  "Irritate him?" said the lady; "sure, you are as great a fool as
himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to interfere, I
will once more undertake the management of my niece. Lord have mercy
upon all affairs which are under the directions of men! The head of
one woman is worth a thousand of yours." And now having summoned a
servant to show her to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her.
  She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut the door)
ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses against her,
not sparing himself for having ever thought of her estate; but
added, "Now one hath been a slave so long, it would be pity to lose it
at last, for want of holding out a little longer. The bitch can't live
for ever, and I know I am down for it upon the will."
  The parson greatly commended this resolution: and now the squire
having ordered in another bottle, which was his usual method when
anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by drinking plentifully
of this medicinal julap, so totally wash away his choler, that his
temper was become perfectly placid and serene, when Mrs. Western
returned with Sophia into the room. The young lady had on her hat
and capuchin, and the aunt acquainted Mr. Western, "that she
intended to take her niece with her to her own lodgings; for,
indeed, brother," says she, "these rooms are not fit to receive a
Christian soul in."
  "Very well, madam," quoth Western, "whatever you please. The girl
can never be in better hands than yours; and the parson here can do me
the justice to say, that I have said fifty times behind your back,
that you was one of the most sensible women in the world."
  "To this," cries the parson, "I am ready to bear testimony."
  "Nay, brother," says Mrs. Western, "I have always, I'm sure, given
you as favourable a character. You must own you have a little too much
hastiness in your temper; but when you will allow yourself time to
reflect, I never knew a man more reasonable."
  "Why then, sister, if you think so," said the squire, "here's your
good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate sometimes, but
I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be a good girl, and do
everything your aunt orders you."
  "I have not the least doubt of her," answered Mrs. Western. "She
hath had already an example before her eyes in the behaviour of that
wretch her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself by neglecting my advice.
O brother, what think you? You was hardly gone out of hearing, when
you set out for London, when who should arrive but that impudent
fellow with the odious Irish name- that Fitzpatrick. He broke in
abruptly upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He
ran on a long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he forced
me to give him a hearing; but I made him very little answer, and
delivered him the letter from his wife, which I bid him answer
himself. I suppose the wretch will endeavour to find us out, but I beg
you will not see her, for I am determined I will not."
  "I zee her!" answered the squire; "you need not fear me. I'll ge
no encouragement to such undutiful wenches. It is well for the fellow,
her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, he should have taken
a dance thru the horse-pond, I promise un. You zee, Sophy, what
undutifulness brings volks to. You have an example in your own
family."
  "Brother," cries the aunt, "you need not shock my niece by such
odious repetitions. Why will you not leave everything entirely to me?"
"Well, well, I wull, I wull," said the squire.
  And now Mrs. Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to the
conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, for had
it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension would, most
probably, have arisen between the brother and sister; between whom
education and sex made the only difference; for both were equally
violent and equally positive: they had both a vast affection for
Sophia, and both a sovereign contempt for each other.
                                Chapter 5

  In which Jones receives a letter from Sophia, and goes to a play
with Mrs. Miller and Partridge

  The arrival of Black George in town, and the good offices which that
grateful fellow had promised to do for his old benefactor, greatly
comforted Jones in the midst of all the anxiety and uneasiness which
he had suffered on the account of Sophia; from whom, by the means of
the said George, he received the following answer to his letter, which
Sophia, to whom the use of pen, ink, and paper was restored with her
liberty, wrote the very evening when she departed from her
confinement:

  SIR,
  As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you will be
pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an end, by the
arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am all at present, and with
whom I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. One promise my aunt hath
insisted on my making, which is, that I will not see or converse
with any person without her knowledge and consent. This promise I have
most solemnly given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though she
hath not expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an
omission from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the word
conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach of
her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that I
shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters,
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred thing, and
to be extended to everything understood from it, as well as to what is
expressed by it; and this consideration may, perhaps, on reflection,
afford you some comfort. But why should I mention a comfort to you
of this kind; for though there is one thing in which I can never
comply with the best of fathers, yet am I firmly resolved never to act
in defiance of him, or to take any step of consequence without his
consent. A firm persuasion of this must teach you to divert your
thoughts from what fortune hath (perhaps) made impossible. This your
own interest persuades you. This may reconcile, I hope, Allworthy to
you; and if it will, you have my injunctions to pursue it. Accidents
have laid some obligations on me, and your good intentions probably
more. Fortune may, perhaps, be some time kinder to us both than at
present. you as Believe this, that I shall always think of you as I
think you deserve, and am,
                                    Sir,
                             Your obliged humble servant,
                                       SOPHIA WESTERN
  I charge you write to me no more- at present at least; and accept
this, which is now of no service to me, which I know you must want,
and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune by which you found
it.*

  *Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for L100.


  A child who hath just learnt his letters would have spelt this
letter out in less time than Jones took in reading it. The
sensations it occasioned were a mixture of joy and grief; somewhat
like what divide the mind of a good man when he peruses the will of
his deceased friend, in which a large legacy, which his distresses
make the more welcome, is bequeathed to him. Upon the whole,
however, he was more pleased than displeased; and, indeed, the
reader may probably wonder that he was displeased at all; but the
reader is not quite so much in love as was poor Jones; and love is a
disease which, though it may, in some instances, resemble a
consumption (which it sometimes causes), in others proceeds in
direct opposition to it, and particularly in this, that it never
flatters itself, or sees any one symptom in a favourable light.
  One thing gave him complete satisfaction, which was, that his
mistress had regained her liberty, and was now with a lady where she
might at least assure herself of a decent treatment. Another
comfortable circumstance was the reference which she made to her
promise of never marrying any other man; for however disinterested
he might imagine his passion, and notwithstanding all the generous
overtures made in his letter, I very much question whether he could
have heard a more afflicting piece of news than that Sophia was
married to another, though the match had been never so great, and
never so likely to end in making her completely happy. That refined
degree of Platonic affection which is absolutely detached from the
flesh, and is, indeed, entirely and purely spiritual, is a gif t
confined to the female part of the creation; many of whom I have heard
declare (and, doubtless, with great truth), that they would, with
the utmost readiness, resign a lover to a rival, when such resignation
was proved to be necessary for the temporal interest of such lover.
Hence, therefore, I conclude that this affection is in nature,
though I cannot pretend to say I have ever seen an instance of it.
  Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the
aforesaid letter, and being, at last, in a state of good spirits, from
the last-mentioned considerations, he agreed to carry an
appointment, which he had before made, into execution. This was, to
attend Mrs. Miller, and her younger daughter, into the gallery at
the play-house, and to admit Mr. Partridge as one of the company.
For as Jones had really that taste for humour which many affect, he
expected to enjoy much entertainment in the criticisms of Partridge,
from whom he expected the simple dictates of nature, unimproved,
indeed, but likewise unadulterated, by art.
  In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs.
Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places.
Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever
been in. When the first music was played, he said, "It was a wonder
how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one
another out." While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he
cried out to Mrs. Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of
the man in the end of the common-prayer book before the
gunpowder-treason service." Nor could he help observing, with a
sigh, when all the candles were lighted, "That here were candles
enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest poor family for a whole
twelvemonth."
  As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,
Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the
entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was
in the strange dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a
picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the
ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that,
sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in
my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw him, better than
that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses as
that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the
scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to
Mr. Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent
a trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked
him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon
the stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told
me. I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And if
it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and
in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only
person." "Why, who," cries Jones, "dost thou take to be such a
coward here besides thyself?" "Nay, may call me coward if you will;
but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never
saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to
be sure! Who's fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy upon such
fool-hardiness!- Whatever happens, it is good enough for you.-- Follow
you? I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil-- for
they say he can put on what likeness he pleases.- Oh! here he is
again.-- No farther! No, you have gone far enough already; farther
than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to
speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush! dear sir, don't you hear
him?" And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes
fixed partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth
open; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet,
succeeding likewise in him.
  When the scene was over, Jones said, "Why, Partridge, you exceed
my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible."
"Nay, sir," answered Partridge, "if you are not afraid of the devil, I
can't help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be surprized at such
things, though I know there is nothing in them: not that it was the
ghost that surprized me, neither; for I should have known that to have
been only a man in a strange dress; but when I saw the little man so
frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me." "And dost thou
imagine, then, Partridge," cries Jones, "that he was really
frightened?" "Nay, sir," said Partridge, "did not you yourself observe
afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he
was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and
he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have
been, had it been my own case?- But hush! O la! what noise is that?
There he is again.-- Well to be certain, though I know there is
nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder, where those
men are." Then turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, "Ay, you may draw
your sword; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil?"
  During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly
admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing
upon the king's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be
deceived by faces! Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying. Who
would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed
a murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended
he should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, "that he
might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."
  Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the
ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now;
what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as
you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not
be in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is
there, for all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit? As
I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed,
you saw right," answered Jones. "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know
it is only a play: and besides, if there was anything in all this,
Madam Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not
be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in person.- There,
there- Ay, no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked
wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To
be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked
doings.-- Ay, go about your business, I hate the sight of you."
  Our critic was now pretty silent till the play, which Hamlet
introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand,
till Jones explained it to him; but he no sooner entered into the
spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never
committed murder. Then turning to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, "If she
did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; though he is,"
said he, "a good actor, and doth all he can to hide it. Well, I
would not have so much to answer for, as that wicked man there hath,
to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he run
away; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again."
  The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who
expressed much surprize at the number of skulls thrown upon the stage.
To which Jones answered, "That it was one of the most famous
burial-places about town." "No wonder then," cries Partridge, "that
the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger.
I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three graves
while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the
first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing.
You had rather sing than work, I believe."- Upon Hamlet's taking up
the skull, he cried out, "Well! it is strange to see how fearless some
men are: I never could bring myself to touch anything belonging to a
dead man, on any account.- He seemed frightened enough too at the
ghost, I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit."
  Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end
of which Jones asked him, "Which of the players he had liked best?" To
this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question,
"The king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs.
Miller, "you are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are
all agreed, that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on
the stage." "He the best player!" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous
sneer, "why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had
seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same manner, and done
just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it,
between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why,
Lord help me, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a
mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking
with me; but indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London,
yet I have seen acting before in the country; and the king for my
money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the
other.- Anybody may see he is an actor."
  While Mrs. Miller was thus engaged in conversation with Partridge, a
lady came up to Mr. Jones, whom he immediately knew to be Mrs.
Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from the other part of the
gallery, and had taken that opportunity of speaking to him, as she had
something to say, which might be of great service to himself. She then
acquainted him with her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next
day in the morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed to
the afternoon; at which time Jones promised to attend her.
  Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge had
afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs. Miller, but to all
who sat within hearing, who were more attentive to what he said,
than to anything that passed on the stage.
  He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; and
for many nights after sweated two or three hours before he went to
sleep, with the same apprehensions, and waked several times in great
horrors, crying out, "Lord have mercy upon us! there it is."
                                Chapter 6

  In which the history is obliged to look back

  It is almost impossible for the best parent to observe an exact
impartiality to his children, even though no superior merit should
bias his affection; but sure a parent can hardly be blamed, when
that superiority determines his preference.
  As I regard all the personages of this history in the light of my
children; so I must confess the same inclination of partiality to
Sophia; and for that I hope the reader will allow me the same
excuse, from the superiority of her character.
  This extraordinary tenderness which I have for my heroine, never
suffers me to quit her any long time without the utmost reluctance.
I could now, therefore, return impatiently to inquire what hath
happened to this lovely creature since her departure from her
father's, but that I am obliged first to pay a short visit to Mr.
Blifil.
  Mr. Western, in the first confusion into which his mind was cast,
upon the sudden news he received of his daughter, and in the first
hurry to go after her, had not once thought of sending any account
of the discovery to Blifil. He had not gone far, however, before he
recollected himself, and accordingly stopt at the very first inn he
came to, and dispatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil with his
having found Sophia, and with his firm resolution to marry her to
him immediately, if he would come up after him to town.
  As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent kind,
which nothing but the loss of her fortune, or some such accident,
could lessen, his inclination to the match was not at all altered by
her having run away, though he was obliged to lay this to his own
account. He very readily, therefore, embraced this offer. Indeed, he
now proposed the of a very strong passion besides avarice, by marrying
this young lady, and this was hatred; for he concluded that
matrimony afforded an equal opportunity of satisfying either hatred or
love; and this opinion is very probably verified by much experience.
To say the truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary behaviour of
married persons to each other, we shall perhaps be apt to conclude
that the generality seek the indulgence of the former passion only, in
their union of everything but of hearts.
  There was one difficulty, however, in his way, and this arose from
Mr. Allworthy. That good man, when he found by the departure of Sophia
(for neither that, nor the cause of it, could be concealed from
him), the great aversion which she had for his nephew, began to be
seriously concerned that he had been deceived into carrying matters so
far. He by no means concurred with the opinion of those parents, who
think it as immaterial to consult the inclinations of their children
in the affair of marriage, as to solicit the good pleasure of their
servants when they intend to take a journey; and who are by law, or
decency at least, withheld often from using absolute force. On the
contrary, as he esteemed the institution to be of the most sacred
kind, he thought every preparatory caution necessary to preserve it
holy and inviolate; and very wisely concluded, that the surest way
to effect this was by laying the foundation in previous affection.
  Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score of
deceit, by many vows and protestations that he had been deceived
himself, with which the many declarations of Western very well
tallied; but now to persuade Allworthy to consent to the renewing
his addresses, was a matter of such apparent difficulty, that the very
appearance was sufficient to have deterred a less enterprizing genius;
but this young gentleman so well knew his own talents, that nothing
within the province of cunning seemed to him hard to be atchieved.
  Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, and
the hopes of subduing aversion in the lady by perseverance. He
begged that, in an affair on which depended all his future repose,
he might at least be at liberty to try all fair means for success.
Heaven forbid, he said, that he should ever think of prevailing by any
other than the most gentle methods! "Besides, sir," said he, "if
they fail, you may then (which will be surely time enough) deny your
consent." He urged the great and eager desire which Mr. Western had
for the match; and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones,
to whom he imputed all that had happened; and from whom, he said, to
preserve so valuable a young lady was even an act of charity.
  All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who dwelt a
little stronger on the authority of parents than Mr. Blifil himself
had done. He ascribed the measures which Mr. Blifil was desirous to
take to Christian motives; "and though," says he, "the good young
gentleman hath mentioned charity last, I am almost convinced it is his
first and principal consideration."
  Square, possibly, had he been present, would have sung to the same
tune, though in a different key, and would have discovered much
moral fitness in the proceeding: but he was now gone to Bath for the
recovery of his health.
  Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded to the
desires of his nephew. He said he would accompany him to London, where
he might be at liberty to use every honest endeavour to gain the lady:
"But I declare," said he, "I will never give my consent to any
absolute force being put on her inclinations, nor shall you ever
have her, unless she can be brought freely to compliance."
  Thus did the affection of Allworthy for his nephew betray the
superior understanding to be triumphed over by the inferior; and
thus is the prudence of the best of heads often defeated by the
tenderness of the best of hearts.
  Blifil, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his
uncle, rested not till he carried his purpose into execution. And as
no immediate business required Mr. Allworthy's presence in the
country, and little preparation is necessary to men for a journey,
they set out the very next day, and arrived in town that evening, when
Mr. Jones, as we have seen, was diverting himself with Partridge at
the play.
  The morning after his arrival, Mr. Blifil waited on Mr. Western,
by whom he was most kindly and graciously received, and from whom he
had every possible assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that
he should very shortly be as happy as Sophia could make him; nor would
the squire suffer the young gentleman to return to his uncle till he
had, almost against his will, carried him to his sister.
                                Chapter 7

  In which Mr. Western pays a visit to his sister, in company with Mr.
Blifil

  Mrs. Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and matrimonial
politics, to her niece, when her brother and Blifil broke in with less
ceremony than the laws of visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw
Blifil than she turned pale, and almost lost the use of all her
faculties; but her aunt, on the contrary, waxed red, and, having all
her faculties at command, began to exert her tongue on the squire.
  "Brother," said she, "I am astonished at your behaviour; will you
never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look upon every
apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of your country tenants?
Do you think yourself at liberty to invade the privacies of women of
condition, without the least decency or notice?"-- "Why, what a pox is
the matter now?" quoth the squire; "one would think I had caught you
at-"- "None of your brutality, sir, I beseech you," answered she.--
'You have surprized my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I see,
support herself.-- Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to recruit your
spirits; for I see you have occasion." At which words Sophia, who
never received a more welcome command, hastily withdrew.
  "To be sure, sister," cries the squire, "you are mad, when I have
brought Mr. Blifil here to court her, to force her away."
  "Sure, brother," says she, "you are worse than mad, when you know in
what situation affairs are, to-- I am sure I ask Mr. Blifil's pardon,
but he knows very well to whom to impute so disagreeable a
reception. For my own part, I am sure I shall always be very glad to
see Mr. Blifil; but his own good sense would not have suffered him
to proceed so abruptly, had you not compelled him to it."
  Blifil bowed and stammered, and looked like a fool; but Western,
without giving him time to form a speech for the purpose, answered,
"Well, well, I am to blame, if you will, I always am, certainly; but
come, let the girl be fetched back again, or let Mr. Blifil go to
her.-- He's come up on purpose, and there is no time to be lost."
  "Brother," cries Mrs. Western, "Mr. Blifil, I am confident,
understands himself better than to think of seeing my niece any more
this morning, after what hath happened. Women are of a nice
contexture; and our spirits, when disordered, are not to be recomposed
in a moment. Had you suffered Mr. Blifil to have sent his
compliments to my niece, and to have desired the favour of waiting
on her in the afternoon, I should possibly have prevailed on her to
have seen him; but now I despair of bringing about any such matter."
  "I am very sorry, madam," cried Blifil, "that Mr. Western's
extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never enough acknowledge,
should have occasioned-" "Indeed, sir," said she, interrupting him,
"you need make no apologies, we all know my brother so well."
  I don't care what anybody knows of me," answered the squire;-- "but
when must he come to see her? for, consider, I tell you, he is come up
on purpose, and so is Allworthy."- "Brother," said she, "whatever
message Mr. Blifil thinks proper to send to my niece, shall be
delivered to her; and I suppose she will want no instructions to
make a proper answer. I am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr.
Blifil at a proper time."- "The devil she won't! " answered the
squire.- "Odsbud!- Don't we know- I say nothing, but some volk are
wiser than all the world.-- If I might have had my will, she had not
run away before: and now I expect to hear every moment she is guone
again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know very well she
hates--" "No matter, brother," replied Mrs. Western, "I will not hear
my niece abused. It is a reflection on my family. She is an honour
to it; and she will be an honour to it, I promise you. I will pawn
my whole reputation in the world on her conduct.-- I shall be glad to
see you, brother, in the afternoon; for I have somewhat of
importance to mention to you.- At present, Mr. Blifil, as well as
you, must excuse me; for I am in haste to dress." "Well, but," said
the squire, "do appoint a time." "Indeed," said she, "I can appoint no
time. I tell you I will see you in the afternoon."- "What the devil
would you have me do?" cries the squire, turning to Blifil; "I can
no more turn her, than a beagle can turn an old hare. Perhaps she will
be in a better humour in the afternoon."- "I am condemned, I see,
sir, to misfortune," answered Blifil; "but I shall always own my
obligations to you." He then took a ceremonious leave of Mrs. Western,
who was altogether as ceremonious on her part; and then they departed,
the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil should see
his daughter in the afternoon.
  If Mr. Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil was
less. As to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of his sister
to her humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the omission of
ceremony in the visit; but Blifil saw a little deeper into things.
He suspected somewhat of more consequence, from two or three words
which dropt from the lady; and, to say the truth, he suspected
right, as will appear when I have unfolded the several matters which
will be contained in the following chapter.
                                Chapter 8

  Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the ruin of Jones

  Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of Lord Fellamar to be
plucked up by the rude hands of Mr. Western. In the heat of resentment
he had, indeed, given a commission to Captain Egglane, which the
captain had far exceeded in the execution; nor had it been executed at
all, had his lordship been able to find the captain after he had
seen Lady Bellaston, which was in the afternoon of the day after he
had received the affront; but so industrious was the captain in the
discharge of his duty, that, having after long inquiry found out the
squire's lodgings very late in the evening, he sat up all night at a
tavern, that he might not miss the squire in the morning, and by
that means missed the revocation which my lord had sent to his
lodgings.
  In the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his
lordship, as we have said, made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid
open so much of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly
saw the absurdity he had been guilty of in taking any offence at his
words, especially as he had those honourable designs on his
daughter. He then unbosomed the violence of his passion to Lady
Bellaston, who readily undertook the cause, and encouraged him with
certain assurance of a most favourable reception from all the elders
of the family, and from the father himself when he should be sober,
and should be made acquainted with the nature of the offer made to his
daughter. The only danger, she said, lay in the fellow she had
formerly mentioned, who, though a beggar and a vagabond, had, by
some means or other, she knew not what, procured himself tolerable
cloaths, and past for a gentleman. "Now," says she, "as I have, for
the sake of my cousin, made it my business to inquire after this
fellow, I have luckily found out his lodgings;" with which she then
acquainted his lordship. "I am thinking, my lord," added she "(for
this fellow is too mean for your personal resentment), whether it
would not be possible for your lordship to contrive some method of
having him pressed and sent on board a ship. Neither law nor
conscience forbid this project: for the fellow, I promise you, however
well drest, is but a vagabond, and as proper as any fellow in the
streets to be pressed into the service; and as for the conscientious
part, surely the preservation of a young lady from such ruin is a most
meritorious act; nay, with regard to the fellow himself, unless he
could succeed (which Heaven forbid) with my cousin, it may probably be
the means of preserving him from the gallows, and perhaps may make his
fortune in an honest way."
  Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the part
which she was pleased to take in the affair, upon the success of which
his whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, he saw at
present no objection to the pressing scheme, and would consider of
putting it in execution. He then most earnestly recommended to her
ladyship to do him the honour of immediately mentioning his
proposals to the family; to whom he said he offered a carte blanche,
and would settle his fortune in almost any manner they should require.
And after uttering many ecstasies and raptures concerning Sophia, he
took his leave and departed, but not before he had received the
strongest charge to beware of Jones, and to lose no time in securing
his person, where he should no longer be in a capacity of making any
attempts to the ruin of the young lady.
  The moment Mrs. Western was arrived at her lodgings, a card was
despatched with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; who no sooner
received it than, with the impatience of a lover, she flew to her
cousin, rejoiced at this fair opportunity, which beyond her hopes
offered itself, for she was much better pleased with the prospect of
making the proposals to a woman of sense, and who knew the world, than
to a gentleman whom she honoured with the appellation of Hottentot;
though, indeed, from him she apprehended no danger of a refusal.
  The two ladies being met, after very short previous ceremonials,
fell to business, which was indeed almost as soon concluded as
begun; for Mrs. Western no sooner heard the name of Lord Fellamar than
her cheeks glowed with pleasure; but when she was acquainted with
the eagerness of his passion, the earnestness of his proposals, and
the generosity of his offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the
most explicit terms.
  In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to
Jones, and both cousins very pathetically lamented the unfortunate
attachment which both agreed Sophia had to that young fellow; and Mrs.
Western entirely attributed it to the folly of her brother's
management. She concluded, however, at last, with declaring her
confidence in the good understanding of her niece, who, though she
would not give up her affection in favour of Blifil, will, I doubt
not, says she, soon be prevailed upon to sacrifice a simple
inclination to the addresses of a fine gentleman, who brings her
both a title and a large estate: "For, indeed," added she, "I must
do Sophy the justice to confess this Blifil is but a hideous kind of
fellow, as you know, Bellaston, all country gentlemen are, and hath
nothing but his fortune to recommend him."
  "Nay," said Lady Bellaston, "I don't then so much wonder at my
cousin; for I promise you this Jones is a very agreeable fellow, and
hath one virtue, which the men say is a great recommendation to us.
What do you think, Mrs. Western- I shall certainly make you laugh;
nay, I can hardly tell you myself for laughing- will you believe that
the fellow hath had the assurance to make love to me? But if you
should be inclined to disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own
handwriting, I assure you." She then delivered her cousin the letter
with the proposals of marriage, which, if the reader hath a desire
to see, he will find already on record in the XVth book of this
history.
  "Upon my word, I am astonished," said Mrs. Western; "this is,
indeed, a masterpiece of assurance. With your leave, I may possibly
make some use of this letter." "You have my full liberty," cries
Lady Bellaston, "to apply it to what purpose you please. However, I
would not have it shown to any but Miss Western, nor to her unless you
find occasion." "Well, and how did you use the fellow?" returned
Mrs. Western. "Not as a husband," said the lady; "I am not married,
I promise you, my dear. You know, Bell, I have tried the comforts once
already; and once, I think, is enough for any reasonable woman."
  This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the
balance against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was emboldened to
give it up, partly by her hopes of having him instantly dispatched out
of the way, and partly by having secured the evidence of Honour,
who, upon sounding her, she saw sufficient reason to imagine was
prepared to testify whatever she pleased.
  But perhaps the reader may wonder why Lady Bellaston, who in her
heart hated Sophia, should be so desirous of promoting a match which
was so much to the interest of the young lady. Now, I would desire
such readers to look carefully into human nature, page almost the
last, and there he will find, in scarce legible characters, that
women, notwithstanding the preposterous behaviour of mothers, aunts,
&c., in matrimonial matters, do in reality think it so great a
misfortune to have their inclinations in love thwarted, that they
imagine they ought never to carry enmity higher than upon these
disappointments; again, he will find it written much about the same
place, that a woman who hath once been pleased with the possession
of a man, will go above halfway to the devil, to prevent any other
woman from enjoying the same.
  If he will not be contented with these reasons, I freely confess I
see no other motive to the actions of that lady, unless we will
conceive she was bribed by Lord Fellamar, which for my own part I
see no cause to suspect.
  Now this was the affair which Mrs. Western was preparing to
introduce to Sophia, by some prefatory discourse on the folly of love,
and on the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when her brother and
Blifil broke abruptly in upon her; and hence arose all that coldness
in her behaviour to Blifil, which, though the squire, as was usual
with him, imputed to a wrong cause, infused into Blifil himself (he
being a much more cunning man) a suspicion of the real truth.
                                Chapter 9

  In which Jones pays a visit to Mrs. Fitzpatrick

  The reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us to Mr.
Jones, who, at the appointed hour, attended on Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but
before we relate the conversation which now past, it may be proper,
according to our method, to return a little back, and to account for
so great an alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from changing
her lodging principally to avoid Mr. Jones, she had now industriously,
as hath been seen, sought this interview.
  And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding
day, when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr. Western was arrived in
town, she went to pay her duty to him, at his lodgings at
Piccadilly, where she was received with many scurvy compellations
too coarse to be repeated, and was even threatened to be kicked out of
doors. From hence, an old servant of her aunt Western, with whom she
was well acquainted, conducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who
treated her not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the
truth, with rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from both,
plainly convinced, not only that her scheme of reconciliation had
proved abortive, but that she must for ever give over all thoughts
of bringing it about by any means whatever. From this moment desire of
revenge only filled her mind; and in this temper meeting Jones at
the play, an opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this
purpose.
  The reader must remember that he was acquainted by Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
in the account she gave of her own story, with the fondness Mrs.
Western had formerly shewn for Mr. Fitzpatrick at Bath, from the
disappointment of which Mrs. Fitzpatrick derived the great
bitterness her aunt had expressed toward her. She had, therefore, no
doubt but that the good lady would as easily listen to the addresses
of Mr. Jones as she had before done to the other; for the
superiority of charms was clearly on the side of Mr. Jones; and the
advance which her aunt had since made in age, she concluded (how
justly I will not say), was an argument rather in favour of her
project than against it.
  Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration of
her desire of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm assurance
how much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and after some
excuses for her former disappointment, and after acquainting Mr. Jones
in whose custody his mistress was, of which she thought him
ignorant; she very explicitly mentioned her scheme to him, and advised
him to make sham addresses to the older lady, in order to procure an
easy access to the younger, informing him at the same time of the
success which Mr. Fitzpatrick had formerly owed to the very same
stratagem.
  Mr. Jones expressed great gratitude to the lady for the kind
intentions towards him which she had expressed, and indeed
testified, by this proposal; but, besides intimating some diffidence
of success from the lady's knowledge of his love to her niece, which
had not been her case in regard to Mr. Fitzpatrick, he said, he was
afraid Miss Western would never agree to an imposition of this kind,
as well from her utter detestation of all fallacy, as from her
avowed duty to her aunt.
  Mrs. Fitzpatrick was a little nettled at this; and indeed, if it may
not be called a lapse of the tongue, it was a small deviation from
politeness in Jones, and into which he scarce would have fallen, had
not the delight he felt in praising Sophia hurried him out of all
reflection; for this commendation of one cousin was more than a
tacit rebuke on the other.
  "Indeed, sir," answered the lady, with some warmth, "I cannot
think there is anything easier than to cheat an old woman with a
profession of love, when her complexion is amorous; and, though she is
my aunt, I must say there never was a more liquorish one than her
ladyship. Can't you pretend that the despair of possessing her
niece, from her being promised to Blifil, has made you turn your
thoughts towards her? As to my cousin Sophia, I can't imagine her to
be such a simpleton as to have the least scruple on such an account,
or to conceive any harm in punishing one of these haggs for the many
mischiefs they bring upon families by their tragi-comic passions;
for which I think it is a pity they are not punishable by law. I had
no such scruple myself; and yet I hope my cousin Sophia will not think
it an affront when I say she cannot detest every real species of
falsehood more than her cousin Fitzpatrick. To my aunt, indeed, I
pretend no duty, nor doth she deserve any. However, sir, I have
given you my advice; and if you decline pursuing it, I shall have
the less opinion of your understanding- that's all."
  Jones now clearly saw the error he had committed, and exerted his
utmost power to rectify it; but he only faultered and stuttered into
nonsense and contradiction. To say the truth, it is often safer to
abide by the consequences of the first blunder than to endeavour to
rectify it; for by such endeavours we generally plunge deeper
instead of extricating ourselves; and few persons will on such
occasions have the good-nature which Mrs. Fitzpatrick displayed to
Jones, by saying, with a smile, "You need attempt no more excuses; for
I can easily forgive a real lover, whatever is the effect of
fondness for his mistress."
  She then renewed her proposal, and very fervently recommended it,
omitting no argument which her invention could suggest on the subject;
for she was so violently incensed against her aunt, that scarce
anything was capable of affording her equal pleasure with exposing
her; and, like a true woman, she would see no difficulties in the
execution of a favourite scheme.
  Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which had
not, indeed, the least probability of success. He easily perceived the
motives which induced Mrs. Fitzpatrick to be so eager in pressing
her advice. He said he would not deny the tender and passionate regard
he had for Sophia; but was so conscious of the inequality of their
situations, that he could never flatter himself so far as to hope that
so divine a young lady would condescend to think on so unworthy a man;
nay, he protested, he could scarce bring himself to wish she should.
He concluded with a profession of generous sentiments, which we have
not at present leisure to insert.
  There are some fine women (for I dare not here speak in too
general terms) with whom self is so predominant, that they never
detach it from any subject; and, as vanity is with them a ruling
principle, they are apt to lay hold of whatever praise they meet with,
and, though the property of others, convey it to their own use. In the
company of these ladies it is impossible to say anything handsome of
another woman which they will not apply to themselves; nay, they often
improve the praise they seize; as, for instance, if her beauty, her
wit, her gentility, her good humour deserve so much commendation, what
do I deserve, who possess those qualities in so much more eminent a
degree?
  To these ladies a man often recommends himself while he is
commending another woman; and, while he is expressing ardour and
generous sentiments for his mistress, they are considering what a
charming lover this man would make to them, who can feel all this
tenderness for an inferior degree of merit. Of this, strange as it may
seem, I have seen many instances besides Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom all
this really happened, and who now began to feel a somewhat for Mr.
Jones, the symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor
Sophia had formerly done.
  To say the truth, perfect beauty in both sexes is a more
irresistible object than it is generally thought; for, notwithstanding
some of us are contented with more homely lots, and learn by rote
(as children to repeat what gives them no idea) to despise outside,
and to value more solid charms; yet I have always observed, at the
approach of consummate beauty, that these more solid charms only shine
with that kind of lustre which the stars have after the rising of
the sun.
  When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which would have
become the mouth of Oroondates himself, Mrs. Fitzpatrick heaved a deep
sigh, and, taking her eyes off from Jones, on whom they had been
some time fixed, and dropping them on the ground, she cried,
"Indeed, Mr. Jones, I pity you; but it is the curse of such tenderness
to be thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I know my
cousin better than you, Mr. Jones, and I must say, any woman who makes
no return to such a passion, and such a person, is unworthy of both."
  "Sure, madam," said Jones, "you can't mean-" "Mean!" cries Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, "I know not what I mean; there is something, I think,
in true tenderness bewitching; few women ever meet it in men, and
fewer still know how to value it when they do. I never heard such
truly noble sentiments, and I can't tell how it is, but you force
one to believe you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women
who can overlook such merit."
  The manner and look with which all this was spoke, infused a
suspicion into Jones, which we don't care to convey in direct words to
the reader. Instead of making any answer, he said, "I am afraid,
madam, I have made too tiresome a visit;" and offered to take his
leave.
  "Not at all, sir," answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick.- "Indeed I pity you,
Mr. Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider of the scheme I
have mentioned- I am convinced you will approve it- and let me see you
again as soon as you can.- To-morrow morning if you will, or at least
some time to-morrow. I shall be at home all day."
  Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respectfully
retired; nor could Mrs. Fitzpatrick forbear making him a present of
a look at parting, by which if he had understood nothing, he must have
had no understanding in the language of the eyes. In reality, it
confirmed his resolution of returning to her no more; for, faulty as
he hath hitherto appeared in this history, his whole thoughts were now
so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could
have now drawn him into an act of inconstancy.
  Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he intended
to give her no second opportunity, to make the best of this; and
accordingly produced the tragical incident which we are now in
sorrowful notes to record.
                                Chapter 10

  The consequence of the preceding visit

  Mr. Fitzpatrick having received the letter before mentioned from
Mrs. Western, and being by that means acquainted with the place to
which his wife was retired, returned directly to Bath, and thence
the day after set forward to London.
  The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous temper of
this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the suspicion
which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in
the room with Mrs. Waters; and, though sufficient reasons had
afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that suspicion, yet now the
reading so handsome a character of Mr. Jones from his wife, caused him
to reflect that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and
jumbled together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which was
naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that
green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of Othello.
  And now, as he was inquiring in the street after his wife, and had
just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr. Jones was
issuing from it.
  Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, seeing
a young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he made directly
up to him, and asked him what he had been doing in that house? "for
I am sure," said he, "you must have been in it, as I saw you come
out of it."
  Jones answered very modestly, "That he had been visiting a lady
there." To which Fitzpatrick replied, "What business have you with the
lady?" Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice,
features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out- "Ha, my good
friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill blood remaining
between us, upon a small mistake which happened so long ago."
  "Upon my soul, sir," said Fitzpatrick, "I don't know your name nor
your face." "Indeed, sir," said Jones, "neither have I the pleasure of
knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to have seen
before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened between us, which,
if it is not made up yet, we will now make up over a bottle."
  "At Upton!" cried the other;-- "Ha! upon my soul, I believe your
name is Jones?" "Indeed," answered he, "it is."- "O! upon my soul,"
cries Fitzpatrick, "you are the very man I wanted to meet.- Upon my
soul I will drink a bottle with you presently; but first I will give
you a great knock over the pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my
soul, if you do not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give
you another." And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of
defence, which was the only science he understood.
  Jones was a little staggered by the blow, which came somewhat
unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself, he also drew, and
though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on so boldly upon
Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and sheathed one half of his
sword in the body of the said gentleman, who had no sooner received
it, than he stept backwards, dropped the point of his sword, and
leaning upon it, cried, "I have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man."
  "I hope not," cries Jones, "but whatever be the consequence, you
must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself." At this instant a
number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, who told them he
should make no resistance, and begged some of them at least would take
care of the wounded gentleman.
  "Ay," cries one of the fellows, "the wounded gentleman will be taken
care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours to live. As for
you, sir, you have a month at least good yet." "D--n me, Jack," said
another, "he hath prevented his voyage; he's bound to another port
now;" and many other such jests was our poor Jones made the subject of
by these fellows, who were indeed the gang employed by Lord
Fellamar, and had dogged him into the house of Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
waiting for him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate
accident happened.
  The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded, that
his business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands of the
civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried to a
public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he delivered him
to his custody.
  The constable, seeing Mr. Jones very well drest, and hearing that
the accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner with great
civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to inquire after
the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern under the surgeon's
hands. The report brought back was, that the wound was certainly
mortal, and there were no hopes of life. Upon which the constable
informed Jones, that he must go before a justice. He answered,
"Whenever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me; for
though I am convinced I am not guilty of murder in the eye of the law,
yet the weight of blood I find intolerable upon my mind."
  Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the surgeon who
dressed Mr. Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the
wound to be mortal; upon which the prisoner was committed to the
Gatehouse. It was very late at night, so that Jones would not send for
Partridge till the next morning; and, as he never shut his eyes till
seven, so it was near twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly
frightened at not hearing from his master so long, received a
message which almost deprived him of his being when he heard it.
  He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beating heart,
and was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones, than he lamented
the misfortune that had befallen him with many tears, looking all
the while frequently about him in great terror; for as the news now
arrived that Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the poor fellow apprehended
every minute that his ghost would enter the room. At last he delivered
him a letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came from
Sophia by the hands of Black George.
  Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, having
eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows:-

  You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I own
surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter from you to Lady
Bellaston, which contains a proposal of marriage. I am convinced it is
your own hand; and what more surprizes me is, that it is dated at
the very time when would have me imagine you was under such concern on
my account.- I leave you to comment on this fact. All I desire is,
that your name may never more be mentioned to
                                                  S. W.

  Of the present situation of Mr. Jones's mind, and of the pangs
with which he was now tormented, we cannot give the roader a better
idea than by saying, his misery was such that even Thwackum would
almost have pitied him. But, bad as it is, we shall at present leave
him in it, as his good genius (if he really had any) seems to have
done. And here we put an end to the sixteenth book of our history.
                                   BOOK XVII
                             CONTAINING THREE DAYS
                                Chapter 1

  Containing a portion of introductory writing

  When a comic writer hath made his principal characters as happy as
he can, or when a tragic writer hath brought them to the highest pitch
of human misery, they both conclude their business to be done, and
that their work is come to a period.
  Had we been of the tragic complexion, the reader must now allow we
were nearly arrived at this period, since it would be difficult for
the devil, or any of his representatives on earth, to have contrived
much greater torments for poor Jones than those in which we left him
in the last chapter; and as for Sophia, a good-natured woman would
hardly wish more uneasiness to a rival than what she must at present
be supposed to feel. What then remains to complete the tragedy but a
murder or two, and a few moral sentences!
  But to bring our favourites out of their present anguish and
distress, and to land them at last on the shore of happiness, seems
a much harder task; a task, indeed, so hard that we do not undertake
to execute it. In regard to Sophia, it is more than probable that we
shall somewhere or other provide a good husband for her in the end-
either Blifil, or my lord, or somebody else; but as to poor Jones,
such are the calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to
his imprudence, by which, if a man doth not become felon to the world,
he is at least a felo de se*; so destitute is he now of friends, and
so persecuted by enemies, that we almost despair of bringing him to
any good; and if our reader delights in seeing executions, I think
he ought not to lose any time in taking a first row at Tyburn.

  *A suicide.

  This I faithfully promise, that, notwithstanding any affection which
we may be supposed to have for this rogue, whom we have
unfortunately made our heroe, we will lend him none of that
supernatural assistance with which we are entrusted, upon condition
that we use it only on very important occasions. If he doth not,
therefore, find some natural means of fairly extricating himself
from all his distresses, we will do no violence to the truth and
dignity of history for his sake; for we had rather relate that he
was hanged at Tyburn (which may very probably be the case) than
forfeit our integrity, or shock the faith of our reader.
  In this the antients had a great advantage over the moderns. Their
mythology, which was at that time more firmly believed by the vulgar
than any religion is at present, gave them always an opportunity of
delivering a favourite heroe. Their deities were always ready at the
writer's elbow, to execute any of his purposes; and the more
extraordinary the invention was, the greater was the surprize and
delight of the credulous reader. Those writers could with greater ease
have conveyed a heroe from one country to another, nay from one
world to another, and have brought him back again, than a poor
circumscribed modern can deliver him from a jail.
  The Arabians and Persians had an equal advantage in writing their
tales from the genii and fairies, which they believe in as an
article of their faith, upon the authority of the Koran itself. But we
have none of these helps. To natural means alone we are confined;
let us try therefore what, by these means, may be done for poor Jones;
though, to confess the truth, something whispers me in the ear, that
he doth not yet know the worst of his fortune; and that a more
shocking piece of news than any he hath yet heard remains for him in
the unopened leaves of fate.
                                Chapter 2

  The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs. Miller

  Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller were just sat down to breakfast,
when Blifil, who had gone out very early that morning, returned to
make one of the company.
  He had not been long seated before he began as follows: "Good
Lord! my dear uncle, what do you think hath happened? I vow I am
afraid of telling it you, for fear of shocking you with the
remembrance of ever having shewn any kindness to such a villain."
"What is the matter, child?" said the uncle. "I fear I have shown
kindness in my life to the unworthy more than once. But charity doth
not adopt the vices of its objects." "O, sir! " returned Blifil, "it
is not without the secret direction of Providence that you mention the
word adoption. Your adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you
nourished in your bosom, hath proved one of the greatest villains upon
earth." "By all that's sacred, 'tis false," cries Mrs. Miller. "Mr.
Jones is no villain. He is one of the worthiest creatures breathing;
and if any other person had called him villain, I would have thrown
all this boiling water in his face." Mr. Allworthy looked very much
amazed at this behaviour. But she did not give him leave to speak,
before, turning to him, she cried, "I hope you will not be angry
with me; I would not offend you, sir, for the world; but, indeed, I
could not bear to hear him called so." "I must own, madam," said
Allworthy, very gravely, "I am a little surprized to hear you so
warmly defend a fellow you do not know." "O! I do know him, Mr.
Allworthy," said she, "indeed I do; I should be the most ungrateful of
all wretches if I denied it. O! he hath preserved me and my little
family; we have all reason to bless him while we live.- And I pray
Heaven to bless him, and turn the hearts of his malicious enemies. I
know, I find, I see, he hath such." "You surprize me, madam, still
more," said Allworthy; "sure you must mean some other. It is
impossible you should have any such obligations to the man my nephew
mentions." "Too surely," answered she, "I have obligations to him of
the greatest and tenderest kind. He hath been the preserver of me
and mine. Believe me, sir, he hath been abused, grossly abused to you;
I know he hath, or you, whom I know to be all goodness and honour,
would not, after the many kind and tender things I have heard you
say of this poor helpless child, have so disdainfully called him
fellow.- Indeed, my best of friends, he deserves a kinder appellation
from you, had you heard the good, the kind, the grateful things
which I have heard him utter of you. He never mentions your name but
with a sort of adoration. In this very room I have seen him on his
knees, imploring all the blessings of heaven upon your head. I do
not love that child there better than he loves you."
  "I see, sir, now," said Blifil, with one of those grinning sneers
with which the devil marks his best beloved, "Mrs. Miller really
doth know him. I suppose you will find she is not the only one of your
acquaintance to whom he hath exposed you. As for my character, I
perceive, by some hints she hath thrown out, he hath been very free
with it, but I forgive him." "And the Lord forgive you, sir!" said
Mrs. Miller; "we have all sins enough to stand in need of his
forgiveness."
  "Upon my word, Mrs. Miller," said Allworthy, "I do not take this
behaviour of yours to my nephew kindly; and I do assure you, as any
reflections which you cast upon him must come only from that wickedest
of men, they would only serve, if that were possible, to heighten my
resentment against him: for I must tell you, Mrs. Miller, the young
man who now stands before you hath ever been the warmest advocate
for the ungrateful wretch whose cause you espouse. This, I think, when
you hear it from my own mouth, will make you wonder at so much
baseness and ingratitude."
  "You are deceived, sir," answered Mrs. Miller; "if they were the
last words which were to issue from my lips, I would say you were
deceived; and I once more repeat it, the Lord forgive those who have
deceived you! I do not pretend to say the young man is without faults;
but they are all the faults of wildness and of youth; faults which
he may, nay, which I am certain he will, relinquish, and, if he should
not, they are vastly overbalanced by one of the most humane, tender,
honest hearts that ever man was blest with."
  "Indeed, Mrs. Miller," said Allworthy, "had this been related of
you, I should not have believed it." "Indeed, sir," answered she, "you
will believe everything I have said, I am sure you will: and when
you have heard the story which I shall tell you (for I will tell you
all), you will be so far from being offended, that you will own (I
know your justice so well), that I must have been the most
despicable and most ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other
part than I have."
  "Well, madam," said Allworthy, "I shall be very glad to hear any
good excuse for a behaviour which, I must confess, I think wants an
excuse. And now, madam, will you be pleased to let my nephew proceed
in his story without interruption. He would not have introduced a
matter of slight consequence with such a preface. Perhaps even this
story will cure you of your mistake."
  Mrs. Miller gave tokens of submission, and then Mr. Blifil began
thus: "I am sure, sir, if you don't think proper to resent the
ill-usage of Mrs. Miller, I shall easily forgive what affects me only.
I think your goodness hath not deserved this indignity at her
hands." "Well, child," said Allworthy, "but what is this new instance?
What hath he done of late?" "What," cries Blifil, "notwithstanding all
Mrs. Miller hath said, I am very sorry to relate, and what you
should never have heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible
to conceal from the whole world. In short, he hath killed a man; I
will not say murdered- for perhaps it may not be so construed in law,
and I hope the best for his sake."
  Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, turning
to Mrs. Miller, he cried, "Well, madam, what say you now?"
  "Why, I say, sir," answered she, "that never was more concerned at
anything in my life; but, if the fact be true, I am convinced the man,
whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows there are many villains in
this town who make it their business to provoke young gentlemen.
Nothing but the greatest provocation could have tempted him; for of
all the gentlemen I ever had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or
so sweet-tempered. He was beloved by everyone in the house, and
every one who came near it."
  While she was thus running on, a violent knocking at the door
interrupted their conversation, and prevented her from proceeding
further, or from receiving any answer; for, as she concluded this
was a visitor to Mr. Allworthy, she hastily retired, taking with her
her little girl, whose eyes were all over blubbered at the
melancholy news she heard of Jones, who used to call her his little
wife, and not only gave her many playthings, but spent whole hours
in playing with her himself.
  Some readers may, perhaps, be pleased with these minute
circumstances, in relating of which we follow the example of Plutarch,
one of the best of our brother historians; and others, to whom they
may appear trivial, will, we hope, at least pardon them, as we are
never prolix on such occasions.
                                Chapter 3

  The arrival of Mr. Western, with some matters concerning the
paternal authority

  Mrs. Miller had not long left the room when Mr. Western entered; but
not before a small wrangling bout had passed between him and his
chairmen; for the fellows, who had taken up their burden at the
Hercules Pillars, had conceived no hopes of having any future good
customer in the squire; and they were moreover farther encouraged by
his generosity (for he had given them of his own accord sixpence
more than their fare); they therefore very boldly demanded another
shilling, which so provoked the squire, that he not only bestowed many
hearty curses on them at the door, but retained his anger after he
came into the room; swearing that all the Londoners were like the
court, and thought of nothing but plundering country gentlemen. "D--n
me," says he, "if I won't walk in the rain rather than get into one of
their hand-barrows again. They have jolted me more in a mile than
Brown Bess would in a long fox-chase."
  When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he resumed
the same passionate tone on another. "There," says he, "there is
fine business forwards now. The hounds have changed at last; and
when we imagined we had a fox to deal with, od-rat it, it turns out to
be a badger at last!
  "Pray, my good neighbour," said Allworthy, "drop your metaphors, and
speak a little plainer." "Why, then," says the squire, "to tell you
plainly, we have been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a
bastard of somebody's, I don't know whose, not I. And now here's a
confounded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a bastard too for what
I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of mine by my
consent. They have beggared the nation, but they shall never beggar
me. My land shall never be sent over to Hanover."
  "You surprize me much, my good friend," said Allworthy. "Why,
zounds! I am surprized myself," answered the squire. "I went to zee
sister Western last night, according to her own appointment, and there
I was had into a whole room full of women. There was my lady cousin
Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and my Lady Catherine, and my lady I
don't know who; d--n me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of
hoop-petticoat b-s! D--n me, I'd rather be run by my own dogs, as one
Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into a hare, and his
own dogs killed un and eat un. Odrabbit it, no mortal was ever run
in such a manner; if I dodged one way, one had me; if I offered to
clap back, another snapped me. 'O! certainly one of the greatest
matches in England,' says one cousin (here he attempted to mimic
them); 'A very advantageous offer indeed,' cries another cousin (for
you must know they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half o' um
before). 'Surely,' says that fat a-se b--, my Lady Bellaston,
'cousin, you must be out of your wits to think of refusing such an
offer.'"
  "Now I begin to understand," says Allworthy; "some person hath
made proposals to Miss Western, which the ladies of the family
approve, but is not to your liking."
  "My liking!" said Western, "how the devil should it? I tell you it
is a lord, and those are always volks whom you know I always
resolved to have nothing to do with. Did unt I refuse a matter of
vorty years' purchase now for a bit of land, which one o' um had a
mind to put into a park, only because I would have no dealings with
lords, and dost think I would marry my daughter zu? Besides, ben't I
engaged to you, and did I ever go off any bargain when I had
promised?"
  "As to that point, neighbour," said Allworthy, "I entirely release
you from any engagement. No contract can be binding between parties
who have not a full power to make it at the time, nor ever
afterwards acquire the power of fulfilling it."
  "Slud! then," answered Western, "I tell you I have power, and I will
fulfil it. Come along with me directly to Doctors' Commons, I will get
a licence; and I will go to sister and take away the wench by force,
and she shall ha un, or I will lock her up, and keep her upon bread
and water as long as she lives."
  "Mr. Western," said Allworthy, "shall I beg you will hear my full
sentiments on this matter?"- "Hear thee; ay, to be sure I will,"
answered he. "Why, then, sir," cries Allworthy, "I can truly say,
without a compliment either to you or the young lady, that when this
match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and heartily, from my
regard to you both. An alliance between two families so nearly
neighbours, and between whom there had always existed so mutual an
intercourse and good harmony, I thought a most desirable event; and
with regard to the young lady, not only the concurrent opinion of
all who knew her, but my own observation assured me that she would
be an inestimable treasure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of
her personal qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good
nature, her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too well known to
need any panegyric: but she hath one quality which existed in a high
degree in that best of women, who is now one of the first of angels,
which, as it is not of a glaring kind, more commonly escapes
observation; so little indeed is it remarked, that I want a word to
express it. I must use negatives on this occasion. I never heard
anything of pertness, or what is called repartee, out of her mouth; no
pretence to wit, much less to that kind of wisdom which is the
result only of great learning and experience, the affectation of
which, in a young woman, is as absurd as any of the affectations of an
ape. No dictatorial sentiments, no judicial opinions, no profound
criticisms. Whenever I have seen her in the company of men, she hath
been all attention, with the modesty of a learner, not the forwardness
of a teacher. You'll pardon me for it, but I once, to try her only,
desired her opinion on a point which was controverted between Mr.
Thwackum and Mr. Square. To which she answered, with much sweetness,
'You will pardon me, good Mr. Allworthy; I am sure you cannot in
earnest think me capable of deciding any point in which two such
gentlemen disagree.' Thwackum and Square, who both alike thought
themselves sure of a favourable decision, seconded my request. She
answered with the same good humour, 'I must absolutely be excused: for
I will affront neither so much as to give my judgment on his side.'
Indeed, she always shewed the highest deference to the
understandings of men; a quality absolutely essential to the making
a good wife. I shall only add, that as she is most apparently void
of all affectation, this deference must be certainly real."
  Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes were
full of tears at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, "Don't be
chicken-hearted, for shat ha her, d--n me, shat ha her, if she was
twenty times as good."
  "Remember your promise, sir," cried Allworthy, "I was not to be
interrupted." "Well, shat unt," answered the squire; "I won't speak
another word."
  "Now, my good friend," continued Allworthy, "I have dwelt so long on
the merit of this young lady, partly as I really am in love with her
character, and partly that fortune (for the match in that light is
really advantageous on my nephew's side) might not be imagined to be
my principal view in having so eagerly embraced the proposal.
Indeed, I heartily wished to receive so great a jewel into my
family; but though I may wish for many good things, I would not,
therefore, steal them, or be guilty of any violence or injustice to
possess myself of them. Now to force a woman into a marriage
contrary to her consent or approbation, is an act of such injustice
and oppression, that I wish the laws of our country could restrain it;
but a good conscience is, never lawless in the worst regulated
state, and will provide those laws for itself, which the neglect of
legislators hath forgotten to supply. This is surely a case of that
kind; for, is it not cruel, nay, impious, to force a woman into that
state against her will; for her behaviour in which she is to be
accountable to the highest and most dreadful court of judicature,
and to answer at the peril of her soul? To discharge the matrimonial
duties in an adequate manner is no easy task; and shall we lay this
burthen upon a woman, while we at the same time deprive her of all
that assistance which may enable her to undergo it? Shall we tear
her very heart from her, while we enjoin her duties to which a whole
heart is scarce equal? I must speak very plainly here. I think parents
who act in this manner are accessories to all the guilt which their
children afterwards incur, and of course must, before a just judge,
expect to partake of their punishment; but if they could avoid this,
good heaven! is there a soul who can bear the thought of having
contributed to the damnation of his child?
  "For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclinations
of this young lady are most unhappily averse to my nephew, I must
decline any further thoughts of the honour you intended him, though
I assure you I shall always retain the most grateful sense of it."
  "Well, sir," said Western (the froth bursting forth from his lips
the moment they were uncorked), "you cannot say but I have heard you
out, and now I expect you'll hear me; and if I don't answer every word
on't, why then I'll consent to gee the matter up. First then, I desire
you to answer me one question- Did not I beget her? did not I beget
her? answer me that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that
knows his own child; but I am sure I have the best title to her, for I
bred her up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and
if I be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I not
to govern my own child? and if I am to govern her in other matters,
surely I am to govern her in this, which concerns her most. And what
am I desiring all this while? Am I desiring her to do anything for me:
to give me anything?- Zu much on t'other side, that I am only
desiring her to take away half my estate now, and t'other half when
I die. Well, and what is it all vor? Why, is unt it to make her happy?
It's enough to make one mad to hear volks talk; if I was going to
marry myself, then she would ha reason to cry and to blubber; but,
on the contrary, han't I offered to bind down my land in such a
manner, that I could not marry if I would, seeing as narro' woman upon
earth would ha me. What the devil in hell can I do more? I
contribute to her damnation!- Zounds! I'd zee all the world d--n'd
bevore her little vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr. Allworthy, you
must excuse me, but I am surprized to hear you talk in zuch a
manner, and I must say, take it how you will, that I thought you had
more sense."
  Allworthy resented this reflection only with a smile; nor could
he, if he would have endeavoured it, have conveyed into that smile any
mixture of malice or contempt. His smiles at folly were indeed such as
we may suppose the angels bestow on the absurdities of mankind.
  Blifil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. "As to
using any violence on the young lady, I am sure I shall never
consent to it. My conscience will not permit me to use violence on any
one, much less on a lady for whom, however cruel she is to me, I shall
always preserve the purest and sincerest affection; but yet I have
read that women are seldom proof against perseverance. Why may I not
hope then by such perseverance at last to gain those inclinations,
in which for the future I shall, perhaps, have no rival; for as for
this lord, Mr. Western is so kind to prefer me to him; and sure,
sir, you will not deny but that a parent hath at least a negative
voice in these matters; nay, I have heard this very young lady herself
say so more than once, and declare that she thought children
inexcusable who married in direct opposition to the will of their
parents. Besides, though the other ladies of the family seem to favour
the pretensions of my lord, I do not find the lady herself is inclined
to give him any countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is not; I
am too sensible that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her heart."
  "Ay, ay, so he does," cries Western.
  "But surely," says Blifil, "when she hears of this murder which he
hath committed, if the law should spare his life--"
  "What's that?" cries Western. "Murder! hath he committed a murder,
and is there any hopes of seeing him hanged?-Tol de rol, tol lol de
rol." Here he fell a singing and capering about the room.
  "Child," says Allworthy, "this unhappy passion of yours distresses
me beyond measure. I heartily pity you, and would do every fair
thing to promote your success."
  "I desire no more," cries Blifil; "I am convinced my dear uncle hath
a better opinion of me than to think that I myself would accept of
more."
  "Lookee," says Allworthy, "you have my leave to write, to visit,
if she will permit it- but I insist on no thoughts of violence. I
will have no confinement, nothing of that kind attempted."
  "Well, well," cries the squire, "nothing of that kind shall be
attempted; we will try a little longer what fair means will effect;
and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way- Tol lol de rol! I
never heard better news in my life- I warrant everything goes to my
mind.- Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, come and dine with me at the
Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a
spare-rib of pork, and a fowl and egg-sauce. There will be nobody
but ourselves, unless we have a mind to have the landlord; for I
have sent Parson Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box,
which I left at an inn there, and I would not lose it for the world;
for it is an old acquaintance of above twenty years' standing. I can
tell you landlord is a vast comical bitch, you will like un hugely."
  Mr. Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after
the squire went off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing the
speedy tragical end of poor Jones.
  When he was gone, Mr. Allworthy resumed the aforesaid subject with
much gravity. He told his nephew, "He wished with all his heart he
would endeavour to conquer a passion, in which I cannot," says he,
"flatter you with any hopes of succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar
error, that aversion in a woman may be conquered by perseverance.
Indifference may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it; but the usual
triumphs gained by perseverence in a lover are over caprice, prudence,
affectation, and often an exorbitant degree of levity, which excites
women not over-warm in their constitutions to indulge their vanity
by prolonging the time of courtship, even when they are well enough
pleased with the object, and resolve (if they ever resolve at all)
to make him a very pitiful amends in the end. But a fixed dislike,
as I am afraid this is, will rather gather strength than be
conquered by time. Besides, my dear, I have another apprehension which
you must excuse. I am afraid this passion which you have for this fine
young creature hath her beautiful person too much for its object,
and is unworthy of the name of that love which is the only
foundation of matrimonial felicity. To admire, to like, and to long
for the possession of a beautiful woman, without any regard to her
sentiments towards us, is, I am afraid, too natural; but love, I
believe, is the child of love only; at least, I am pretty confident
that to love the creature who we are assured hates us is not in
human nature. Examine your heart, therefore, thoroughly, my good
boy, and if, upon examination, you have but the least suspicion of
this kind, I am sure your own virtue and religion will impel you to
drive so vicious a passion from your heart, and your good sense will
soon enable you to do it without pain."
  The reader may pretty well guess Blifil's answer; but, if he
should be at a loss, we are not at present at leisure to satisfy
him, as our history now hastens on to matters of higher importance,
and we can no longer bear to be absent from Sophia.
                                Chapter 4

  An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt

  The lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, may
ramble safe and unregarded through the pastures. These are, indeed,
hereafter doomed to be the prey of man; yet many years are they
suffered to enjoy their liberty undisturbed. But if a plump doe be
discovered to have escaped from the forest, and to repose herself in
some field or grove, the whole parish is presently alarmed, every
man is ready to set dogs after her; and, if she is preserved from
the rest by the good squire, it is only that he may secure her for his
own eating.
  I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune and
fashion, when first found strayed from the pale of her nursery, to
be in pretty much the same situation with this doe. The town is
immediately in an uproar; she is hunted from park to play, from
court to assembly, from assembly to her own chamber, and rarely
escapes a single season from the jaws of some devourer or other;
for, if her friends protect her from some, it is only to deliver her
over to one of their own chusing, of more disagreeable to her than any
of the rest; while whole herds or flocks of other women securely,
and scarce regarded, traverse the park, the play, the opera, and the
assembly; and though, for the most part at least, they are at last
devoured, yet for a long time do they wanton in liberty, without
disturbance or controul.
  Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecution than
poor Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with all that she had
suffered on account of Blifil, they now raised her another pursuer,
who seemed likely to torment her no less than the other had done.
For though her aunt was less violent, she was no less assiduous in
teizing her, than her father had been before.
  The servants were no sooner departed after dinner, than Mrs.
Western, who had opened the matter to Sophia, informed her, "That
she expected his lordship that very afternoon, and intended to take
the first opportunity of leaving her alone with him." "If you do,
madam," answered Sophia, with some spirit, "I shall take the first
opportunity of leaving him by himself." "How! madam!" cries the
aunt; "is this the return you make me for my kindness in relieving you
from your confinement at your father's?" "You know, madam," said
Sophia, "the cause of that confinement was a refusal to comply with my
father in accepting a man I detested, and will my dear aunt, who
hath relieved me from that distress, involve me in another equally
bad?" "And do you think then, madam," answered Mrs. Western, that
there is no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr. Blifil?" "Very
little, in my opinion," cries Sophia; "and, if I must be condemned
to one, I would certainly have the merit of sacrificing myself to my
father's pleasure." "Then my pleasure, I find," said the aunt, "hath
very little weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me.
I act from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, of
ennobling yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no sense of
ambition? Are there no charms in the thoughts of having a coronet on
your coach?" "None, upon my honour," said Sophia. "A pincushion upon
my coach would please me just as well." "Never mention honour,"
cries the aunt. "It becomes not the mouth of such a wretch. I am
sorry, niece, you force me to use these words, but I cannot bear
your groveling temper; you have none of the blood of the Westerns in
you. But, however mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no
imputation on mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that
I encouraged you in refusing one of the best matches in England; a
match which, besides its advantage in fortune, would do honour to
almost any family, and hath, indeed, in title, the advantage of ours."
"Surely," says Sophia, "I am born deficient, and have not the senses
with which other people are blessed; there must be certainly some
sense which can relish the delights of sound and show, which I have
not; for surely mankind would not labour so much, nor sacrifice so
much for the obtaining, nor would they be so elate and proud with
possessing, what appeared to them, as it doth to me, the most
insignificant of all trifles."
  "No, no, miss," cries the aunt; "you are born with as many senses as
other people; but I assure you, you are not born with a sufficient
understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my conduct to the
world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, and you know, I
believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless you agree to see his
lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own hands, deliver you
to-morrow morning to my brother, and will never henceforth interfere
with you, nor see your face again." Sophia stood a few moments
silent after this speech, which was uttered in a most angry and
peremptory tone; and then, bursting into tears, she cryed, "Do with
me, madam, whatever you please; I am the most miserable undone
wretch upon earth; if my dear aunt forsakes me, where shall I look for
a protector?" "My dear niece," cries she, "you will have a very good
protector in his lordship; a protector whom nothing but a hankering
after that vile fellow Jones can make you decline." "Indeed, madam,"
said Sophia, "you wrong me. How can you imagine, after what you have
shewn me, if I had ever any such thoughts, that I should not banish
them for ever? If it will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament
upon it never to see his face again." "But, child, dear child," said
the aunt, "be reasonable; can you invent a single objection?" "I
have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection answered
Sophia. "What?" cries the aunt; "I remember none." "Sure, madam," said
Sophia, "I told you he had used me in the rudest and vilest manner."
"Indeed, child," answered she, "I never heard you, or did not
understand you:- but what do you mean by this rude, vile manner?"
"Indeed, madam, said Sophia, "I am almost ashamed to tell you. He
caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the settee, and thrust
his hand into my bosom, and kissed it with such violence that I have
the mark upon my left breast at this moment." "Indeed!" said Mrs.
Western. "Yes, indeed, madam," answered Sophia; "my father luckily
came in at that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he intended
to have proceeded to." "I am astonished and confounded," cries the
aunt. "No woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since
we were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, if he
had attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible! sure, Sophia,
you must invent this to raise my indignation against him." "I hope,
madam," said Sophia, "you have too good an opinion of me to imagine me
capable of telling an untruth. Upon my soul it is true." "I should
have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present," returned the aunt.
"Yet surely he could have no dishonourable design; it is impossible!
he durst not: besides, his proposals shew he hath not; for they are
not only honourable, but generous. I don't know; the age allows too
great freedoms. A distant salute is all I would have allowed before
the ceremony. I have had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither;
several lovers, though I never would consent to marriage, and I
never encouraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I
never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my cheek. It is as
much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to a husband; and,
indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I believe I
should not have soon been brought to endure so much." "You will pardon
me, dear madam," said Sophia, "if I make one observation: you own
you have had many lovers, and the world knows it, even if you should
deny it. You refused them all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at
least among them." "You say true, dear Sophy," answered she; "I had
once the offer of a title." "Why, then," said Sophia, "will you not
suffer me to refuse this once?" "It is true, child, said she, "I
have refused the offer of a title; but it was not so good an offer;
that is, not so very, very good an offer."- "Yes, madam," said
Sophia; "but you have had very great proposals from men of vast
fortunes. It was not the first, nor the second, nor the third
advantageous match that offered itself." "I own it was not," said she.
"Well, madam," continued Sophia, "and why may not I expect to have a
second, perhaps, better than this? You are now but a young woman,
and I am convinced would not promise to yield to the first lover of
fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a very young woman, and sure I
need not despair." "Well, my dear, dear Sophy," cries the aunt,
"what would you have me say?" "Why, I only beg that I may not be
left alone, at least this evening; grant me that, and I will submit,
if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your company."
"Well, I will grant it," cries the aunt. "Sophy, you know I love
you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness of my nature; I
have not always been so easy. I have been formerly thought cruel; by
the men, I mean. I was called the cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many
a window that has had verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy,
I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had something you
formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully
Cicero says in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the
human form." Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and
her conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who,
after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs. Western never once
offered to leave the room, retired, not much more satisfied with the
aunt than with the niece; for Sophia had brought her aunt into so
excellent a temper, that she consented to almost everything her
niece said; and agreed that a little distant behaviour might not be
improper to so forward a lover.
  Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which surely
none will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, at
least, put off the evil day. And now we have seen our heroine in a
better situation than she hath been for a long time before, we will
look a little after Mr. Jones, whom we left in the most deplorable
situation that can be well imagined.
                                Chapter 5

  Mrs. Miller and Mr. Nightingale visit Jones in the prison

  When Mr. Allworthy and his nephew went to meet Mr. Western, Mrs.
Miller set forwards to her son-in-law's lodgings, in order to acquaint
him with the accident which had befallen his friend Jones; but he
had known it long before from Partridge (for Jones, when he left
Mrs. Miller, had been furnished with a room in the same house with Mr.
Nightingale). The good woman found her daughter under great affliction
on account of Mr. Jones, whom having comforted as well as she could,
she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where
Mr. Nightingale was arrived before her.
  The firmness and constancy of a true friend is a circumstance so
extremely delightful to persons in any kind of distress, that the
distress itself, if it be only temporary, and admits of relief, is
more than compensated by bringing this comfort with it. Nor are
instances of this kind so rare as some superficial and inaccurate
observers have reported. To say the truth, want of compassion is not
to be numbered among our general faults. The black ingredient which
fouls our disposition is envy. Hence our eye is seldom, I am afraid,
turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or
happier than ourselves, without some degree of malignity; while we
commonly look downwards on the mean and miserable with sufficient
benevolence and pity. In fact, I have remarked, that most of the
defects which have discovered themselves in the friendships within
my observation, have arisen from envy only: a hellish vice; and yet
one from which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough
of a subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.
  Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should
sink under the weight of his adversity, and that she might thus lose
any future opportunity of tormenting him, or whether she really abated
somewhat of her severity towards him, she seemed a little to relax her
persecution, by sending him the company of two such faithful
friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful servant. For
Partridge, though he had many imperfections, wanted not fidelity;
and though fear would not suffer him to be hanged for his master,
yet the world, I believe, could not have bribed him to desert his
cause.
  While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence of his
friends, Partridge brought an account that Mr. Fitzpatrick was still
alive, though the surgeon declared that he had very little hopes. Upon
which, Jones fetching a deep sigh, Nightingale said to him, "My dear
Tom, why should you afflict yourself so upon an accident, which,
whatever be the consequence, can be attended with no danger to you,
and in which your conscience cannot accuse you of having been the
least to blame? If the fellow should die, what have you done more than
taken away the life of a ruffian in your own defence? So will the
coroner's inquest certainly find it; and then you will be easily
admitted to bail; and, though you must undergo the form of a trial,
yet it is a trial which many men would stand for you for a
shilling." "Come, come, Mr. Jones," says Mrs. Miller, "chear
yourself up. I knew you could not be the aggressor, and so I told
Mr. Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge too, before I have done
with him."
  Jones gravely answered, "That whatever might be his fate, he
should always lament the having shed the blood of one of his
fellow-creatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could have
befallen him. But I have another misfortune of the tenderest kind-- O!
Mrs. Miller, I have lost what I held most dear upon earth." "That must
be a mistress," said Mrs. Miller; "but come, come; I know more than
you imagine" (for indeed Partridge had blabbed all); "and I have heard
more than you know. Matters go better, I promise you, than you
think; and I would not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which
he hath of the lady."
  "Indeed, my dear friend, indeed," answered Jones, "you are an entire
stranger to the cause of my grief. If you was acquainted with the
story, you would allow my case admitted of no comfort. I apprehend
no danger from Blifil. I have undone myself." "Don't despair," replied
Mrs. Miller; "you know not what a woman can do; and if anything be
in my power, I promise you I will do it to serve you. It is my duty.
My son, my dear Mr. Nightingale, who is so kind to tell me he hath
obligations to you on the same account, knows it is my duty. Shall I
go to the lady myself? I will say anything to her you would have me
say."
  "Thou best of women," cries Jones, taking her by the hand, "talk not
of obligations to me;-- but as you have been so kind to mention it,
there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see you
are acquainted with the lady (how you came by your information I
know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. If you could contrive
to deliver this (giving her a paper from his pocket), I shall for ever
acknowledge your goodness."
  "Give it me," said Mrs. Miller. "If I see it not in her own
possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last! Comfort
yourself, my good young man! be wise enough to take warning from
past follies, and I warrant all shall be well, and I shall yet see you
happy with the most charming young lady in the world; for I so hear
from every one she is."
  "Believe me, madam," said he, "I do not speak the common cant of one
in my unhappy situation. Before this dreadful accident happened, I had
resolved to quit a life of which I was become sensible of the
wickedness as well as folly. I do assure you, notwithstanding the
disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned in your house, for
which I heartily ask your pardon, I am not an abandoned profligate.
Though I have been hurried into vices, I do not approve a vicious
character, nor will I ever, from this moment, deserve it."
  Mrs. Miller expressed great satisfaction in these declarations, in
the sincerity of which she averred she had an entire faith; and now
the remainder of the conversation past in the joint attempts of that
good woman and Mr. Nightingale to cheer the dejected spirits of Mr.
Jones, in which they so far succeeded as to leave him much better
comforted and satisfied than they found him; to which happy alteration
nothing so much contributed as the kind undertaking of Mrs. Miller
to deliver his letter to Sophia, which he despaired of finding any
means to accomplish; for when Black George produced the last from
Sophia, he informed Partridge that she had strictly charged him, on
pain of having it communicated to her father, not to bring her any
answer. He was, moreover, not a little pleased to find he had so
warm an advocate to Mr. Allworthy himself in this good woman, who was,
in reality, one of the worthiest creatures in the world.
  After about an hour's visit from the lady (for Nightingale had
been with him much longer), they both took their leave, promising to
return to him soon; during which Mrs. Miller said she hoped to bring
him some good news from his mistress, and Mr. Nightingale promised
to enquire into the state of Mr. Fitzpatrick's wound, and likewise
to find out some of the persons who were present at the rencounter.
  The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we
likewise shall now attend her.
                                Chapter 6

  In which Mrs. Miller pays a visit to Sophia

  Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as she
lived now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she was at full
liberty to receive what visitants she pleased.
  Sophia was dressing, when she was acquainted that there was a
gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor
ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs. Miller was immediately
admitted.
  Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are strangers
to each other, being past, Sophia said, "I have not the pleasure to
know you, madam." "No, madam," answered Mrs. Miller, "and I must beg
pardon for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced me
to give you this trouble, I hope--" "Pray, what is your business,
madam?" said Sophia, with a little emotion. "Madam, we are not alone,"
replied Mrs. Miller, in a low voice. "Go out, Betty," said Sophia.
  When Betty was departed, Mrs. Miller said, "I was desired, madam, by
a very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this letter." Sophia
changed colour when she saw the direction, well knowing the hand,
and after some hesitation, said- "I could not conceive, madam, from
your appearance, that your business had been of such a nature.-
Whomever you brought this letter from, I shall not open it. I should
be sorry to entertain an unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an
utter stranger to me."
  "If you will have patience, madam, " answered Mrs. Miller, "I will
acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter." "I have no
curiosity, madam, to know anything," cries Sophia; "but I must
insist on your delivering that letter back to the person who gave it
you."
  Mrs. Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most passionate
terms implored her compassion; to which Sophia answered: "Sure, madam,
it is surprizing you should be so very strongly interested in the
behalf of this person. I would not think, madam"- "No, madam." says
Mrs. Miller, "you shall not think anything but the truth. I will
tell you all, and you will not wonder that I am interested. He is
the best-natured creature that ever was born."-- She then began and
related the story of Mr. Anderson.-- After this she cried, "This
madam, this is his goodness; but I have much more tender obligations
to him. He hath preserved my child."-- Here, after shedding some
tears, she related everything concerning that fact, suppressing only
those circumstances which would have most reflected on her daughter,
and concluded with saying, "Now, madam, you shall judge whether I
can ever do enough for so kind, so good, so generous a young man;
and sure he is the best and worthiest of all human beings."
  The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto been
chiefly to her disadvantage, and had inclined her complexion to too
great paleness; but she now waxed redder, if possible, than vermilion,
and cried, "I know not what to say; certainly what arises from
gratitude cannot be blamed-- But what service can my reading this
letter do your friend, since I am resolved never--" Mrs. Miller fell
again to her entreaties, and begged to be forgiven, but she could not,
she said, carry it back. "Well, madam," says Sophia, "I cannot help
it, if you will force it upon me.- Certainly you may leave it, whether
I will or no." What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I
will not presume to determine; but Mrs. Miller actually understood
this as a hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table,
took her leave, having first begged permission to wait again on
Sophia; which request had neither assent nor denial.
  The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs. Miller was
out of sight; for then Sophia opened and read it.
  This letter did very little service to his cause; for it consisted
of little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and bitter
lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn protestations
of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he said, he hoped
to convince her, if he had ever more the honour of being admitted to
her presence; and that he could account for the letter to Lady
Bellaston in such a manner, that, though it would not entitle him to
her forgiveness, he hoped at least to obtain it from her mercy. And
concluded with vowing that nothing was ever less in his thoughts
than to marry Lady Bellaston.
  Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great attention, his
meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor could her invention
suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She certainly remained
very angry with him, though indeed Lady Bellaston took up so much of
her resentment, that her gentle mind had but little left to bestow
on any other person.
  That lady was most unluckily to dine this very day with her aunt
Western, and in the afternoon they were all three, by appointment,
to go together to the opera, and thence to Lady Thomas Hatchet's drum.
Sophia would have gladly been excused from all, but would not
disoblige her aunt; and as to the arts of counterfeiting illness,
she was so entirely a stranger to them, that it never once entered
into her head. When she was drest, therefore, down she went,
resolved to encounter all the horrors of the day, and a most
disagreeable one it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every
opportunity very civilly and slily to insult her; to all which her
dejection of spirits disabled her from making any return; and, indeed,
to confess the truth, she was at the very best but an indifferent
mistress of repartee.
  Another misfortune which befel poor Sophia, was the company of
Lord Fellamar, whom she met at the opera, and who attended her to
the drum. And though both places were too publick to admit of any
particularities, and she was farther relieved by the musick at the one
place, and by the cards at the other, she could not, however, enjoy
herself in his company; for there is something of delicacy in women,
which will not suffer them to be even easy in the presence of a man
whom they know to have pretensions to them, which they are disinclined
to favour.
  Having in this chapter twice mentioned a drum, a word which our
posterity, it is hoped, will not understand in the sense it is here
applied, we shall, notwithstanding our present haste, stop a moment to
describe the entertainment here meant, and the rather as we can in a
moment describe it.
  A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both
sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all;
while the mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at
an inn, and like the landlady of an inn prides herself in the number
of her guests, though she doth not always, like her, get anything by
it.
  No wonder then, as so much spirits must be required to support any
vivacity in these scenes of dulness, that we hear persons of fashion
eternally complaining of the want of them; a complaint confined
entirely to upper life. How insupportable must we imagine this round
of impertinence to have been to Sophia at this time; how difficult
must she have found it to force the appearance of gaiety into her
looks, when her mind dictated nothing but the tenderest sorrow, and
when every thought was charged with tormenting ideas!
  Night, however, at last restored her to her pillow, where we will
leave her to soothe her melancholy at least, though incapable, we
fear, of rest, and shall pursue our history, which, something whispers
us, is now arrived at the eve of some great event.
                                Chapter 7

  A pathetic scene between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller

  Mrs. Miller had a long discourse with Mr. Allworthy, at his return
from dinner, in which she acquainted him with Jones's having
unfortunately lost all which he was pleased to bestow on him at
their separation; and with the distresses to which that loss had
subjected him; of all which she had received a full account from the
faithful retailer Partridge. She then explained the obligations she
had to Jones; not that she was entirely explicit with regard to her
daughter; for though she had the utmost confidence in Mr. Allworthy,
and though there could be no hopes of keeping an affair secret which
was unhappily known to more than half a dozen, yet she could not
prevail with herself to mention those circumstances which reflected
most on the chastity of poor Nancy, but smothered that part of her
evidence as cautiously as if she had been before a judge, and the girl
was now on her trial for the murder of a bastard.
  Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely vicious as
not to have the least mixture of good in them. "However," says he,
"I cannot deny but that you have some obligations to the fellow, bad
as he is, and I shall therefore excuse what hath past already, but
must insist you never mention his name to me more; for, I promise you,
it was upon the fullest and plainest evidence that I resolved to
take the measures I have taken." "Well, sir," says she, "I make not
the least doubt but time will shew all matters in their true and
natural colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young man
deserves better of you than some other folks that shall be nameless."
  "Madam," cries Allworthy, a little ruffied, "I will not hear any
reflections on my nephew; and if ever you say a word more of that
kind, I will depart from your house that instant. He is the
worthiest and best of men; and I once more repeat it to you, he hath
carried his friendship to this man to a blameable length, by too
long concealing facts of the blackest die. The ingratitude of the
wretch to this good young man is what I most resent; for, madam, I
have the greatest reason to imagine he had laid a plot to supplant
my nephew in my favour, and to have disinherited him."
  "I am sure, sir," answered Mrs. Miller, a little frightened (for,
though Mr. Allworthy had the utmost sweetness and benevolence in his
smiles, he had great terror in his frowns), "I shall never speak
against any gentleman you are pleased to think well of. I am sure,
sir, such behaviour would very little become me, especially when the
gentleman is your nearest relation; but, sir, you must not be angry
with me, you must not indeed, for my good wishes to this poor
wretch. Sure I may call him so now, though once you would have been
angry with me if I had spoke of him with the least disrespect. How
often have I heard you call him your son? How often have you
prattled to me of him with all the fondness of a parent? Nay, sir, I
cannot forget the many tender expressions, the many good things you
have told me of his beauty, and his parts, and his virtues; of his
good-nature and generosity. I am sure, sir, I cannot forget them,
for I find them all true. I have experienced them in my own cause.
They have preserved my family. You must pardon my tears, sir, indeed
you must. When I consider the cruel reverse of fortune which this poor
youth, to whom I am so much obliged, hath suffered; when I consider
the loss of your favour, which I know he valued more than his life,
I must, I must lament him. If you had a dagger in your hand, ready
to plunge into my heart, I must lament the misery of one whom you have
loved, and I shall ever love."
  Allworthy was pretty much moved with this speech, but it seemed
not to be with anger; for, after a short silence, taking Mrs. Miller
by the hand, he said very affectionately to her, "Come, madam, let
us consider a little about your daughter. I cannot blame you for
rejoicing in a match which promises to be advantageous to her, but you
know this advantage, in a great measure, depends on the father's
reconciliation. I know Mr. Nightingale very well, and have formerly
had concerns with him; I will make him a visit, and endeavour to serve
you in this matter. I believe he is a worldly man; but as this is an
only son, and the thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in time
be brought to reason. I promise you I will do all I can for you."
  Many were the acknowledgments which the poor woman made to Allworthy
for this kind and generous offer, nor could she refrain from taking
this occasion again to express her gratitude towards Jones, "to whom,"
said she, "I owe the opportunity of giving you, sir, this present
trouble." Allworthy gently stopped her; but he was too good a man to
be really offended with the effects of so noble a principle as now
actuated Mrs. Miller; and indeed, had not this new affair inflamed his
former anger against Jones, it is possible he might have been a little
softened towards him, by the report of an action which malice itself
could not have derived from an evil motive.
  Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller had been above an hour together,
when their conversation was put an end to by the arrival of Blifil and
another person,which other person no less than Mr. Dowling, the
attorney, who was now become a great favourite with Mr. Blifil, and
whom Mr. Allworthy, at the desire of his nephew, had made his steward;
and had likewise recommended him to Mr. Western, from whom the
attorney received a promise of being promoted to the same office
upon the first vacancy; and, in the meantime, was employed in
transacting some affairs which the squire then had in London in
relation to a mortgage.
  This was the principal affair which then brought Mr. Dowling to
town; therefore he took the same opportunity to charge himself with
some money for Mr. Allworthy, and to make a report to him of some
other business; in all which, as it was of much too dull a nature to
find any place in this history, we will leave the uncle, nephew, and
their lawyer concerned, and resort to other matters.
                                Chapter 8

  Containing various matters

  Before we return to Mr. Jones, we will take one more view of Sophia.
  Though that young lady had brought her aunt into great good humour
by those soothing methods which we have before related, she had not
brought her in the least to abate of her zeal for the match with
Lord Fellamar. This zeal was now inflamed by Lady Bellaston, who had
told her the preceding evening, that she was well satisfied from the
conduct of Sophia, and from her carriage to his lordship, that all
delays would be dangerous, and that the only way to succeed was to
press the match forward with such rapidity that the young lady
should have no time to reflect, and be obliged to consent while she
scarce knew what she did; in which manner, she said, one-half of the
marriages among people of condition were brought about. A fact very
probably true, and to which, I suppose, is owing the mutual tenderness
which afterwards exists among so many happy couples.
  A hint of the same kind was given by the same lady to Lord Fellamar;
and both these so readily embraced the advice, that the very next
day was, at his lordship's request, appointed by Mrs. Western for a
private interview between the young parties. This was communicated
to Sophia by her aunt, and insisted upon in such high terms, that,
after having urged everything she possibly could invent against it
without the least effect, she at last agreed to give the highest
instance of complacence which any young lady can give, and consented
to see his lordship.
  As conversations of this kind afford no great entertainment, we
shall be excused from reciting the whole that past at this
interview; in which, after his lordship had made many declarations
of the most pure and ardent passion to the silent blushing Sophia, she
at last collected all the spirits she could raise, and with a
trembling low voice said, "My lord, you must be yourself conscious
whether your former behaviour to me hath been consistent with the
professions you now make." "Is there," answered he, "no way by which I
can atone for madness? what I did, I am afraid, must have too
plainly convinced you, that the violence of love had deprived me of my
senses." "Indeed, my lord," said she, "it is in your power to give
me a proof of an affection which I much rather wish to encourage,
and to which I should think myself more beholden." "Name it, madam,"
said my lord, very warmly. "My lord," says she, looking down upon
her fan, "I know you must be sensible how uneasy this pretended
passion of yours hath made me." "Can you be so cruel to call it
pretended?" says he. "Yes, my lord," answered Sophia, "all professions
of love to those whom we persecute are most insulting pretences.
This pursuit of yours is to me a most cruel persecution: nay, it is
taking a most ungenerous advantage of my unhappy situation." "Most
lovely, most adorable charmer, do not accuse me," cries he, "of taking
an ungenerous advantage, while I have no thoughts but what are
directed to your honour and interest, and while I have no view, no
hope, no ambition, but to throw myself, honour, fortune, everything at
your feet." "My lord," says she, "it is that fortune and those honours
which gave you the advantage of which I complain. These are the charms
which have seduced my relations, but to me they are things
indifferent. If your lordship will merit my gratitude, there is but
one way." "Pardon me, divine creature," said he, "there can be none.
All I can do for you is so much your due, and will give me so much
pleasure, that there is no room for your gratitude." "Indeed, my
lord," answered she, "you may obtain my gratitude, my good opinion,
every kind thought and wish which it is in my power to bestow; nay,
you may obtain them with ease, for sure to a generous mind it must
be easy to grant my request. Let me beseech you, then, to cease a
pursuit in which you can never have any success. For your own sake
as well as mine, I entreat this favour; for sure you are too noble
to have any pleasure in tormenting an unhappy creature. What can
your lordship propose but uneasiness to yourself by a perseverance,
which, upon my honour, upon my soul, cannot, shall not prevail with
me, whatever distresses you may drive me to." Here my lord fetched a
deep sigh, and then said- "Is it then, madam, that I am so unhappy to
be the object of your dislike and scorn; or will you pardon me if I
suspect there is some other?" Here he hesitated, and Sophia answered
with some spirit, "My lord, I shall not be accountable to you for
the reasons of my conduct. I am obliged to your lordship for the
generous offer you have made; I own it is beyond either my deserts
or expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you will not insist on my
reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it." Lord Fellamar returned
much to this, which we do not perfectly understand, and perhaps it
could not all be strictly reconciled either to sense or grammar; but
he concluded his ranting speech with saying, "That if she had
pre-engaged herself to any gentleman, however unhappy it would make
him, he should think himself bound in honour to desist." Perhaps my
lord laid too much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we cannot
else well account for the indignation with which he inspired Sophia,
who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent some affront he had given
her.
  While she speaking, with her voice more raised than usual, Mrs.
Western came into the room, the fire glaring in her cheeks, and the
flames bursting from her eyes. "I am ashamed," says she, "my lord,
of the reception which you have met with. I assure your lordship, we
are all sensible of the honour done us; and I must tell you, Miss
Western, the family expect a different behaviour from you." Here my
lord interfered on behalf of the young lady, but to no purpose; the
aunt proceeded till Sophia pulled her handkerchief, threw herself into
a chair, and burst into a violent fit of tears.
  The remainder of the conversation between Mrs. Western and his
lordship, till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter lamentations
on his side, and on hers of the strongest assurances that her niece
should and would consent to all he wished. "Indeed, my lord," says
she, "the girl hath had a foolish education, neither adapted to her
fortune nor her family. Her father, I am sorry to say it, is to
blame for everything. The girl hath silly country notions of
bashfulness. Nothing else, my lord, upon my honour; I am convinced she
hath a good understanding at the bottom, and will be brought to
reason."
  This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for she had some
time before left the room, with more appearance of passion than she
had ever shown on any occasion; and now his lordship, after many
expressions of thanks to Mrs. Western, many ardent professions of
passion which nothing could conquer, and many assurances of
perseverance, which Mrs. Western highly encouraged, took his leave for
this time.
  Before we relate what now passed between Mrs. Western and Sophia, it
may be proper to mention an unfortunate accident which had happened,
and which had occasioned the return of Mrs. Western with so much fury,
as we have seen.
  The reader then must know, that the maid who at present attended
on Sophia was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived
for some time in the capacity of a comb-brush: she was a very sensible
girl, and had received the strictest instructions to watch her young
lady very carefully. These instructions, we are sorry to say, were
communicated to her by Mrs. Honour, into whose favour Lady Bellaston
had now so ingratiated herself, that the violent affection which the
good waiting-woman had formerly borne to Sophia was entirely
obliterated by that great attachment which she had to her new
mistress.
  Now, when Mrs. Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the name
of the girl), returning to her young lady, found her very
attentively engaged in reading a long letter, and the visible emotions
which she betrayed on that occasion might have well accounted for some
suspicions which the girl entertained; but in, deed they had yet a
stronger foundation, for she had overheard the whole scene which
passed between Sophia and Mrs. Miller.
  Mrs. Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, who,
after receiving many commendations and some rewards for her
fidelity, was ordered, that, if the woman who brought the letter
came again, she should introduce her to Mrs. Western herself.
  Unluckily, Mrs. Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was
engaged with his lordship. Betty, according to order, sent her
directly to the aunt; who, being mistress of so many circumstances
relating to what had past the day before, easily imposed upon the poor
 woman to believe that Sophia had communicated the whole affair; and
so pumped everything out of her which she knew relating to the
letter and relating to Jones.
  This poor creature might, indeed, be called simplicity itself. She
was one of that order of mortals who are apt to believe everything
which is said to them; to whom nature hath neither indulged the
offensive nor defensive weapons of deceit, and who are consequently
liable to be imposed upon by any one who will only be at the expense
of a little falsehood for that purpose. Mrs. Western, having drained
Mrs. Miller of all she knew, which, indeed, was but little, but
which was sufficient to make the aunt suspect a great deal,
dismissed her with assurances that Sophia would not see her, that
she would send no answer to the letter, nor ever receive another;
nor did she suffer her to depart without a handsome lecture on the
merits of an office to which she could afford no better name than that
of procuress.- This discovery had greatly discomposed her temper,
when, coming into the apartment next to that in which the lovers were,
she overheard Sophia very warmly protesting against his lordship's
addresses. At which the rage already kindled burst forth, and she
rushed in upon her niece in a most furious manner, as we have
already described, together with what past at that time till his
lordship's departure.
  No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone, than Mrs. Western returned to
Sophia, whom she upbraided in the most bitter terms for the ill use
she had made of the confidence reposed in her; and for her treachery
in conversing with a man with whom she had offered but the day
before to bind herself in the most solemn oath never more to have
any conversation. Sophia protested she had maintained no such
conversation. "How, how! Miss Western," said the aunt; "will you
deny your receiving a letter from him yesterday?" "A letter, madam!"
answered Sophia, somewhat surprized. "It is not very well bred, miss,"
replies the aunt, "to repeat my words. I say a letter, and I insist
upon your showing it me immediately." "I scorn a lie, madam," said
Sophia; "I did receive a letter, but it was without my desire, and,
indeed, I may say, against my consent." "Indeed, indeed, miss,"
cries the aunt, "you ought to be ashamed of owning you had received it
at all; but where is the letter? for I will see it."
  To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time before she
returned an answer; and at last only excused herself by declaring
she had not the letter in her pocket, which was, indeed, true; upon
which her aunt, losing all manner of patience, asked her niece this
short question, whether she would resolve to marry Lord Fellamar, or
no? to which she received the strongest negative. Mrs. Western then
replied with an oath, or something very like one, that she would early
the next morning deliver her back into her father's hand.
  Sophia then began to reason with her aunt in the following
manner:- "Why, madam, must I of necessity be forced to marry at all?
Consider how cruel you would have thought it in your own case, and how
much kinder your parents were in leaving you to your liberty. What
have I done to forfeit this liberty? I will never marry contrary to my
father's consent, nor without asking yours-- And when I ask the
consent of either improperly, it will be then time enough to force
some other marriage upon me. "Can I bear to hear this," cries Mrs.
Western, "from a girl who hath now a letter from a murderer in her
pocket?" "I have no such letter, I promise you," answered Sophia;
"and, if he be a murderer, he will soon be in no condition to give you
any further disturbance." "How, Miss Western!" said the aunt, "have
you the assurance to speak of him in this manner; to own your
affection for such a villain to my face?" "Sure, madam," said
Sophia, "you put a very strange construction on my words." "Indeed,
Miss Western," cries the lady, "I shall not bear this usage; you
have learnt of your father this manner of treating me; he hath
taught you to give me the lie. He hath totally ruined you by this
false system of education; and, please heaven, he shall have the
comfort of its fruits; for once more I declare to you, that
to-morrow morning I will carry you back. I will withdraw all my forces
from the field, and remain henceforth, like the wise king of
Prussia, in a state of perfect neutrality. You are both too wise to be
regulated by my measures; so prepare yourself, for to-morrow morning
you shall evacuate this house."
  Sophia remonstrated all she could; but her aunt was deaf to all
she said. In this resolution therefore we must at present leave her,
as there seems to be no hopes of bringing her to change it.
                                Chapter 9

  What happened to Mr. Jones in the prison

  Mr. Jones passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by himself,
unless when relieved by the company of Partridge, before Mr.
Nightingale returned; not that this worthy young man had deserted or
forgot his friend; for, indeed, he had been much the greatest part
of the time employed in his service.
  He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had seen the
beginning of the unfortunate rencounter were a crew belonging to a
man-of-war which then lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went
in search of this crew, where he was informed that the men he sought
after were all gone ashore. He then traced them from place to place,
till at last he found two of them drinking together, with third
person, at a hedge-tavern near Aldersgate.
  Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge
was in the room when he came in). As soon as they were alone,
Nightingale, taking Jones by the hand, cried, "Come, my brave
friend, be not too much dejected at what I am going to tell you-- I am
sorry I am the messenger of bad news; but I think it my duty to tell
you." "I guess already what that bad news is," cries Jones. "The
poor gentleman then is dead."-- "I hope not," answered Nightingale.
"He was alive this morning; though I will not flatter you; I fear,
from the accounts I could get, that his wound is mortal. But if the
affair be exactly as you told it, your own remorse would be all you
would have reason to apprehend, let what would happen; but forgive me,
my dear Tom, if I entreat you to make the worst of your story to
your friends. If you disguise anything to us, you will only be an
enemy to yourself."
  "What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you," said Jones,
"to stab me with so cruel a suspicion?" "Have patience," cries
Nightingale," and I will tell you all. After the most diligent enquiry
I could make, I at last met with two of the fellows who were present
at this unhappy accident, and I am sorry to say, they do not relate
the story so much in your favour as you yourself have told it."
"Why, what do they say?" cries Jones. "Indeed what I am sorry to
repeat, as I am afraid of the consequence of it to you. They say
that they were at too great a distance to overhear any words that
passed between you: but they both agree that the first blow was
given by you." "Then, upon my soul," answered Jones, "they injure
me. He not only struck me first, but struck me without the least
provocation. What should induce those villains to accuse me
falsely?" "Nay, that I cannot guess," said Nightingale, "and if you
yourself, and I, who am so heartily your friend, cannot conceive a
reason why they should belie you, what reason will an indifferent
court of justice be able to assign why they should not believe them? I
repeated the question to them several times, and so did another
gentleman who was present, who, I believe, is a seafaring man, and who
really acted a very friendly part by you; for he begged them often to
consider that there was the life of a man in the case; and asked
them over and over, if they were certain; to which they both answered,
that they were, and would abide by their evidence upon oath. For
heaven's sake, my dear friend, recollect yourself; for, if this should
appear to be the fact, it will be your business to think in time of
making the best of your interest. I would not shock you; but you know,
I believe, the severity of the law, whatever verbal provocations may
have been given you." "Alas! my friend," cries Jones, "what interest
hath such a wretch as I? Besides, do you think I would even wish to
live with the reputation of a murderer? If I had any friends (as,
alas! I have none), could I have the confidence to solicit them to
speak in the behalf of a man condemned for the blackest crime in human
nature? Believe me, I have no such hope; but I have some reliance on a
throne still greatly superior; which will, I am certain, afford me all
the protection I merit."
  He then concluded with many solemn and vehement protestations of the
truth of what he had at first asserted.
  The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and began to
incline to credit his friend, when Mrs. Miller appeared, and made a
sorrowful report of the success of her embassy; which when Jones had
heard, he cried out most heroically, "Well, my friend, I am now
indifferent as to what shall happen, at least with regard to my
life; and if it be the will of Heaven that I shall make an atonement
with that for the blood I have spilt, I hope the Divine Goodness
will one day suffer my honour to be cleared, and that the words of a
dying man, at least, will be believed, so far as to justify his
character."
  A very mournful scene now past between the prisoner and his friends,
at which, as few readers would have been pleased to be present, so
few, I believe, will desire to hear it particularly related. We
will, therefore, pass on to the entrance of the turnkey, who
acquainted Jones that there was a lady without who desired to speak
with him when he was at leisure.
  Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, "He knew no
lady in the world whom he could possibly expect to see there."
However, as he saw no reason to decline seeing any person, Mrs. Miller
and Mr. Nightingale presently took their leave, and he gave orders
to have the lady admitted.
  If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, how
greatly was he astonished when he discovered this lady to be no
other than Mrs. Waters! In this astonishment then we shall leave him
awhile, in order to cure the surprize of the reader, who will
likewise, probably, not a little wonder at the arrival of this lady.
  Who this Mrs. Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; what she
was, he must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore be pleased to
remember that this lady departed from Upton in the same coach with Mr.
Fitzpatrick and the other Irish gentleman, and in their company
travelled to Bath.
  Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr. Fitzpatrick at
that time vacant, namely that of a wife: for the lady who had lately
filled that office had resigned, or at least deserted her duty. Mr.
Fitzpatrick therefore, having thoroughly examined Mrs. Waters on the
road, found her extremely fit for the place, which, on their arrival
at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and she without any
scruple accepted. As husband and wife this gentleman and lady
continued together all the time they stayed at Bath, and as husband
and wife they arrived together in town.
  Whether Mr. Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part with one
good thing till he had secured another, which he had at present only a
prospect or whether Mrs. Waters had so well discharged her office,
that he intended still to retain her as principal, and to make his
wife (as is often the case) only her deputy, I will not say; but
certain it is, he never mentioned his wife to her, never
communicated to her the letter given him by Mrs. Western, nor ever
once hinted his purpose of repossessing his wife; much less did he
ever mention the name of Jones. For, though he intended to fight
with him wherever he met him, he did not imitate those prudent persons
who think a wife, a mother, a sister, or sometimes a whole family, the
safest seconds on these occasions. The first account, therefore, which
she had of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he was
brought home from the tavern where his wound had been drest.
  As Mr. Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of telling a
story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more confused than
usual, it was some time before she discovered that the gentleman who
had given him this wound was the very same person from whom her
heart had received a wound, which, though not of a mortal kind, was
yet so deep that it had left a considerable scar behind it. But no
sooner was she acquainted that Mr. Jones himself was the man who had
been committed to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than she
took the first opportunity of committing Mr. Fitzpatrick to the care
of his nurse, and hastened away to visit the conqueror.
  She now entered the room with an air of gaiety, which received an
immediate check from the melancholy aspect of poor Jones, who
started and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon which she said,
"Nay, I do not wonder at your surprize; I believe you did not expect
to see me; for few gentlemen are troubled here with visits from any
lady, unless a wife. You see the power you have over me, Mr. Jones.
Indeed, I little thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next
meeting would have been in such a place." "Indeed, madam," says Jones,
"I must look upon this visit as kind; few will follow the miserable,
especially to such dismal habitations." "I protest, Mr. Jones," says
she, "I can hardly persuade myself you are the same agreeable fellow I
saw at Upton. Why, your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the
universe. What can be the matter with you?" "I thought, madam," said
Jones, "as you knew of my being here, you knew the unhappy reason."
"Pugh!" says she, "you have pinked a man in a duel, that's all." Jones
exprest some indignation at this levity, and spoke with the utmost
contrition for what had happened. To which she answered, "Well,
then, sir, if you take it so much to heart, I will relieve you; the
gentleman is not dead, and, I am pretty confident, is in no danger
of dying. The surgeon, indeed who first dressed him was a young
fellow, and seemed desirous of representing his case to be as bad as
possible, that he might have the more honour from curing him: but
the king's surgeon hath seen him since, and says, unless from a fever,
of which there are at present no symptoms, he apprehends not the least
danger of life." Jones shewed great satisfaction at this report;
upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, "By the most
extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house; and
have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you justice, and
says, whatever be the consequence, that he was entirely the aggressor,
and that you was not in the least to blame."
  Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account which Mrs.
Waters brought him. He then informed her of many things which she well
knew before, as who Mr. Fitzpatrick was, the occasion of his
resentment, &c. He likewise told her several facts of which she was
ignorant, as the adventure of the muff, and other particulars,
concealing only the name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and
vices of which he had been guilty; every one of which, he said, had
been attended with such ill consequences, that he should be
unpardonable if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious
courses for the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his
resolution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should happen to him.
  Mrs. Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the effects
of low spirits and confinement. She repeated some witticisms about the
devil when he was sick, and told him, "She doubted not but shortly
to see him at liberty, and as lively a fellow as ever; and then," says
she, "I don't question but your conscience will be safely delivered of
all these qualms that it is now so sick in breeding."
  Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which it would do
her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, to remember;
nor are we quite certain but that the answers made by Jones would be
treated with ridicule by others. We shall therefore suppress the
rest of this conversation, and only observe that it ended at last with
perfect innocence, and much more to the satisfaction of Jones than
of the lady; for the former was greatly transported with the news
she had brought him; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with
the penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first
interview, conceived. a very different opinion of from what she now
entertained of him.
  Thus the melancholy occasioned by the report of Mr. Nightingale
was pretty well effaced; but the dejection into which Mrs. Miller
had thrown him still continued. The account she gave so well tallied
with the words of Sophia herself in her letter, that he made not the
least doubt but that she had disclosed his letter to her aunt, and had
taken a fixed resolution to abandon him. The torments this thought
gave him were to be equalled only by a piece of news which fortune had
yet in store for him, and which we shall communicate in the second
chapter of the ensuing book.
                                   BOOK XVIII
                           CONTAINING ABOUT SIX DAYS
                                Chapter 1

  A farewell to the reader

  We are now, reader, arrived at the last stage of our long journey.
As we have, therefore, travelled together through so many pages let us
behave to one another like fellow-travellers in a stage coach, who
have passed several days in the company of each other; and who,
notwithstanding any bickerings or little animosities which may have
occurred on the road, generally make all up at last, and mount, for
the last time, into their vehicle with chearfulness and good humour;
since after this one stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
  As I have here taken up this simile, give me leave to carry it a
little farther. I intend, then, in this last book, to imitate the good
company I have mentioned in their last journey. Now, it is well
known that all jokes and raillery are at this time laid aside;
whatever characters any of the passengers have for the jest-sake
personated on the road are now thrown off, and the conversation is
usually plain and serious.
  In the same manner, if I have now and then, in the course of this
work, indulged any pleasantry for thy entertainment, I shall here
lay it down. The variety of matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged
to cram into this book, will afford no room for any of those ludicrous
observations which I have elsewhere made, and which may sometimes
perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a nap when it was beginning
to steal upon thee. In this last book thou wilt find nothing (or at
most very little) of that nature. All will be plain narrative only;
and, indeed. when thou hast perused the many great events which this
book will produce, thou wilt think the number of pages contained in it
scarce sufficient to tell the story.
  And now, my friend, I take this opportunity (as I shall have no
other) of heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining
companion to thee, I promise thee it is what I have desired. If in
anything I have offended, it was really without any intention. Some
things, perhaps, here said, may have hit thee or thy friends; but I do
most solemnly declare they were not pointed at thee or them. I
question not but thou hast been told, among other stories of me,
that thou wast to travel with a very scurrilous fellow; but whoever
told thee so did me an injury. No man detests and despises
scurrility more than myself; nor hath any man more reason; for none
hath ever been treated with more; and what is a very severe fate, I
have had some of the abusive writings of those very men fathered
upon me, who, in other of their works, have abused me themselves
with the utmost virulence.
  All these works, however, I am well convinced, will be dead long
before this page shall offer itself to thy perusal; for however
short the period may be of my own performances, they will most
probably outlive their own infirm author, and the weakly productions
of his abusive contemporaries.
                                Chapter 2

  Containing a very tragical incident

  While Jones was employed in those unpleasant meditations, with which
we left him tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the room
with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed in his head, his hair
standing on end, and every limb trembling. In short, he looked as he
would have done had he seen a spectre, or had he, indeed, been a
spectre himself.
  Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being
somewhat shocked at this sudden appearance. He did, indeed, himself
change colour, and his voice a little faultered while he asked him,
What was the matter?
  "I hope, sir," said Partridge, "you will not be angry with me.
Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the outward
room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles off, rather than
have heard what I have heard." "Why, what is the matter?" said
Jones. "The matter, sir? O good Heaven!" answered Partridge, "was that
woman who is just gone out the woman who was with you at Upton?"
"She was, Partridge," cried Jones. "And did you really, sir, go to bed
with that woman?" said he, trembling.- "I am afraid what past between
us is no secret," said Jones.- "Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven's
sake, sir, answer me," cries Partridge. "You know I did," cries Jones.
"Why then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and forgive you," cries
Partridge; "but as sure as I stand here alive, you have been a-bed
with your own mother."
  Upon these words Jones became in a moment a greater picture of
horror than Partridge himself. He was, indeed, for some time struck
dumb with amazement, and both stood staring wildly at each other. At
last his words found way, and in an interrupted voice he said, "How!
how! what's this you tell me?" "Nay, sir," cries Partridge, "I have
not breath enough left to tell you now, but what I have said is most
certainly true.- That woman who now went out is your own mother. How
unlucky was it for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at
that time, to have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have
contrived to bring about this wickedness."
  "Sure," cried Jones, "Fortune will never have done with me till
she hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am
myself the cause of all my misery. All the dreadful mischiefs which
have befallen me are the consequences only of my own folly and vice.
What thou hast told me, Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my
senses! And was Mrs. Waters, then- but why do I ask? for thou must
certainly know her-- If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou
hast any pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman
back again to me. O good Heavens! incest-- with a mother! To what am I
reserved!" He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of
grief and despair, in which Partridge declared he would not leave him;
but at last, having vented the first torrent of passion, he came a
little to himself; and then, having acquainted Partridge that he would
find this wretched woman in the same house where the wounded gentleman
was lodged, he despatched him in quest of her.
  If the reader will please to refresh his memory, by turning to the
scene at Upton, in the ninth book, he will be apt to admire the many
strange accidents which unfortunately prevented any interview
between Partridge and Mrs. Waters, when she spent a whole day there
with Mr. Jones. Instances of this kind we may frequently observe in
life, where the greatest events are produced by a nice train of little
circumstances; and more than one example of this may be discovered
by the accurate eye, in this our history.
  After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge returned
back to his master, without having seen Mrs. Waters. Jones, who was in
a state of desperation at his delay, was almost raving mad when he
brought him his account. He was not long, however, in this condition
before he received the following letter:

  SIR,
  Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom I have learned
something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but
as I have not at present leisure to communicate a matter of such
high importance, you must suspend your curiosity till our next
meeting, which shall be the first moment I am able to see you. O,
Mr. Jones, little did I think, when I past that happy day at Upton,
the reflection upon which is like to embitter all my future life,
who it was to whom I owed such perfect happiness. Believe me to be
ever sincerely your unfortunate
                                                       J. WATERS
  P.S.- I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for
Mr. Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever other
grievous crimes you have to repent of, the guilt of blood is not among
the number.

  Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold
it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his faculties).
Partridge took it up, and having received consent by silence, read
it likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible effect. The pencil,
and not the pen, should describe the horrors which appeared in both
their countenances. While they both remained speechless, the turnkey
entered the room, and, without taking any notice of what
sufficiently discovered itself in the faces of them both, acquainted
Jones that a man without desired to speak with him. This person was
presently introduced, and was other than Black George.
  As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were to
the turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which appeared in the
face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident that had happened,
which was reported in the very worst light in Mr. Western's family; he
concluded, therefore, that the gentleman was dead, and that Mr.
Jones was in a fair way of coming to a shameful end. A thought which
gave him much uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate
disposition, and notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he
had been over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of
the obligations he had formerly received from Mr. Jones.
  The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the
present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his
misfortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any manner
of service. "Perhaps, sir," said he, "you may want a little matter
of money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is
heartily at your service."
  Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him many
thanks for the kind offer he had made; but answered, "He had not the
least want of that kind." Upon which George began to press his
services more eagerly than before. Jones again thanked him, with
assurances that he wanted nothing which was in the power of any living
man to give. "Come, come, my good master," answered George, "do not
take the matter so much to heart. Things may end better than you
imagine; to be sure you an't the first gentleman who hath killed a
man, and yet come off." "You are wide of the matter, George," said
Partridge, "the gentleman is not dead, nor like to die. Don't
disturb my master, at present, for he is troubled about a matter in
which it is not in your power to do him any good." You don't know what
I may be able to do, Mr. Partridge," answered George; "if his
concern is about my young lady, I have some news to tell my master."
"What do you say, Mr. George?" cried Jones. "Hath anything lately
happened in which my Sophia is concerned? Sophia! how dares such a
wretch as I mention her so profanely!" "I hope she will be yours yet,"
answered George. "Why yes, sir, I have something to tell you about
her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia home, and there hath
been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very right of
it; but my master he hath been in a vast big passion, and so was Madam
Western, and I heard her say, as she went out of doors into her chair,
that she would never set foot in master's house again. I don't know
what's the matter, not I, but everything was very quiet when I came
out; but Robin, who waited at supper, said he had never seen the
squire for a long while in such good humour with young madam; that
he kissed her several times, and swore she should be her own mistress,
and he never would think of confining her any more. I thought this
news would please you, and so I slipped out, though it was so late, to
inform you of it." Mr. Jones assured George that it did greatly please
him; for though he should never more presume to lift his eyes toward
that incomparable creature, nothing could so much relieve his misery
as the satisfaction he should always have in hearing of her welfare.
  The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not
important enough to be here related. The reader will, therefore,
forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear how this
great good-will of the squire towards his daughter was brought about.
  Mrs. Western, on her first arrival at her brother's lodging, began
to set forth the great honours and advantages which would accrue to
the family by the match with Lord Fellamar, which her niece had
absolutely refused; in which refusal, when the squire took the part of
his daughter, she fell immediately into the most violent passion,
and so irritated and provoked the squire, that neither his patience
nor his prudence could bear it any longer; upon which there ensued
between them both so warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the
regions of Billingsgate never equalled it. In the heat of this
scolding Mrs. Western departed, and had consequently no leisure to
acquaint her brother with the letter which Sophia received, which
might have possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe
it never once occurred to her memory at this time.
  When Mrs. Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as
well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to return the
compliment which her father had made her, in taking her part against
her aunt, by taking his likewise against the lady. This was the
first time of her so doing, and it was in the highest degree
acceptable to the squire. Again, he remembered that Mr. Allworthy
had insisted on an entire relinquishment of all violent means; and,
indeed, as he made no doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not
in the least question succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he
now, therefore, once more gave a loose to his natural fondness for
her, which had such an effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and
affectionate heart of Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, and
something else, perhaps, in which he was concerned, been removed, I
much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed herself to a man
she did not like, to have obliged her father. She promised him she
would make it the whole business of her life to oblige him, and
would never marry any man against his consent; which brought the old
man so near to his highest happiness, that he was resolved to take the
other step, and went to bed completely drunk.
                                Chapter 3

  Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange discovery that he
made on that occasion

  The morning after these things had happened, Mr. Allworthy went,
according to his promise, to visit old Nightingale, with whom his
authority was so great, that, after having sat with him three hours,
he at last prevailed with him to consent to see his son.
  Here an accident happened of a very extraordinary kind; one indeed
of those strange chances whence very good and grave men have concluded
that Providence often interposes in the discovery of the most secret
villany, in order to caution men from quitting the paths of honesty,
however warily they tread in those of vice.
  Mr. Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr. Nightingale's, saw Black
George; he took no notice of him, nor did Black George imagine he
had perceived him.
  However, when their conversation on the principal point was over,
Allworthy asked Nightingale, Whether he knew one George Seagrim, and
upon what business he came to his house? "Yes," answered
Nightingale, "I know him very well, and a most extraordinary fellow he
is, who, in these days, hath been able to hoard up L500 from renting a
very small estate of L30 a year." "And this is the story which he hath
told you?" cries Allworthy. "Nay, it is true, I promise you," said
Nightingale, "for I have the money now in my own hands, in five
bank-bills, which I am to lay out either in a mortgage, or in some
purchase in the north of England." The bank-bills were no sooner
produced at Allworthy's desire, than he blessed himself at the
strangeness of the discovery. He presently told Nightingale that these
bank-bills were formerly his, and then acquainted him with the whole
affair. As there are no men who complain more of the frauds of
business than highwaymen, gamesters, and other thieves of that kind,
so there are none who so bitterly exclaim against the frauds of
gamesters, &c., as usurers, brokers, and other thieves of this kind;
whether it be that the one way of cheating is a discountenance or
reflection upon the other, or that money, which is the common mistress
of all cheats, makes them regard each other in the light of rivals;
but Nightingale no sooner heard the story than he exclaimed against
the fellow in terms much severer than the justice and honesty of
Allworthy had bestowed on him.
  Allworthy desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the
secret till he should hear farther from him; and, if he should in
the meantime see the fellow, that he would not take the least notice
to him of the discovery which he had made. He then returned to his
lodgings, where he found Mrs. Miller in a very dejected condition,
on account of the information she had received from her son-in-law.
Mr. Allworthy, with great chearfulness, told her that he had much good
news to communicate; and, with little further preface, acquainted
her that he had brought Mr. Nightingale to consent to see his son, and
did not in the least doubt to effect a perfect reconciliation
between them; though he found the father more sowered by another
accident of the same kind which had happened in his family. He then
mentioned the running away of the uncle's daughter, which he had
been told by the old gentleman, and which Mrs. Miller and her
son-in-law did not yet know.
  The reader may suppose Mrs. Miller received this account with
great thankfulness, and no less pleasure; but so uncommon was her
friendship to Jones, that I am not certain whether the uneasiness
she suffered for his sake did not overbalance her satisfaction at
hearing a piece of news tending so much to the happiness of her own
family; nor whether even this very news, as it reminded her of the
obligations she had to Jones, did not hurt as well as please her; when
her grateful heart said to her, "While my own family is happy, how
miserable is the poor creature to whose generosity we owe the
beginning of all this happiness!"
  Allworthy, having left her a little while to chew the cud (if I
may use that expression) on these first tidings, told her he had still
something more to impart, which he believed would give her pleasure.
"I think," said he, "I have discovered a pretty considerable
treasure belonging to the young gentleman, your friend; but perhaps,
indeed, his present situation may be such that it will be of no
service to him." The latter part of the speech gave Mrs. Miller to
understand who was meant, and she answered with a sigh, "I hope not,
sir." "I hope so too," cries Allworthy, "with all my heart; but my
nephew told me this morning he had heard a very bad account of the
affair."-- "Good Heaven! sir," said she- "Well, I must not speak, and
yet it is certainly very hard to be obliged to hold one's tongue when
one hears."-- "Madam," said Allworthy, "you may say whatever you
please, you know me too well to think I have a prejudice against any
one; and as for that young man, I assure you I should be heartily
pleased to find he could acquit himself of everything, and
particularly of this sad affair. You can testify the affection I have
formerly borne him. The world, I know, censured me for loving him so
much. I did not withdraw that affection from him without thinking I
had the justest cause. Believe me, Mrs. Miller, I should be glad to
find I have been mistaken." Mrs. Miller was going eagerly to reply,
when a servant acquainted her that a gentleman without desired to
speak with her immediately. Allworthy then enquired for his nephew,
and was told that he had been for some time in his room with the
gentleman who used to come to him, and whom Mr. Allworthy guessing
rightly to be Mr. Dowling, he desired presently to speak with him.
  When Dowling attended, Allworthy put the case of the banknotes to
him, without mentioning any name, and asked in what manner such a
person might be punished. To which Dowling answered, "He thought he
might be indicted on the Black Act; but said, as it was a matter of
some nicety, it would be proper to go to counsel. He said he was to
attend counsel presently upon an affair of Mr. Western's, and if Mr.
Allworthy pleased he would lay the case before them." This was
agreed to; and then Mrs. Miller, opening the door, cried, "I ask
pardon, I did not know you had company; but Allworthy desired her to
come in, saying he had finished his business. Upon which Mr. Dowling
withdrew, and Mrs. Miller introduced Mr. Nightingale the younger, to
return thanks for the great kindness done him by Allworthy: but she
had scarce patience to let the young gentleman finish his speech
before she interrupted him, saying, "O sir! Mr. Nightingale brings
great news about poor Mr. Jones: he hath been to see the wounded
gentleman, who is out of all danger of death, and, what is more,
declares he fell upon poor Mr. Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure,
sir, you would not have Mr. Jones be a coward. If I was a man
myself, I am sure, if any man was to strike me, I should draw my
sword. Do pray, my dear, tell Mr. Allworthy, tell him all yourself."
Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs. Miller had said; and concluded
with many handsome things of Jones, who was, he said, one of the
best-natured fellows in the world, and not in the least inclined to be
quarrelsome. Here Nightingale was going to cease, when Mrs. Miller
again begged him to relate all the many dutiful expressions he had
heard him make use of towards Mr. Allworthy. "To say the utmost good
of Mr. Allworthy," cries Nightingale, "is doing no more than strict
justice, and can have no merit in it: but indeed, I must say, no man
can be more sensible of the obligations he hath to so good a man
than is poor Jones. Indeed, sir, I am convinced the weight of your
displeasure is the heaviest burthen he lies under. He hath often
lamented it to me, and hath as often protested in the most solemn
manner he hath never been intentionally guilty of any offence
towards you; nay, he hath sworn he would rather die a thousand
deaths than he would have his conscience upbraid him with one
disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful thought towards you. But I ask
pardon, sir, I am afraid I presume to intermeddle too far in so tender
a point." "You have spoke no more than what a Christian ought,"
cries Mrs. Miller. "Indeed, Mr. Nightingale," answered Allworthy, "I
applaud your generous friendship, and I wish he may merit it of you. I
confess I am glad to hear the report you bring from this unfortunate
gentleman; and, if that matter should turn out to be as you
represent it (and, indeed, I doubt nothing of what you say), I may,
perhaps, in time, be brought to think better than lately I have of
this young man; for this good gentlewoman here, nay, all who know
me, can witness that I loved him as dearly as if he had been my own
son. Indeed, I have considered him as a child sent by fortune to my
care. I still remember the innocent, the helpless situation in which I
found him. I feel the tender pressure of his little hands at this
moment. He was my darling, indeed he was." At which words he ceased,
and the tears stood in his eyes.
  As the answer which Mrs. Miller made may lead us into fresh matters,
we will here stop to account for the visible alteration in Mr.
Allworthy's mind, and the abatement of his anger to Jones. Revolutions
of this kind, it is true, frequently occur in histories and dramatic
writers, for no other reason than because the history or play draws to
a conclusion, and are justified by authority of authors; yet, though
we insist upon as much authority as any author whatever, we shall
use this power very sparingly, and never but when we are driven to
it by necessity, which we do not at present foresee will happen in
this work.
  This alteration then in the mind of Mr. Allworthy was occasioned
by a letter he had just received from Mr. Square, and which we shall
give the reader in the beginning of the next chapter.
                                Chapter 4

  Containing two letters in very different stiles

  MY WORTHY FRIEND,- I informed you in my last that I was forbidden
the use of the waters, as they were found by experience rather to
increase than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now acquaint
you with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict my friends
more than it hath afflicted me. Dr. Harrington and Dr. Brewster have
informed me that there is no hopes of my recovery.
  I have somewhere read, that the great use of philosophy is to
learn to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace mine, as to show
any surprize at receiving a lesson which I must be thought to have
so long studied. Yet, to say the truth, one page of the Gospel teaches
this lesson better than all the volumes of antient or modern
philosophers. The assurance it gives us of another life is a much
stronger support to a good mind, than all the consolations that are
drawn from the necessity of nature, the emptiness or satiety of our
enjoyments here, or any other topic of those declamations which are
sometimes capable of arming our minds with a stubborn patience in
bearing the thoughts of death, but never of raising them to a real
contempt of it, and much less of making us think it is a real good.
I would not here be understood to throw the horrid censure of atheism,
or even the absolute denial of immortality, on all who are called
philosophers. Many of that sect, as well antient as modern, have, from
the light of reason, discovered some hopes of a future state; but in
reality, that light was so faint and glimmering, and the hopes were so
incertain and precarious, that it may be justly doubted on which
side their belief turned. Plato himself concludes his Phaedon with
declaring, that his best arguments amount only to raise a probability;
and Cicero himself seems rather to Profess an inclination to
believe, than any actual belief in the doctrines of immortality. As to
myself, to be very sincere with you, I never was much in earnest in
this faith till I was in earnest a Christian.
  You will perhaps wonder at the latter expression; but I assure you
it hath not been till very lately that I could, with truth, call
myself so. The pride of Philosophy had intoxicated my reason, and
the sublimest of all wisdom appeared to me, as it did to the Greeks of
old, to be foolishness. God hath, however, been so gracious to show me
my error in time, and to bring me into the way of truth, before I sunk
into utter darkness for ever.
  I find myself beginning to grow weak, I shall therefore hasten to
the main Purpose of this letter.
  When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of nothing
which sits heavier upon my conscience than the injustice I have been
guilty of to that poor wretch, your adopted son. I have, indeed, not
only connived at the villany of others, but been myself active in
injustice towards him. Believe me, my dear friend, when I tell you, on
the word of a dying man, he hath been basely injured. As to the
principal fact, upon the misrepresentation of which you discarded him,
I solemnly assure you he is innocent. When you lay upon your
supposed deathbed, he was the only person in the house who testified
any real concern; and what happened afterwards arose from the wildness
of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it, from the
baseness of another person (but it is my desire to justify the
innocent, and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this young man
hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most perfect capacity for
friendship, the highest integrity, and indeed every virtue which can
ennoble a man. He hath some faults, but among them is not to be
numbered the least want of duty or gratitude towards you. On the
contrary, I am satisfied, when you dismissed him from your house,
his heart bled for you more than for himself.
  Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my concealing
this from you so long: to reveal it now I can have no inducement but
the desire of serving the cause of truth, of doing right to the
innocent, and of making all the amends in my Power for a Past offence.
I hope this declaration, therefore, will have the effect desired,
and will restore this deserving young man to your favour; the
hearing of which, while I am yet alive, will afford the utmost
consolation to,
                                          Sir,
                                  Your most obliged,
                               obedient humble servant,
                                                  THOMAS SQUARE

  The reader will, after this, scarce wonder at the revolution so
visibly appearing in Mr. Allworthy, notwithstanding he received from
Thwackum, by the same post, another letter of a very different kind,
which we shall here add, as it may possibly be the last time we
shall have occasion to mention the name of that gentleman.

  SIR,
  I am not at all surprized at hearing form your worthy nephew a fresh
instance of the villany of Mr. Square the atheist's young pupil. I
shall not wonder at any murders he may commit; and I heartily pray
that your own blood may not seal up his final commitment to the
place of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
  Though you cannot want sufficient calls to repentance for the many
unwarrantable weaknesses exemplified in your behaviour to this wretch,
so much to the prejudice of your own lawful family, and of your
character, I say, though these may sufficiently be supposed to prick
and goad your conscience at this season, I should yet be wanting to my
duty, if I spared to give you some admonition in order to bring you to
a due sense of your errors. I therefore pray you seriously to consider
the judgment which is likely to overtake this wicked villain; and
let it serve at least as a warning to you, that you may not for the
future despise the advice of one who is so indefatigable in his
prayers for your welfare.
  Had not my hand been withheld from due correction, I had scourged
much of this diabolical spirit out of a boy, of whom, from his
infancy, I discovered the devil had taken such entire possession.
But reflections of this hind now come too late.
  I am sorry you have given away the living of Westerton so hastily. I
should have applied on that occasion earlier, had I thought you
would not have acquainted me previous to the disposition.-- Your
objection to pluralities is being righteous over-much. If there were
any crime in the practice, so many godly men would not agree to it. If
the vicar of Aldergrove should die (as we hear he is in a declining
way), I hope you will think of me, since I am certain you must be
convinced of my most sincere attachment to your highest welfare- a
welfare to which all worldly considerations are as trifling as the
small tithes mentioned in Scripture are, when compared to the
weighty matters of the law.
           I am, sir,
                Your faithful humble servant,
                                         ROGER THWACKUM

  This was the first time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative
stile to Allworthy, and of this he had afterwards sufficient reason to
repent, as in the case of those who mistake the highest degree of
goodness for the lowest degree of weakness. Allworthy had indeed never
liked this man. He knew him to be proud and ill-natured; he also
knew that his divinity itself was tinctured with his temper, and
such as in many respects he himself did by no means approve; but he
was at the same time an excellent scholar, and most indefatigable in
teaching the two lads. Add to this, the strict severity of his life
and manners, an unimpeached honesty, and a most devout attachment to
religion. So that, upon the whole, though Allworthy did not esteem nor
love the man, yet he could never bring himself to part with a tutor to
the boys, who was, both by learning and industry, extremely well
qualified for his office; and he hoped, that as they were bred up in
his own house, and under his own eye, he should be able to correct
whatever was wrong in Thwackum's instructions.
                                Chapter 5

  In which the history is continued

  Mr. Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender
concerning Jones, which had brought tears into the good man's eyes.
This Mrs. Miller observing, said, "Yes, yes, sir, your goodness to
this poor young man is known, notwithstanding all your care to conceal
it; but there is not a single syllable of truth in what those villains
said. Mr. Nightingale hath now discovered the whole matter. It seems
these fellows were employed by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr.
Jones, to have pressed him on board a ship.-- I assure them I don't
know who they will press next. Mr. Nightingale here hath seen the
officer himself, who is a very pretty gentleman, and hath told him
all, and is very sorry for what he undertook, which he would never
have done, had he known Mr. Jones to have been a gentleman; but he was
told that he was a common strolling vagabond."
  Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger to
every word she said, "Yes, sir," answered she, "I believe you
are.-- It is a very different story, I believe, from what those
fellows told the lawyer."
  "What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?" said Allworthy. "Nay,
nay," said she, "this is so like you to deny your own goodness: but
Mr. Nightingale here saw him." "Saw whom, madam?" answered he. "Why,
your lawyer, sir," said she, "that you so kindly sent to inquire
into the affair." "I am still in the dark, upon my honour," said
Allworthy. "Why then do you tell him, my dear sir," cries she.
"Indeed, sir," said Nightingale, "I did see that very lawyer who
went from you when I came into the room, at an alehouse in Aldersgate,
in company with two of the fellows who were employed by Lord
Fellamar to press Mr. Jones, and who were by that means present at the
unhappy rencounter between him and Mr. Fitzpatrick." "I own, sir,"
said Mrs. Miller, "when I saw this gentleman come into the room to
you, I told Mr. Nightingale that I apprehended you had sent him
thither to inquire into the affair." Allworthy showed marks of
astonishment in his countenance at this news, and was indeed for two
or three minutes struck dumb by it. At last, addressing himself to Mr.
Nightingale, he said, "I must confess myself, sir, more surprized at
what you tell me than I have ever been before at anything in my
whole life. Are you certain this was the gentleman?" "I am most
certain," answered Nightingale. "At Aldersgate?" cries Allworthy. "And
was you in company with this lawyer and the two fellows?"- "I was,
sir," said the other, "very near half an hour." "Well, sir," said
Allworthy, "and in what manner did the lawyer behave? did you hear all
that past between him and the fellows?" "No, sir," answered
Nightingale, "they had been together before I came.- In my presence
the lawyer said little; but, after I had several times examined the
fellows, who persisted in a story directly contrary to what I had
heard from Mr. Jones, and which I find by Mr. Fitzpatrick was a rank
falshood, the lawyer then desired the fellows to say nothing but
what was the truth, and seemed to speak so much in favour of Mr.
Jones, that, when I saw the same person with you, I concluded your
goodness had prompted you to send him thither."- "And did you not
send him thither?" says Mrs. Miller.- "Indeed I did not," answered
Allworthy; "nor did I know he had gone on such errand till this
moment."- "I see it all!" said Mrs. Miller, "upon my soul, I see it
all! No wonder they have been closeted so close lately. Son
Nightingale, let me beg you run for these fellows immediately-- find
them out if they are above-ground. I will go myself"-- "Dear madam,"
said Allworthy, "be patient, and do me the favour to send a servant
upstairs to call Mr. Dowling hither, if he be in the house, or, if
not, Mr. Blifil." Mrs. Miller went out muttering something to herself,
and presently returned with an answer, "That Mr. Dowling was gone; but
that the t'other," as she called him, "was coming."
  Allworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, whose
spirits were all up in arms in the cause of her friend. He was not
however without some suspicions which were near akin to hers. When
Blifil came into the room, he asked him with a very serious
countenance, and with a less friendly look than he had ever before
given him, "Whether he knew anything of Mr. Dowling's having seen
any of the persons who were present at the duel between Jones and
another gentleman?"
  There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by
surprize on a man whose business it is to conceal truth, or to
defend falshood. For which reason those worthy personages, whose noble
office it is to save the lives of their fellow-creatures at the Old
Bailey, take the utmost care, by frequent previous examination, to
divine every question which may be asked their clients on the day of
tryal, that they may be supplyed with proper and ready answers,
which the most fertile invention cannot supply in an instant. Besides,
the sudden and violent impulse on the blood, occasioned by these
surprizes, causes frequently such an alteration in the countenance,
that the man is obliged to give evidence against himself. And such
indeed were the alterations which the countenance of Blifil
underwent from this sudden question, that we can scarce blame the
eagerness of Mrs. Miller, who immediately cryed out, "Guilty, upon
my honour! guilty, upon my soul!"
  Mr. Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and then
turning to Blifil, who seemed sinking into the earth, he said, "Why do
you hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You certainly must have
employed him; for he would not, of his own accord, I believe, have
undertaken such an errand, and especially without acquainting me."
  Blifil then answered, "I own, sir, I have been guilty of an offence,
yet may I hope your pardon?"-- "My pardon," said Allworthy, very
angrily.-- "Nay, sir," answered Blifil, "I knew you would be offended;
yet surely my dear uncle will forgive the effects of the most
amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for those who do not deserve
it, I own is a crime; and yet it is a crime from which you yourself
are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than
one instance to this very person; and I will own I did send Mr.
Dowling, not on a vain and fruitless inquiry, but to discover the
witnesses, and to endeavour to soften their evidence. This, sir, is
the truth; which, though I intended to conceal from you, I will not
deny."
  "I confess," said Nightingale, "this is the light in which it
appeared to me from the gentleman's behaviour."
  "Now, madam," said Allworthy, "I believe you will once in your
life own you have entertained a wrong suspicion, and are not so
angry with my nephew as you was."
  Mrs. Miller was silent; for, though she could not so hastily be
pleased with Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the ruin of
Jones, yet in this particular instance he had imposed upon her as well
as upon the rest; so entirely had the devil stood his friend. And,
indeed, I look upon the vulgar observation, "That the devil often
deserts his friends, and leaves them in the lurch," to be a great
abuse on that gentleman's character. Perhaps he may sometimes desert
those who are only his cup acquaintance; or who, at most, are but half
his; but he generally stands by those who are thoroughly his servants,
and helps them off in all extremities, till their bargain expires.
  As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as health is
more perfectly established by recovery from some diseases; so anger,
when removed, often gives new life to affection. This was the case
of Mr. Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped off the greater suspicion,
the lesser, which had been raised by Square's letter, sunk of
course, and was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom he was greatly
offended, bore alone all the reflections which Square had cast on
the enemies of Jones.
  As for that young man, the resentment of Mr. Allworthy began more
and more to abate towards him. He told Blifil, "He did not only
forgive the extraordinary efforts of his good-nature, but would give
him the pleasure of following his example." Then, turning to Mrs.
Miller with a smile which would have become an angel, he cryed,
"What say you, madam? shall we take a hackney-coach, and all of us
together pay a visit to your friend? I promise you it is not the first
visit I have made in a prison."
  Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy
woman; but they must have a great deal of good-nature, and be well
acquainted with friendship, who can feel what she felt on this
occasion. Few, I hope, are capable of feeling what now passed in the
mind of Blifil; but those who are, will acknowledge, that it was
impossible for him to raise any objection to this visit. Fortune,
however, or the gentleman lately mentioned above, stood his friend,
and prevented his undergoing so great a shock; for at the very instant
when the coach was sent for, Partridge arrived, and, having called
Mrs. Miller from the company, acquainted her with the dreadful
accident lately come to light; and hearing Mr. Allworthy's
intention, begged her to find some means of stopping him: "For,"
says he, "the matter must at all hazards be kept a secret from him;
and if he should now go, he will find Mr. Jones and his mother, who
arrived just as I left him, lamenting over one another the horrid
crime they have ignorantly committed."
  The poor woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at his
dreadful news, was never less capable of invention than at present.
However, as women are much readier at this than men, she bethought
herself of an excuse, and, returning to Allworthy, said, "I am sure,
sir, you will be surprized at hearing any objection from me to the
kind proposal you just now made; and yet I am afraid of the
consequence of it, if carried immediately into execution. You must
imagine, sir, that all the calamities which have lately befallen
this poor young fellow must have thrown him into the lowest
dejection of spirits; and now, sir, should we all of a sudden fling
him into such a violent fit of joy, as I know your presence will
occasion, it may, I am afraid, produce some fatal mischief, especially
as his servant, who is without, tells me he is very far from being
well."
  "Is his servant without?" cries Allworthy; "pray call him hither.
I will ask him some questions concerning his master."
  Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr. Allworthy; but
was at length persuaded, after Mrs. Miller, who had often heard his
whole story from his own mouth, had promised to introduce him.
  Allworthy recollected Partridge the moment he came into the room,
though many years had passed since he had seen him. Mrs. Miller,
therefore, might have spared here a formal oration, in which,
indeed, she was something prolix; for the reader, I believe, may
have observed already that the good woman, among other things, had a
tongue always ready for the service of her friends.
  "And are you," said Allworthy to Partridge, "the servant of Mr.
Jones?" "I can't say, sir," answered he, "that I am regularly a
servant, but I live with him, an't please your honour, at present. Non
sum qualis eram; as your honour very well knows."
  Mr. Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning Jones, as
to his health, and other matters; to all which Partridge answered,
without having the least regard to what was, but considered only
what he would have things appear; for a strict adherence to truth
was not among the articles of this honest fellow's morality, or his
religion.
  During this dialogue Mr. Nightingale took his leave, and presently
after Mrs. Miller left the room, when Allworthy likewise dispatched
Blifil; for he imagined that Partridge, when alone with him, would
be more explicit than before company. They were no sooner left in
private together than Allworthy began, as in the following chapter.
                                Chapter 6

  In which the history is farther continued

  "Sure, friend," said the good man, "you are the strangest of all
human beings. Not only to have suffered as you have formerly, for
obstinately persisting in a falsehood, but to persist in it thus to
the last, and to pass thus upon the world for a servant of your own
son! What interest can you have in all this? What can be your motive?"
  "I see, sir," said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, "that
your honour is prepossessed against me, and resolved not to believe
anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my protestations? but
yet there is One above who knows that I am not the father of this
young man."
  "How!" said Allworthy, "will you yet deny what you was formerly
convicted of upon such unanswerable, such manifest evidence? Nay, what
a confirmation is your being now found with this very man, of all
which twenty years ago appeared against you! I thought you had left
the country! nay, I thought you had been long since dead.- In what
manner did you know anything of this young man? Where did you meet
with him, unless you had kept some correspondence together? Do not
deny this; for I promise you it will greatly raise your son in my
opinion, to find that he hath such a sense of filial duty as privately
to support his father for so many years."
  "If your honour will have patience to hear me," said Partridge, "I
will tell you all.- "Being bid go on, he proceeded thus: "When your
honour conceived that displeasure against me, it ended in my ruin soon
after; for I lost my little school; and the minister, thinking, I
suppose, it would be agreeable to your honour, turned me out from
the office of clerk; so that I had nothing to trust to but the
barber's shop, which, in a country place like that, is a poor
livelihood; and when my wife died (for till that time I received a
pension of L12 a year from an unknown hand, which indeed I believe was
your honour's own, for nobody that ever I heard of doth these things
besides)- but, as I was saying, when she died, this pension forsook
me; so that now, as I owed two or three small debts, which began to be
troublesome to me, particularly one* which an attorney brought up by
law-charges from 15s. to near L30, and as I found all my usual means
of living had forsook me, I packed up my little all as well as I
could, and went off.

  *This is a fact which I knew happen to a poor clergyman in
Dorsetshire, by the villany of an attorney who, not contented with the
exorbitant costs to which the poor man was put by a single action,
brought afterwards another action on the judgment, as it was called. A
method frequently used to oppress the poor, and bring money into the
pockets of attorneys to the great scandal of the law, of the nation,
of Christanity, and even of human nature itself.

  "The first place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the
service of a gentleman belonging to the law, and one of the best
gentlemen that ever I knew, for he was not only good to me, but I know
a thousand good and charitable acts which he did while I staid with
him; and I have known him often refuse business because it was paultry
and oppressive." "You need not be so particular," said Allworthy; "I
know this gentleman, and a very worthy man he is, and an honour to his
profession."-- "Well, sir," continued Partridge, "from hence I removed
to Lymington, where I was above three years in the service of
another lawyer, who was likewise a very good sort of a man, and to
be sure one of the merriest gentlemen in England. Well, sir, at the
end of the three years I set up a little school, and was likely to
do well again, had it not been for a most unlucky accident. Here I
kept a pig; and one day, as ill fortune would have it, this pig
broke out, and did a trespass, I think they call it, in a garden
belonging to one of my neighbours, who was a proud, revengeful man,
and employed a lawyer, one- one- I can't think of his name; but he
sent for a writ against me, and had me to size. When I came there,
Lord have mercy upon me- to hear what the counsellors said! There was
one that told my lord a parcel of the confoundedest lies about me;
he said that I used to drive my hogs into other folk's gardens, and
a great deal more; and at last he said, he hoped I had at last brought
my hogs to a fair market. To be sure, one would have thought that,
instead of being owner only of one poor little pig, I had been the
greatest hog-merchant in England. Well-" "Pray," said Allworthy, "do
not be so particular, I have heard nothing of your son yet." "O it was
a great many years," answered Partridge, "before I saw my son, as
you are pleased to call him.- I went over to Ireland after this, and
taught school at Cork (for that one suit ruined me again, and I lay
seven years in Winchester jail)."-- "Well," said Allworthy, "pass that
over till your return to England."- "Then, sir," said he, "it was
about half a year ago that I landed at Bristol, where I staid some
time, and not finding it do there, and hearing of a place between that
and Gloucester where the barber was just dead, I went thither, and
there I had been about two months when Mr. Jones came thither." He
then gave Allworthy a very particular account of their first meeting,
and of everything, as well as he could remember, which had happened
from that day to this; frequently interlarding his story with
panegyrics on Jones, and not forgetting to insinuate the great love
and respect which he had for Allworthy. He concluded with saying,
"Now, sir, I have told your honour the whole truth." And then repeated
a most solemn protestation, "That he was no more the father of Jones
than the Pope of Rome;" and imprecated the most bitter curses on his
head, if he did not speak truth.
  "What am I to think of this matter?" cries Allworthy. "For what
purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which I think it would be
rather your interest to own?" "Nay, sir," answered Partridge (for he
could hold no longer), "if your honour will not believe me, you are
like soon to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the
mother of this young man, as well as you have his father."- And now
being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms of horror, both in
his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy the whole story, which he
had a little before expressed such desire to Mrs. Miller to conceal
from him.
  Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this discovery as
Partridge himself had been while he related it. "Good heavens!" says
he, "in what miserable distresses do vice and imprudence involve
men! How much beyond our designs are the effects of wickedness
sometimes carried!" He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs.
Waters came hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner
saw her than he cried, "Here, sir, here is the very woman herself.
This is the unfortunate mother of Mr. Jones. I am sure she will acquit
me before your honour. Pray, madam--"
  Mrs. Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge said, and
almost without taking any notice of him, advanced to Mr. Allworthy. "I
believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing you, that
you do not recollect me." "Indeed," answered Allworthy, you are so
very much altered, on many accounts, that had not this man already
acquainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called you to
my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular business which
brings you to me?" Allworthy spoke this with great reserve; for the
reader may easily believe he was not well pleased with the conduct
of this lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what
Partridge had now delivered.
  Mrs. Waters answered- "Indeed, sir, I have very particular business
with you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must
desire, therefore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure
you what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance."
  Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he
begged the lady to satisfy Mr. Allworthy that he was perfectly
innocent. To which she answered, "You need be under no apprehension,
sir; I shall satisfy Mr. Allworthy very perfectly of that matter."
  Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr. Allworthy and
Mrs. Waters which is written in the next chapter.
                                Chapter 7

  Continuation of the history

  Mrs. Waters remaining a few moments silent, Mr. Allworthy could
not refrain from saying, "I am sorry, madam, to perceive by what I
have since heard, that you have made so very ill a use--" "Mr.
Allworthy," says she, interrupting him, "I know I have faults, but
ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never can nor shall forget
your goodness, which I own I have very little deserved; but be pleased
to wave all upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an affair
to communicate to you concerning this young man, to whom you have
given my maiden name of Jones."
  "Have I then," said Allworthy, "ignorantly punished an innocent man,
in the person of him who hath just left us? Was he not the father of
the child?" "Indeed he was not," said Mrs. Waters. "You may be pleased
to remember, sir, I formerly told you, you should one day know; and
I acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a cruel neglect, in not
having discovered it to you before. Indeed, I little knew how
necessary it was." "Well, madam" said Allworthy, "be pleased to
proceed." "You must remember, sir," said she, "a young fellow, whose
name was Summer." "Very well," cries Allworthy, "he was the son of a
clergyman of great learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest
friendship." "So it appeared, sir," answered she; "for I believe you
bred the young man up, and maintained him at the university; where,
I think, he had finished his studies, when he came to reside at your
house; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon; for, besides
the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, and had so much
wit and good breeding." "Poor gentleman," said Allworthy, "he was
indeed untimely snatched away; and little did I think he had any
sins of this kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are
going to tell me he was the father of your child."
  "Indeed, sir," answered she, "he was not." "How!" said Allworthy,
"to what then tends all this preface?" "To a story," said she,
"which I am concerned falls to my lot to unfold to you. O, sir!
prepare to hear something which will surprize you, will grieve you."
"Speak," said Allworthy, "I am conscious of no crime, and cannot be
afraid to hear." "Sir," said she, "that Mr. Summer, the son of your
friend, educated at your expense, who, after living a year in the
house as if he had been your own son, died there of the small-pox, was
tenderly lamented by you, ' and buried as if he had been your own;
that Summer, sir, was the father of this child." "How!" said
Allworthy; "you contradict yourself." "That I do not," answered she;
"he was indeed the father of this child, but not by me." "Take care,
madam," said Allworthy, "do not, to shun the imputation of any
crime, be guilty of falshood. Remember there is One from whom you
can conceal nothing, and before whose tribunal falshood will only
aggravate your guilt." "Indeed, sir," says she, "I am not his
mother; nor would I now think myself so for the world." "I know your
reason," said Allworthy "and shall rejoice as much as you to find it
otherwise; yet you must remember, you yourself confest it before
me." "So far what I confest," said she, "was true, that these hands
conveyed the infant to your bed; conveyed it thither at the command of
its mother; at her commands I afterwards owned it, and thought myself,
by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both for my secrecy and my
shame." "Who could this woman be?" said Allworthy. "Indeed, I
tremble to name her," answered Mrs. Waters. "By all this preparation I
am to guess that she was a relation of mine," cried he. "Indeed she
was a near one." At which words Allworthy started, and she
continued- "You had a sister, sir." "A sister!" repeated he, looking
aghast.- "As there is truth in heaven," cries she, "your sister was
the mother of that child you found between your sheets." "Can it be
possible?" cries he. "Good heavens!" "Have patience, sir," said Mrs.
Waters, "and I will unfold to you the whole story. Just after your
departure for London, Miss Bridget came one day to the house of my
mother. She was pleased to say, she had heard an extraordinary
character of me, for my learning and superior understanding to all the
young women there, so she was pleased to say. She then bid me come
to her to the great house; where, when I attended, she employed me
to read to her. She expressed great satisfaction in my reading, shewed
great kindness to me, and made me many presents. At last she began
to catechise me on the subject of secrecy, to which I gave her such
satisfactory answers, that, at last, having locked the door of her
room, she took me into her closet, and then locking that door
likewise, she said 'she should convince me of the vast reliance she
had on my integrity, by communicating a secret in which her honour,
and consequently her life, was concerned.' She then stopt, and after a
silence of a few minutes, during which she often wiped her eyes, she
inquired of me if I thought my mother might safely be confided in. I
answered, I would stake my life on her fidelity. She then imparted
to me the great secret which laboured in her breast, and which, I
believe, was delivered with more pains than she afterwards suffered in
childbirth. It was then contrived that my mother and myself only
should attend at the time, and that Mrs. Wilkins should be sent out of
the way, as she accordingly was, to the very furthest part of
Dorsetshire, to inquire the character of a servant; for the lady had
turned away her own maid near three months before; during all which
time I officiated about her person upon trial, as she said, though, as
she afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently handy for the place.
This, and many other such things which she used to say of me, were all
thrown out to prevent any suspicion which Wilkins might hereafter
have, when I was to own the child; for she thought it could never be
believed she would venture to hurt a young woman with whom she had
intrusted such a secret. You may be assured, sir, I was well paid
for all these affronts, which, together with being informed with the
occasion of them, very well contented me. Indeed, the lady had a
greater suspicion of Mrs. Wilkins than of any other person; not that
she had the least aversion to the gentlewoman, but she thought her
incapable of keeping a secret, especially from you, sir; for I have
often heard Miss Bridget say, that, if Mrs. Wilkins had committed a
murder, she believed she would acquaint you with it. At last the
expected day came, and Mrs. Wilkins, who had been kept a week in
readiness, and put off from time to time, upon some pretence or other,
that she might not return too soon, was dispatched. Then the child was
born, in the presence only of myself and my mother, and was by my
mother conveyed to her own house, where it was privately kept by her
till the evening of your return, when I, by the command of Miss
Bridget, conveyed it into the bed where you found it. And all
suspicions were afterwards laid asleep by the artful conduct of your
sister, in pretending ill-will to the boy, and that any regard she
shewed him was out of mere complacence to you."
  Mrs. Waters then made many protestations of the truth of this story,
and concluded by saying, "Thus, sir, you have at last discovered
your nephew; for so I am sure you will hereafter think him, and I
question not but he will be both an honour and a comfort to you
under that appellation."
  "I need not, madam," said Allworthy, "express my astonishment at
what you have told me; and yet surely you would not, and could not,
have put together so many circumstances to evidence an untruth. I
confess I recollect some passages relating to that Summer, which
formerly gave me a conceit that my sister had some liking to him. I
mentioned it to her; for I had such a regard to the young man, as well
on his own account as on his father's, that I should willingly have
consented to a match between them; but she exprest the highest disdain
of my unkind suspicion, as she called it; so that I never spoke more
on the subject. Good heavens! Well! the Lord disposeth all things.--
Yet sure it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my sister to carry
this secret with her out of the world." "I promise you, sir," said
Mrs. Waters, "she always profest a contrary intention, and frequently
told me she intended one day to communicate it to you. She said,
indeed, she was highly rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well,
and that you had of your own accord taken such a fancy to the child,
that it was yet unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh!
sir, had that lady lived to have seen this poor young man turned
like a vagabond from your house: nay, sir, could she have lived to
hear that you had yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him for a
murder of which he was not guilty-- Forgive me, Mr. Allworthy, I must
say it was unkind. Indeed, you have been abused, he never deserved
it of you." "Indeed, madam," said Allworthy, "I have been abused by
the person, whoever he was, that told you so." "Nay, sir," said she,
"I would not be mistaken, I did not presume to say you were guilty
of any wrong. The gentleman who came to me proposed no such matter; he
only said, taking me for Mr. Fitzpatrick's wife, that, if Mr. Jones
had murdered my husband, I should be assisted with any money I
wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who,
he said, was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. It was
by this man I found out who Mr. Jones was; and this man, whose name is
Dowling, Mr. Jones tells me is your steward. I discovered his name
by a very odd accident; for he himself refused to tell it me; but
Partridge, who met him at my lodgings the second time he came, knew
him formerly at Salisbury."
  "And did this Mr. Dowling," says Allworthy, with great
astonishment in his countenance, "tell you that I would assist in
the prosecution?"-- "No, sir," answered she, "I will not charge him
wrongfully. He said I should be assisted, but he mentioned no name.
Yet you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought it
could be no other."-- "Indeed, madam," says Allworthy, "from
circumstances I am too well convinced it was another. Good Heaven! by
what wonderful means is the blackest and deepest villany sometimes
discovered!- Shall I beg you, madam, to stay till the person you have
mentioned comes, for I expect him every minute? nay, he may be,
perhaps, already in the house."
  Allworthy then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, when
in came, not Mr. Dowling, but the gentleman who will be seen in the
next chapter.
                                Chapter 8

  Further continuation

  The gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr. Western. He no
sooner saw Allworthy, than, without considering in the least the
presence of Mrs. Waters, he began to vociferate in the following
manner: "Fine doings at my house! A rare kettle of fish I have
discovered at last! who the devil would be plagued with a daughter?"
"What's the matter, neighbour?" said Allworthy. "Matter enough,"
answered Western: "when I thought she was just a coming to; nay,
when she had in a manner promised me to do as I would ha her, and when
I was a hoped to have had nothing more to do than to have sent for the
lawyer, and finished all; what do you think I have found out? that the
little b-- hath bin playing tricks with me all the while, and carrying
on a correspondence that bastard of yours. Sister Western, whom I have
quarrelled with upon her account, sent me word o't, and I ordered
her pockets to be searched when she was asleep, and here I have got un
signed with the son of a whore's own name. I have not had patience
to read half o't, for 'tis longer than one of parson Supple's sermons;
but I find plainly it is all about love; and indeed what should it
be else? I have packed her up in chamber again, and to-morrow morning
down she goes into the country, unless she consents to be married
directly, and there she shall live in a garret upon bread and water
all her days; and the sooner such a b-- breaks her heart the better,
though, d--n her, that I believe is too tough. She will live long
enough to plague me." "Mr. Western," answered Allworthy, "you know I
have always protested against force, and you yourself consented that
none should be used." "Ay," cries he, "that was only upon condition
that she would consent without. What the devil and doctor Faustus!
shan't I do what I will with my own daughter, especially when I desire
nothing but her own good?" "Well, neighbour," answered Allworthy,
"if you will give me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the
young lady." "Will you?" said Western; "why that is kind now, and
neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do
with her; for I promise you she hath a very good opinion of you."
"Well, sir," said Allworthy, "if you will go home, and release the
young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her within his
half-hour." "But suppose," said Western, "she should run away with
un in the meantime? For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no hopes of
hanging the fellow at last; for that the man is alive, and like to
do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of prison again
presently." "How!" said Allworthy; "what, did you employ him then to
inquire or to do anything in that matter?" "Not I," answered
Western, "he mentioned it to me just now of his own accord." "Just
now!" cries Allworthy, "why, where did you see him then? I want much
to see Mr. Dowling." "Why, you may see un an you will presently at
my lodgings; for there is to be a meeting of lawyers there this
morning about a mortgage. 'Icod! I shall lose two or dree thousand
pounds, I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr. Nightingale."
"Well, sir," said Allworthy, "I will be with you within the
half-hour." "And do for once," cries the squire, "take a fool's
advice; never think of dealing with her by gentle methods, take my
word for it, those will never do. I have tried 'um long enough. She
must be frightened into it, there is no other way. Tell her I'm her
father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience, and of the dreadful
punishment of it in t'other world, and then tell her about being
locked up all her life in a garret in this, and being kept only on
bread and water." "I will do all I can," said Allworthy; "for I
promise you there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with
this amiable creature." "Nay, the girl is well enough for matter o'
that," cries the squire; "a man may go farther and meet with worse
meat; that I may declare o' her, thof she be my own daughter. And if
she will but be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within a
hundred miles o' the place, that loves a daughter better than I do;
but I see you are busy with the lady here, so I will go huome and
expect you; and so your humble servant."
  As soon as Mr. Western was gone, Mrs. Waters said, "I see, sir,
the squire hath not the least remembrance of my face. I believe, Mr.
Allworthy, you would not have known me either. I am very
considerably altered since that day when you so kindly gave me that
advice, which I had been happy had I followed." "Indeed, madam," cries
Allworthy, "it gave me great concern when I first heard the contrary."
"Indeed, sir," says she, "I. was ruined by a very deep scheme of
villany, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think it would
justify me in your opinion, it would at least mitigate my offence, and
induce you to pity me: you are not now at leisure to hear my whole
story; but this I assure you, I was betrayed by the most solemn
promises of marriage; nay, in the eye of heaven I was married to
him; for, after much reading on the subject, I am convinced that
particular ceremonies are only requisite to give a legal sanction to
marriage, and have only a worldly use in giving a woman the privileges
of a wife; but that she who lives constant to one man, after a
solemn private affiance, whatever the world may call her, hath
little to charge on her own conscience." "I am sorry, madam," said
Allworthy, "you made so ill a use of your learning. Indeed, it would
have been well that you had been possessed of much more, or had
remained in a state of ignorance. And yet, madam, I am afraid you have
more than this sin to answer for." "During his life," answered she,
"which was above a dozen years, I most solemnly assure you I had
not. And consider, sir, on my behalf, what is in the power of a
woman stript of her reputation and left destitute; whether the
good-natured world will suffer such a stray sheep to return to the
road of virtue, even if she was never so desirous. I protest, then,
I would have chose it had it been in my power; but necessity drove
me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, though still unmarried,
I lived as a wife for many years, and went by his name. I parted
with this gentleman at Worcester, on his march against the rebels, and
it was then I accidentally met with Mr. Jones, who rescued me from the
hands of a villain. Indeed, he is the worthiest of men. No young
gentleman of his age is, I believe, freer from vice, and few have
the twentieth part of his virtues; nay, whatever vices he hath had,
I am firmly persuaded he hath now taken a resolution to abandon them."
"I hope he hath," cries Allworthy, "and I hope we will preserve that
resolution. I must say, I have still the same hopes with regard to
yourself. The world, I do agree, are apt to be too unmerciful on these
occasions; yet time and perseverance will get the better of this their
disinclination, as I may call it, to pity; for though they are not,
like heaven, ready to receive a penitent sinner; yet a continued
repentance will at length obtain mercy even with the world. This you
may be assured of, Mrs. Waters, that whenever I find you are sincere
in such good intentions, you shall want no assistance in my power to
make them effectual."
  Mrs. Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a flood of
tears, made him many most passionate acknowledgments of his
goodness, which, as she truly said, savoured more of the divine than
human nature.
  Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender manner, making
use of every expression which his invention could suggest to comfort
her, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Dowling, who,
upon his first entrance, seeing Mrs. Waters, started, and appeared
in some confusion; from which he soon recovered himself as well as
he could, and then said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel
at Mr. Western's lodgings; but, however, thought it his duty to call
and acquaint him with the opinion of counsel upon the case which he
had before told him, which was that the conversion of the moneys in
that case could not be questioned in a criminal cause, but that an
action of trover might be brought, and if it appeared to the jury to
be the moneys of plaintiff, that plaintiff would recover a verdict for
the value.
  Allworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the door, and
then, advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he said, "Whatever be
your haste, sir, I must first receive an answer to some questions.
Do you know this lady?"-- "That lady, sir!" answered Dowling, with
great hesitation. Allworthy then, with the most solemn voice, said,
"Look you, Mr. Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a
moment longer in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but
answer faithfully and truly to every question I ask.-- Do you know
this lady?"-- "Yes, sir," said Dowling, "I have seen the lady."
"Where, sir?" "At her own lodgings."- "Upon what business did you go
thither, sir; and who sent you?" "I went, sir, to inquire, sir, about
Mr. Jones." "And who sent you to inquire about him?" "Who, sir? why,
sir, Mr. Blifil sent me." "And what did you say to the lady concerning
that matter?" "Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word."
"Will you please, madam, to assist the gentleman's memory?" "He told
me, sir," said Mrs. Waters, "that if Mr. Jones had murdered my
husband, I should be assisted by any money I wanted to carry on the
prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who was well apprized what
a villain I had to deal with. These, I can safely swear, were the very
words he spoke."- "Were these the words, sir?" said Allworthy. "I
cannot charge my memory exactly," cries Dowling, "but I believe I
did speak to that purpose."- "And did Mr. Blifil order you to say
so?" "I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, nor
have willingly exceeded my authority in matters of this kind. If I
said so, I must have so understood Mr. Blifil's instructions." "Look
you, Mr. Dowling," said Allworthy; "I promise you before this lady,
that whatever you have done in this affair by Mr. Blifil's order I
will forgive, provided you now tell me strictly the truth; for I
believe what you say, that you would not have acted of your own
accord, and without authority in this matter.-- Mr. Blifil then
likewise sent you to examine the two fellows at Aldersgate?"- "He did,
sir." "Well, and what instructions did he then give you? Recollect as
well as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the very words he
used."-- "Why, sir, Mr. Blifil sent me to find out the persons who
were eye-witnesses of this fight. He said, he feared they might be
tampered with by Mr. Jones, or some of his friends. He said, blood
required blood; and that not only all who concealed a murderer, but
those who omitted anything in their power to bring him to justice,
were sharers in his guilt. He said, he found you was very desirous
of having the villain brought to justice, though it was not proper you
should appear in it." "He did so?" says Allworthy.- "Yes, sir," cries
Dowling; "I should not, I am sure, have proceeded such lengths for the
sake of any other person living but your worship."- "What lengths,
sir?" said Allworthy.- "Nay, sir," cries Dowling, "I would not have
your worship think I would, on any account, be guilty of subornation
of perjury; but there are two ways of delivering evidence. I told
them, therefore, that if any offers should be made them on the other
side, they should refuse them, and that they might be assured they
should lose nothing by being honest men, and telling the truth. I
said, we were told that Mr. Jones had assaulted the gentleman first,
and that, if that was the truth, they should declare it; and I did
give them some hints that they should be no losers."- "I think you
went lengths indeed," cries Allworthy.-- "Nay, sir," answered Dowling,
"I am sure I did not desire them to tell an untruth;-- nor should I
have said what I did, unless it had been to oblige you."-- "You would
not have thought, I believe," says Allworthy, "to have obliged me, had
you known that this Mr. Jones was my own nephew."-- "I am sure, sir,"
answered he, "it did not become me to take any notice of what I
thought you desired to conceal."- "How!" cries Allworthy, "and did
you know it then?"- "Nay, sir," answered Dowling, "if your worship
bids me speak the truth, I am sure I shall do it.- Indeed, sir, I did
know it; for they were almost the last words which Madam Blifil ever
spoke, which she mentioned to me as I stood alone by her bedside, when
she delivered me the letter I brought your worship from her."- "What
letter?" cries Allworthy.- "The letter, sir," answered Dowling,
"which I brought from Salisbury, and which I delivered into the
hands of Mr. Blifil."-- "O heavens!" cries Allworthy: "Well, and what
were the words? What did my sister say to you?"- "She took me by the
hand," answered he, "and, as she delivered me the letter, said, 'I
scarce know what I have written. Tell my brother, Mr. Jones is his
nephew- He is my son.- Bless him,' says she, and then fell backward,
as if dying away. I presently called in the people, and she never
spoke more to me, and died within a few minutes afterwards."-
Allworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes; and then,
turning to Dowling, said, "How came you, sir, not to deliver me this
message?" "Your worship," answered he, "must remember that you was at
that time ill in bed; and, being in a violent hurry, as indeed I
always am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr. Blifil, who told
me he would carry them both to you, which he hath since told me he
did, and that your worship, partly out of friendship to Mr. Jones, and
partly out of regard to your sister, would never have it mentioned,
and did intend to conceal it from the world; and therefore, sir, if
you had not mentioned it to me first, I am certain I should never have
thought it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to
your worship or any other person."
  We have remarked somewhere already, that it is possible for a man to
convey a lie in the words of truth; this was the case at present;
for Blifil had, in fact, told Dowling what he now related, but had not
imposed upon him, nor indeed had imagined he was able so to do. In
reality, the promises which Blifil had made to Dowling, were the
motives which had induced him to secrecy; and, as he now very
plainly saw Blifil would not be able to keep them, he thought proper
now to make this confession, which the promises of forgiveness, joined
to the threats, the voice, the looks of Allworthy, and the discoveries
he had made before, extorted from him, who was besides taken unawares,
and had no time to consider of evasions.
  Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, having
enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what had past, conducted that
gentleman himself to the door, lest he should see Blifil, who was
returned to his chamber, where he exulted in the thoughts of his
last deceit on his uncle, and little suspected what had since passed
below-stairs.
  As Allworthy was returning to his room, he met Mrs. Miller in the
entry, who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said to him,
"Of sir, I find this wicked woman hath been with you, and you know
all; yet do not on this account abandon the poor young man.
Consider, sir, he was ignorant it was his own mother; and the
discovery itself will most probably break his heart, without your
unkindness."
  "Madam," says Allworthy, "I am under such an astonishment at what
I have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy you; but come with me
into my room. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I have made surprizing discoveries,
and you shall soon know them."
  The poor woman followed him trembling; and now Allworthy, going up
to Mrs. Waters, took her by the hand, and then, turning to Mrs.
Miller, said, "What reward shall I bestow upon this gentlewoman, for
the services she hath done me?- O! Mrs. Miller, you have a thousand
times heard me call the young man to whom you are so faithful a
friend, my son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at
all.- Your friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of that
wicked viper which I have so long nourished in my bosom.-- She will
herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth came to pass for
her son. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I am convinced that he hath been
wronged, and that I have been abused; abused by one whom you too
justly suspected of being a villain. He is, in truth, the worst of
villains."
  The joy which Mrs. Miller now felt, bereft her of the power of
speech, and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, if not of
life, had not a friendly shower of tears come seasonably to her
relief. At length, recovering so far from her transport as to be
able to speak, she cried, "And is my dear Mr. Jones then your
nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady? And are your eyes opened to
him at last? And shall I live to see him as happy as he deserves?" "He
certainly is my nephew," says Allworthy, "and I hope all the
rest."- "And is this the dear good woman, the person," cries she, "to
whom all this discovery is owing?"- "She is indeed," says Allworthy.-
"Why, then," cried Mrs. Miller, upon her knees, "may Heaven shower
down its choicest blessings upon her head, and for this one good
action forgive her all her sins, be they never so many!"
  Mrs. Waters then informed them that she believed Jones would very
shortly be released; for that the surgeon was gone, in company with
a nobleman, to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that
Mr. Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure his
prisoner his liberty.
  Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there at his
return home; but that he was then obliged to go on some business of
consequence. He then called to a servant to fetch him a chair, and
presently left the two ladies together.
  Mr. Blifil, hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to attend
upon his uncle; for he never was deficient in such acts of duty. He
asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil way of asking
a man whither he is going: to which the other making no answer, he
again desired to know when he would be pleased to return?- Allworthy
made no answer to this neither, till he was just going into his chair,
and then, turning about, he said- "Harkee, sir, do you find out,
before my return, the letter which your mother sent me on her
death-bed." Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a situation to
be envied only by a man who is just going to be hanged.
                                Chapter 9

  A further continuation

  Allworthy took an opportunity, whilst he was in the chair, of
reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered
him; and there were some expressions in it concerning himself which
drew tears from his eyes. At length he arrived at Mr. Western's, and
was introduced to Sophia.
  When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and lady
had taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued; during which
the latter, who had been prepared for the visit by her father, sat
playing with her fan, and had every mark of confusion both in her
countenance and behaviour. At length Allworthy, who was himself a
little disconcerted, began thus: "I am afraid, Miss Western, my family
hath been the occasion of giving you some uneasiness; to which, I
fear, I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be
assured, madam, had I at first known how disagreeable the proposals
had been, I should not have suffered you to have been so long
persecuted. I hope, therefore, you will not think the design of this
visit is to trouble you with any further solicitations of that kind,
but entirely to relieve you from them."
  "Sir," said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, "this behaviour
is most kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr.
Allworthy; but as you have been so kind to mention this matter, you
will pardon me for saying, it hath, indeed, given me great uneasiness,
and hath been the occasion of my suffering much cruel treatment from a
father, who was, till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest
of all parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous
to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not in our
own power; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot force them in his
favour." "I assure you, most amiable young lady," said Allworthy, "I
am capable of no such resentment, had the person been my own son, and
had I entertained the highest esteem for him. For you say truly,
madam, we cannot force our inclinations, much less can they be
directed by another." "Oh! sir," answered Sophia, "every word you
speak proves you deserve that good, that great, that benevolent
character the whole world allows you. I assure you, sir, nothing less
than the certain prospect of future misery could have made me resist
the commands of my father." "I sincerely believe you, madam," replied
Allworthy, "and I heartily congratulate you on your prudent foresight,
since by so justifiable a resistance you have avoided misery indeed!"
"You speak now, Mr. Allworthy," cries she, "with a delicacy which few
men are capable of feeling! but surely, in my opinion, to lead our
lives with one to whom we are indifferent must be a state of
wretchedness.- Perhaps that wretchedness would be even increased by a
sense of the merits of an object to whom we cannot give our
affections. If I had married Mr. Blifil--" "Pardon my interrupting
you, madam," answered Allworthy, "but I cannot bear the supposition.-
Believe me, Miss Western, I rejoice from my heart, I rejoice in your
escape.-- I have discovered the wretch for whom you have suffered all
this cruel violence from your father to be a villain." "How, sir!"
cries Sophia- "you must believe this surprizes me."-- "It hath
surprized me, madam," answered Allworthy, "and so it will the world.-
But I have acquainted you with the real truth." "Nothing but truth,"
says Sophia, "can, I am convinced, come from the lips of Mr.
Allworthy.-- Yet, sir, such sudden, such unexpected news-- Discovered,
you say-- may villany be ever so!"-- "You will soon enough hear the
story," cries Allworthy;- "at present let us not mention so detested
a name.- I have another matter of a very serious nature to propose.-
O! Miss Western, I know your vast worth, nor can I so easily part with
the ambition of being allied to it.- I have a near relation, madam, a
young man whose character is, I am convinced, the very opposite to
that of this wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his
was to have been. Could I, madam, hope you would admit a visit from
him?" Sophia, after a minute's silence, answered, "I will deal with
the utmost sincerity with Mr. Allworthy. His character, and the
obligation I have just received from him, demand it. I have determined
at present to listen to no such proposals from any person. My only
desire is to be restored to the affection of my father, and to be
again the mistress of his family. This, sir, I hope to owe to your
good offices. Let me beseech you, let me conjure you, by all the
goodness which I, and all who know you, have experienced, do not, the
very moment when you have released me from one persecution, do not
engage me in another as miserable and as fruitless." "Indeed, Miss
Western," replied Allworthy, "I am capable of no such conduct; and if
this be your resolution, he must submit to the disappointment,
whatever torments he may suffer under it." "I must smile now, Mr.
Allworthy," answered Sophia, "when you mention the torments of a man
whom I do not know, and who can consequently have so little
acquaintance with me." "Pardon me, dear young lady," cries Allworthy,
"I begin now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the
repose of his future days; since, if ever man was capable of a
sincere, violent, and noble passion, such, I am convinced, is my
unhappy nephew's for Miss Western." "A nephew of your's, Mr.
Allworthy!" answered Sophia. "It is surely strange. I never heard of
him before." "Indeed, madam," cries Allworthy, "it is only the
circumstance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and
which, till this day, was a secret to me.- Mr. Jones, who has long
loved you, he! he is my nephew!" "Mr. Jones your nephew, sir!" cries
Sophia, "can it be possible?"- "He is, indeed, madam," answered
Allworthy; "he is my own sister's son- as such I shall always own him;
nor am I ashamed of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past
behaviour to him; but I was as ignorant of his merit as of his birth.
Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly-- Indeed I have."-- Here
the good man wiped his eyes, and after a short pause proceeded- "I
never shall be able to reward him for his sufferings without your
assistance.-- Believe me, most amiable young lady, I must have a great
esteem of that offering which I make to your worth. I know he hath
been guilty of faults; but there is great goodness of heart at the
bottom. Believe me, madam, there is." Here he stopped, seeming to
expect an answer, which he presently received from Sophia, after she
had a little recovered herself from the hurry of spirits into which so
strange and sudden information had thrown her: "I sincerely wish you
joy, sir, of a discovery in which you seem to have such satisfaction.
I doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can promise yourself
from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thousand good qualities,
which makes it impossible he should not behave well to such an
uncle."- "I hope, madam," said Allworthy, "he hath those good
qualities which must make him a good husband.- He must, I am sure, be
of all men the most abandoned, if a lady of your merit should
condescend--" "You must pardon me, Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia; "I
cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr. Jones, I am convinced,
hath much merit; but I shall never receive Mr. Jones as one who is to
be my husband- Upon my honour I never will."- "Pardon me, madam,"
cries Allworthy, "if I am a little surprized, after what I have heard
from Mr. Western-- I hope the unhappy young man hath done nothing to
forfeit your good opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it.
Perhaps, he may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The
same villany may have injured him everywhere.- He is no murderer, I
assure you; as he hath been called." "Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia,
"I have told you my resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath
told you; but, whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I
know my heart, I have given no occasion for them; since it hath always
been a fixed principle with me, never to have married without his
consent. This is, I think, the duty of a child to a parent; and this,
I hope, nothing could ever have prevailed with me to swerve from. I do
not indeed conceive that the authority of any parent can oblige us to
marry in direct opposition to our inclinations. To avoid a force of
this kind, which I had reason to suspect, I left my father's house,
and sought protection elsewhere. This is the truth of my story; and if
the world, or my father, carry my intentions any farther, my own
conscience will acquit me." "I hear you, Miss Western," cries
Allworthy, "with admiration. I admire the justness of your sentiments;
but surely there is more in this. I am cautious of offending you,
young lady; but am I to look on all which I have hitherto heard or
seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty from your
father on the account of a man to whom you have been always absolutely
indifferent?" "I beg, Mr. Allworthy," answered Sophia, "you will not
insist on my reasons;- yes, I have suffered indeed; I will not, Mr.
Allworthy, conceal-- I will be very sincere with you-I own I had a
great opinion of Mr. Jones- I believe- I know I have suffered for my
opinion- I have been treated cruelly by my aunt, as well as by my
father; but that is now past- I beg I may not be farther pressed; for,
whatever hath been, my resolution is now fixed. Your nephew, sir, hath
many virtues- he hath great virtues, Mr. Allworthy. I question not but
he will do you honour in the world, and make you happy."- "I wish I
could make him so, madam," replied Allworthy; "but that I am convinced
is only in your power. It is that conviction which hath made me so
earnest a solicitor in his favour." "You are deceived; indeed, sir,
you are deceived," said Sophia. "I hope not by him. It is sufficient
to have deceived me. Mr. Allworthy, I must insist on being pressed no
farther on this subject. I should be sorry- nay, I will not injure him
in your favour. I wish Mr. Jones very well. I sincerely wish him well;
and I repeat it again to you, whatever demerit he may have to me, I am
certain he hath many good qualities. I do not disown my former
thoughts; but nothing can ever recal them. At present there is not a
man upon earth whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr. Jones; nor
would the addresses of Mr. Blifil himself be less agreeable to me."
  Western had been long impatient for the event of this conference,
and was just now arrived at the door to listen; when, having heard the
last sentiments of his daughter's heart, he lost all temper, and,
bursting open the door in a rage, cried out- "It is a lie! It is a
d--n'd lie! It is all owing to that d--n'd rascal Jones; and if she
could get at un, she'd ha un any hour of the day." Here Allworthy
interposed, and addressing himself to the squire with some anger in
his look, he said, "Mr. Western, you have not kept your word with
me. You promised to abstain from all violence."- "Why, so I did,"
cries Western, "as long as it was possible; but to hear a wench
telling such confounded lies-- Zounds! doth she think, if she can make
vools of other volk, she can make one of me?-- No, no, I know her
better than thee dost." "I am sorry to tell you, sir," answered
Allworthy, "it doth not appear, by your behaviour to this young lady,
that you know her at all. I ask pardon for what I say: but I think our
intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is your
daughter, Mr. Western, and I think she doth honour to your name. If I
was capable of envy, I should sooner envy you on this account than any
other man whatever."- "Odrabbit it!" cries the squire, "I wish she was
thine, with all my heart- wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the
trouble o' her." "Indeed, my good friend," answered Allworthy, "you
yourself are the cause of all the trouble you complain of. Place that
confidence in the young lady which she so well deserves, and I am
certain you will be the happiest father on earth."-- "I confidence in
her?" cries the squire. "'Sblood! what confidence can I place in
her, when she won't do as I would ha' her? Let her gi' but her consent
to marry as I would ha' her, and I'll place as much confidence in
her as wouldst ha' me."-- "You have no right, neighbour," answered
Allworthy, "to insist on any such consent. A negative voice your
daughter allows you, and God and nature have thought proper to allow
you no more."- "A negative voice!" cries the squire. "Ay! ay! I'll
show you what a negative voice I ha.- Go along, go into your chamber,
go, you stubborn--." "Indeed, Mr. Western," said Allworthy, "indeed
you use her cruelly- I cannot bear to see this- you shall, you must
behave to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treatment."
"Yes, yes," said the squire, "I know what she deserves: now she's
gone, I'll shew you what she deserves. See here, sir, here is a letter
from my cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi' me
to understand that the fellow is got out of prison again; and here she
advises me to take all the care I can o' the wench. Odzookers!
neighbour Allworthy, you don't know what it is to govern a daughter."
  The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his own
sagacity; and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, acquainted him
with the whole discovery which he had made concerning Jones, with
his anger to Blifil, and with ever particular which hath been
disclosed to the reader in the preceding chapters.
  Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, as
changeable in them. No sooner than was Western informed of Mr.
Allworthy's intention to make Jones his heir, than he joined
heartily with the uncle in every commendation of the nephew, and
became as eager for her marriage with Jones, as he had before been
to couple her to Blifil.
  Here Mr. Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what
had passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great
surprize.
  The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with astonishment at
this account.- At last he cried out, "Why, what can be the meaning of
this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o' un she was, that I'll be sworn
to.-- Odzookers! I have hit o't. As sure as a gun I have hit o' the
very right o't. It's all along o' zister. The girl hath got a
hankering after this son of a whore of a lord. I vound 'em together at
my cousin, my Lady Bellaston's. He hath turned the head o' her, that's
certain- but d--n me if he shall ha her- I'll ha no lords nor
courtiers in my vamily."
  Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated his
resolution to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly
recommended gentle methods to Mr. Western, as those by which he
might be assured of succeeding best with his daughter. He then took
his leave, and returned back to Mrs. Miller, but was forced to
comply with the earnest entreaties of the squire, in promising to
bring Mr. Jones to visit him that afternoon, that he might, as he
said, "make all matters up with the young gentleman." At Mr.
Allworthy's departure, Western promised to follow his advice in his
behaviour to Sophia, saying, "I don't know how 'tis, but d--n me,
Allworthy, if you don't make me always do just as you please; and
yet I have as good an estate as you, and am in the commission of the
peace as well as yourself."
                                Chapter 10

  Wherein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion

  When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he heard Mr. Jones was just
arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty
chamber, whither he ordered Mr. Jones to be brought to him alone.
 It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene than the
meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs. Waters, as the reader
may well suppose, had at her last visit discovered to him the secret
of his birth). The first agonies of joy which were felt on both
sides are indeed, beyond my power to describe: I shall not therefore
attempt it. After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he
had prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, "O my
child!" he cried, "how have I been to blame! how have I injured you!
What amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust
suspicions which I have entertained, and for all the sufferings they
have occasioned to you?" "Am I not now made amends?" cries Jones.
"Would not my sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have
been now richly repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this
tenderness, overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the
transports which flow so fast upon me. To be again restored to your
presence, to your favour; to be once more thus kindly received by my
great, my noble, my generous benefactor."- "Indeed, child," cries
Allworthy, "I have used you cruelly."-- He then explained to him all
the treachery of Blifil, and again repeated expressions of the utmost
concern, for having been induced by that treachery to use him so
ill. "O, talk not so!" answered Jones; "indeed, sir, you have used
me nobly. The wisest man might be deceived as you were; and, under
such a deception, the best must have acted just as you did. Your
goodness displayed itself in the midst of your anger, just as it
then seemed. I owe everything to that goodness, of which I have been
most unworthy. Do not put me on self-accusation, by carrying your
generous sentiments too far. Alas! sir, I have not been punished
more than I have deserved; and it shall be the whole business of my
future life to deserve that happiness you now bestow on me; for,
believe me, my dear uncle, my punishment hath not been thrown away
upon me: though I have been a great, I am not a hardened sinner; I
thank Heaven, I have had time to reflect on my past life, where,
though I cannot charge myself with any gross villany, yet I can
discern follies and vices more than enough to repent and to be ashamed
of; follies which have been attended with dreadful consequences to
myself, and have brought me to the brink of destruction." "I am
rejoiced, my dear child," answered Allworthy, "to hear you talk thus
sensibly; for as I am convinced hypocrisy (good Heaven! how have I
been imposed on by it in others!) was never among your faults, so I
can readily believe all you say. You now see, Tom, to what dangers
imprudence alone may subject virtue (for virtue, I am now convinced,
you love in a great degree). Prudence is indeed the duty which we
owe to ourselves; and if we will be so much our own enemies as to
neglect it, we are not to wonder if the world is deficient in
discharging their duty to us; for when a man lays the foundation of
his own ruin, others will, I am afraid, be too apt to build upon it.
You say, however, you have seen your errors, and will reform them. I
firmly believe you, my dear child; and therefore, from this moment,
you shall never be reminded of them by me. Remember them only yourself
so far as for the future to teach you the better to avoid them; but
still remember, for your comfort, that there is this great
difference between those faults which candor may construe into
imprudence, and those which can be deduced from villany only. The
former, perhaps, are even more apt to subject a man to ruin; but if he
reform, his character will, at length, be totally retrieved; the
world, though not immediately, will in time be reconciled to him;
and he may reflect, not without some mixture of pleasure, on the
dangers he hath escaped; but villany, my boy, when once discovered, is
irretrievable; the stains which this leaves behind, no time will
wash away. The censures of mankind will pursue the wretch, their scorn
will abash him in publick; and if shame drives him into retirement, he
will go to it with all those terrors with which a weary child, who
is afraid of hobgoblins, retreats from company to go to bed alone.
Here his murdered conscience will haunt him.- Repose, like a false
friend, will fly from him. Wherever he turns his eyes, horror presents
itself; if he looks backward, unavailable repentance treads on his
heels; if forward, incurable despair stares him in the face, till,
like a condemned prisoner confined in a dungeon, he detests his
present condition, and yet dreads the consequence of that hour which
is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I say, my child, that
this is not your case; and rejoice with thankfulness to him who hath
suffered you to see your errors, before they have brought on you
that destruction to which a persistence in even those errors must have
led you. You have deserted them; and the prospect now before you is
such, that happiness seems in your own power." At these words Jones
fetched a deep sigh; upon which, when Allworthy remonstrated, he said,
"Sir, I will conceal nothing from you: I fear there is one consequence
of my vices I shall never be able to retrieve. O, my dear uncle! I
have lost a treasure." "You need say no more," answered Allworthy;
"I will be explicit with you; I know what you lament; I have seen
the young lady, and have discoursed with her concerning you. This I
must insist on, as an earnest of your sincerity in all you have
said, and of the stedfastness of your resolution, that you obey me
in one instance. To abide intirely by the determination of the young
lady, whether it shall be in your favour or no. She hath already
suffered enough from solicitations which hate to think of; she shall
owe no further constraint to my family: I know her father will be as
ready to torment her now on your account as he hath formerly been on
another's; but I am determined she shall suffer no more confinement,
no more violence, no more uneasy hours." "O, my dear uncle!"
answered Jones, "lay, I beseech you, some command on me, in which I
shall have some merit in obedience. Believe me, sir, the only instance
in which I could disobey you would be to give an uneasy moment to my
Sophia. No, sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her displeasure
beyond all hope of forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful
reflection of causing her misery, will be sufficient to overpower
me. To call Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only additional
blessing which heaven can bestow; but it is a blessing which I must
owe to her alone." "I will not flatter you, child," cries Allworthy;
"I fear your case is desperate: I never saw stronger marks of an
unalterable resolution in any person than appeared in her vehement
declarations against receiving your addresses; for which, perhaps, you
can account better than myself." "Oh, sir! I can account too well,"
answered Jones; "I have sinned against her beyond all hope of
pardon; and guilty as I am, my guilt unfortunately appears to her in
ten times blacker than the real colours. O, my dear uncle! I find my
follies are irretrievable; and all your goodness cannot save me from
perdition."
  A servant now acquainted them that Mr. Western was below stairs; for
his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the afternoon. Upon
which Jones, whose eyes were full of tears, begged his uncle to
entertain Western a few minutes, till he a little recovered himself;
to which the good man consented, and, having ordered Mr. Western to be
shown into a parlour, went down to him.
  Mrs. Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she had not
yet seen him since his release from prison) than she came eagerly into
the room, and, advancing towards Jones, wished him heartily joy of his
new-found uncle and his happy reconciliation; adding, "I wish I
could give you joy on another account, my dear child; but anything
so inexorable I never saw."
  Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she meant.
"Why then," says she, "I have been with the young lady, and have
explained all matters to her, as they were told to me by my son
Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt about the letter; of
that I am certain; for I told her my son Nightingale was ready to take
his oath, if she pleased, that it was all his own invention, and the
letter of his inditing. I told her the very reason of sending the
letter ought to recommend you to her the more, as it was all upon
her account, and a plain proof that you was resolved to quit all
your profligacy for the future; that you had never been guilty of a
single instance of infidelity to her since your seeing her in town:
I am afraid I went too far there; but Heaven forgive me! I hope your
future behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all I
can; but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible. She says, she
had forgiven many faults on account of youth; but expressed such
detestation of the character of a libertine, that she absolutely
silenced me. I often attempted to excuse you; but the justness of
her accusation flew in my face. Upon my honour, she is a lovely woman,
and one of the sweetest and most sensible creatures I ever saw. I
could have almost kissed her for one expression she made use of. It
was a sentiment worthy of Seneca, or of a bishop. 'I once fancied,
madam' said she, 'I had discovered great goodness of heart in Mr.
Jones; and for that I own I had a sincere esteem; but an entire
profligacy of manners will corrupt the best heart in the world; and
all which a good-natured libertine can expect is, that we should mix
some grains of pity with our contempt and abhorrence.' She is an
angelic creature, that is the truth on't." "O, Mrs. Miller!"
answered Jones, "can I bear to think I have lost such an angel?"
"Lost! no," cries Mrs. Miller; "I hope you have not lost her yet.
Resolve to leave such vicious courses, and you may yet have hopes;
nay, if she should remain inexorable, there is another young lady, a
sweet pretty young lady, and a swinging fortune, who is absolutely
dying for love of you. I heard of it this very morning, and I told
it to Miss Western; nay, I went a little beyond the truth again; for I
told her you had refused her; but indeed I knew you would refuse
her. And here I must give you a little comfort; when I mentioned the
young lady's name, who is no other than the pretty widow Hunt, I
thought she turned pale; but when I said you had refused her, I will
be sworn her face was all over scarlet in an instant; and these were
her very words: 'I will not deny but that I believe he has some
affection for me.'
  Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Western, who
could no longer be kept out of the room even by the authority of
Allworthy himself; though this, as we have often seen, had a wonderful
power over him.
  Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, "My old friend
Tom, I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all past must be
forgotten; I could not intend any affront to thee, because, as
Allworthy here knows, nay, dost know it thyself, I took thee for
another person; and where a body means no harm, what signifies a hasty
word or two? One Christian must forget and forgive another." "I
hope, sir," said Jones, "I shall never forget the many obligations I
have had to you; but as for any offence towards me, I declare I am
an utter stranger." "A't," says Western, "then give me thy fist; a't
as hearty an honest cock as any in the kingdom. Come along with me;
I'll carry thee to thy mistress this moment." Here Allworthy
interposed; and the squire being unable to prevail either with the
uncle or nephew, was, after some litigation, obliged to consent to
delay introducing Jones to Sophia till the afternoon; at which time
Allworthy, as well in compassion to Jones as in compliance with the
eager desires of Western, was prevailed upon to promise to attend at
the tea-table.
  The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with
which, had it happened earlier in our history, we would have
entertained our reader; but as we have now leisure only to attend to
what is very material, it shall suffice to say, that matters being
entirely adjusted as to the afternoon visit, Mr. Western again
returned home.
                                Chapter 11

  The history draws nearer to a conclusion

  When Mr. Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr. Allworthy
and Mrs. Miller that his liberty had been procured by two lords,
who, together with two surgeons and a friend of Mr. Nightingale's, had
attended the magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on
the surgeons' oaths, that the wounded person was out of all manner
of danger from his wound, he was discharged.
  One only of these lords, he said, he had ever seen before, and
that no more than once; but the other had greatly surprized him, by
asking his pardon for an offence he had been guilty of towards him,
occasioned, he said, entirely by his ignorance who he was.
  Now the reality of the case, with which Jones was not acquainted
till afterwards, was this:- The lieutenant whom Lord Fellamar had
employed, according to the advice of Lady Bellaston, to press Jones as
a vagabond into the sea-service, when he came to report to his
lordship the event which we have before seen, spoke very favourably of
the behaviour of Mr. Jones on all accounts, and strongly assured
that lord that he must have mistaken the person, for that Jones was
certainly a gentleman; insomuch that his lordship, who was strictly
a man of honour, and would by no means have been guilty of an action
which the world in general would have condemned, began to be much
concerned for the advice which he had taken.
  Within a day or two after this, Lord Fellamar happened to dine
with the Irish peer, who, in a conversation upon the duel,
acquainted his company with the character of Fitzpatrick; to which,
indeed, he did not do strict justice, especially in what related to
his lady. He said she was the most innocent, the most injured woman
alive, and that from compassion alone he had undertaken her cause.
He then declared an intention of going the next morning to
Fitzpatrick's lodgings, in order to prevail with him, if possible,
to consent to a separation from his wife, who, the peer said, was in
apprehensions for her life, if she should ever return to be under
the power of her husband. Lord Fellamar agreed to go with him, that he
might satisfy himself more concerning Jones and the circumstances of
the duel; for he was by no means easy concerning the part he had
acted. The moment his lordship gave a hint of his readiness to
assist in the delivery of the lady, it was eagerly embraced by the
other nobleman, who depended much on the authority of Lord Fellamar,
as he thought it would greatly contribute to awe Fitzpatrick into a
compliance; and perhaps he was in the right; for the poor Irishman
no sooner saw these noble peers had undertaken the cause of his
wife, than he submitted, and articles of separation were soon drawn up
and signed between the parties.
  Fitzpatrick, who had been so well satisfied by Mrs. Waters
concerning the innocence of his wife with Jones at Upton, or, perhaps,
from some other reasons, was now become so indifferent to that matter,
that he spoke highly in favour of Jones to Lord Fellamar, took all the
blame upon himself, and said the other had behaved very much like a
gentleman and a man of honour; and upon that lord's further inquiry
concerning Mr. Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was nephew to a
gentleman of very great fashion and fortune, which was the account
he had just received from Mrs. Waters after her interview with
Dowling.
  Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do everything in his
power to make satisfaction to a gentleman whom he had so grossly
injured, and without any consideration of rivalship (for he had now
given over all thoughts of Sophia), determined to procure Mr.
Jones's liberty, being satisfied, as well from Fitzpatrick as his
surgeon, that the wound was not mortal. He therefore prevailed with
the Irish peer to accompany him to the place where Jones was confined,
to whom he behaved as we have already related.
  When Allworthy returned to his lodgings, he immediately carried
Jones into his room, and then acquainted him with the whole matter, as
well what he had heard from Mrs. Waters as what he had discovered from
Mr. Dowling.
  Jones expressed great astonishment and no less concern at this
account, but without making any comment or observation upon it. And
now a message was brought from Mr. Blifil, desiring to know if his
uncle was at leisure, that he might wait upon him. Allworthy started
and turned pale, and then in a more passionate tone than I believe
he had ever used before, bid the servant tell Blifil he knew him
not. "Consider, dear sir," cries Jones, in a trembling voice. "I
have considered," answered Allworthy, "and you yourself shall carry my
message to the villain. No one can carry him the sentence of his own
ruin so properly, as the man whose ruin he hath so villanously
contrived." "Pardon me, dear sir," said Jones; "a moment's
reflection will, I am sure, convince you of the contrary. What might
perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine be insult;
and to whom?-my own brother and your nephew. Nor did he use me so
barbarously-indeed, that would have been more inexcusable than
anything he hath done. Fortune may tempt men of no very bad
dispositions to injustice; but insults proceed only from black and
rancorous minds, and have no temptations to excuse them. Let me
beseech you, sir, to do nothing by him in the present height of your
anger. Consider, my dear uncle, I was not myself condemned unheard."
Allworthy stood silent a moment, and then, embracing Jones, he said,
with tears gushing from his eyes, "O my child! to what goodness have I
been so long blind!"
  Mrs. Miller entering the room at that moment, after a gentle rap
which was not perceived, and seeing Jones in the arms of his uncle,
the poor woman in an agony of joy fell upon her knees, and burst forth
into the most ecstatic thanksgivings to heaven for what had
happened; then, running to Jones, she embraced him eagerly, crying,
"My dearest friend, I wish you joy a thousand and a thousand times
of this blest day." And next Mr. Allworthy himself received the same
congratulations. To which he answered, "Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Miller, I
am beyond expression happy." Some few more raptures having passed on
all sides, Mrs. Miller desired them both to walk down to dinner in the
parlour, where she said there were a very happy set of people
assembled- being indeed no other than Mr. Nightingale and his bride,
and his cousin Harriet with her bridegroom.
  Allworthy excused himself from dining with the company, saying he
had ordered some little thing for him and his nephew in his own
apartment, for that they had much private business to discourse of;
but would not resist promising the good woman that both he and Jones
would make part of her society at supper.
  Mrs. Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? "for
indeed," says she, "I cannot be easy while such a villain is in my
house."- Allworthy answered, "He was as uneasy as herself on the same
account." "Oh!" cries she, "if that be the case, leave the matter to
me, I'll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warrant you.
Here are two or three lusty fellows below-stairs." "There will be no
need of any violence," cries Allworthy; "if you will carry him a
message from me, he will, I am convinced, depart of his own accord."
"Will I?" said Mrs. Miller; "I never did anything in my life with a
better will." Here Jones interfered, and said, "He had considered
the matter better, and would, if Mr. Allworthy pleased, be himself the
messenger. I know," says he, "already enough of your pleasure, sir,
and I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words. Let me
beseech you, sir," added he, "to reflect on the dreadful
consequences of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How
unfit, alas! is this poor man to die in his present situation." This
suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs. Miller. She left the room,
crying, "You are too good, Mr. Jones, infinitely too good to live in
this world." But it made a deeper impression on Allworthy. "My good
child," said he, "I am equally astonished at the goodness of your
heart, and the quickness of your understanding. Heaven indeed forbid
that this wretch should be deprived of any means or time for
repentance! That would be a shocking consideration indeed. Go to
him, therefore, and use your own discretion; yet do not flatter him
with any hopes of my forgiveness; for I shall never forgive villany
farther than my religion obliges me, and that extends not either to
our bounty or our conversation."
  Jones went up to Blifil's room, whom he found in a situation which
moved his pity, though it would have raised a less amiable passion
in many beholders. He had cast himself on his bed, where he lay
abandoning himself to despair, and drowned in tears; not in such tears
as flow from contrition, and wash away guilt from minds which have
been seduced or surprized into it unawares against the bent of their
natural dispositions, as will sometimes happen from human frailty,
even to the good; no, these tears were such as the frighted thief
sheds in his cart, and are indeed the effects of that concern which
the most savage natures are seldom deficient in feeling for
themselves.
  It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene in full
length. Let it suffice to say, that the behaviour of Jones was kind to
excess. He omitted nothing which his invention could supply, to
raise and comfort the drooping spirits of Blifil, before he
communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that he must quit
the house that evening. He offered to furnish him with any money he
wanted, assured him of his hearty forgiveness of all he had done
against him, that he would endeavour to live with him hereafter as a
brother, and would leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a
reconciliation with his uncle.
  Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind whether
he should yet deny all; but, finding at last the evidence too strong
against him, he betook himself at last to confession. He then asked
pardon of his brother in the most vehement manner, prostrated
himself on the ground, and kissed his feet; in short, he was now as
remarkably mean as he had been before remarkably wicked.
  Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little
discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. He
raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, and advised
him to bear his afflictions more like a man; repeating, at the same
time, his promises, that he would do all in his power to lessen
them; for which Blifil, making many professions of his unworthiness,
poured forth a profusion of thanks; and then, he having declared he
would immediately depart to another lodging, Jones returned to his
uncle.
  Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with the
discovery which he had made concerning the L500 banknotes. "I have,"
said he, "already consulted a lawyer, who tells me, to my great
astonishment, that there is no punishment for a fraud of this kind.
Indeed, when I consider the black ingratitude of this fellow toward
you, I think a highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent person."
  "Good Heaven!" says Jones, is it possible?- I am shocked beyond
measure at this news. I thought there was not an honester fellow in
the world.-- The temptation of such a sum was too great for him to
withstand; for smaller matters have come safe to me through his
hand. Indeed, my dear uncle, you must suffer me to call it weakness
rather than ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor fellow loves
me, and hath done me some kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I
believe he hath repented of this very act; for it is not above a day
or two ago, when my affairs seemed in the most desperate situation,
that he visited me in my confinement, and offered me any money I
wanted. Consider, sir, what a temptation to a man who hath tasted such
bitter distress, it must be, to have a sum in his possession which
must put him and his family beyond any future possibility of suffering
the like."
  "Child," cries Allworthy, "you carry this forgiving temper too
far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders on
injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages vice.
The dishonesty of this fellow I might, perhaps, have pardoned, but
never his ingratitude. And give me leave to say, when we suffer any
temptation to atone for dishonesty itself, we are as candid and
merciful as we ought to be; and so far I confess I have gone; for I
have often pitied the fate of a highwayman, when I have been on the
grand jury; and have more than once applied to the judge on the behalf
of such as have had any mitigating circumstances in their case; but
when dishonesty is attended with any blacker crime, such as cruelty,
murder, ingratitude, or the like, compassion and forgiveness then
become faults. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be
punished; at least as far as I can punish him."
  This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not think
proper to make any reply; besides, the hour appointed by Mr. Western
now drew so near, that he had barely time left to dress himself.
Here therefore ended the present dialogue, and Jones retired to
another room, where Partridge attended, according to order, with his
cloaths.
  Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy discovery.
The poor fellow was unable to contain or express his transports. He
behaved like one frantic, and made almost as many mistakes while he
was dressing Jones as I have seen made by Harlequin in dressing
himself on the stage.
  His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He
recollected now many omens and presages of this happy event, some of
which he had remarked at the time, but many more he now remembered;
nor did he omit the dreams he had dreamt the evening before his
meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, "I always told your
honour something boded in my mind that you would one time or other
have it in your power to make my fortune." Jones assured him that this
boding should as certainly be verified with regard to him as all the
other omens had been to himself; which did not a little add to all the
raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived on account of his
master.
                                Chapter 12

  Approaching still nearer to the end

  Jones, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle to Mr.
Western's. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures ever beheld,
and his person alone would have charmed the greater part of womankind;
but we hope it hath already appeared in this history that Nature, when
she formed him, did not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this
merit only, to recommend her work.
  Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best
advantage, for which I leave my female readers to account, appeared so
extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not
forbear whispering Western, that he believed she was the finest
creature in the world. To which Western answered, in a whisper,
overheard by all present, "So much the better for Tom;- for d--n me if
he shan't ha the tousling her." Sophia was all over scarlet at these
words, while Tom's countenance was altogether as pale, and he was
almost ready to sink from his chair.
  The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged Allworthy out
of the room, telling him he had business of consequence to impart, and
must speak to him that instant in private, before he forgot it.
  The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear
strange to many readers, that those who had so much to say to one
another when danger and difficulty attended their conversation, and
who seemed so eager to rush into each other's arms when so many bars
lay in their way, now that with safety they were at liberty to say
or do whatever they pleased, should both remain for some time silent
and motionless; insomuch that a stranger of moderate sagacity might
have well concluded they were mutually indifferent; but so it was,
however strange it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast downwards
on the ground, and for some minutes continued in perfect silence.
  Mr. Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to speak, but
was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather sighing out,
some broken words; when Sophia at length, partly out of pity to him,
and partly to turn the discourse from the subject which she knew
well enough he was endeavouring to open, said-
  "Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in this
discovery." "And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate," said
Jones, sighing, "while I have incurred your displeasure?"- "Nay,
sir," says she, "as to that, you best know whether you have deserved
it." "Indeed, madam," answered he, "you yourself are as well
apprized of all my demerits. Mrs. Miller hath acquainted you with
the whole truth. O! my Sophia, am I never to hope for forgiveness?"-
"I think, Mr. Jones," said she, "I may almost depend on your own
justice, and leave it to yourself to pass sentence on your own
conduct."- "Alas! madam," answered he, "it is mercy, and not justice,
which I implore at your hands. Justice, I know, must condemn me.- Yet
not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that I most solemnly
declare you have had a true account." He then insisted much on the
security given him by Nightingale of a fair pretence for breaking off,
if, contrary to their expectations, her ladyship should have accepted
his offer; but confest that he had been guilty of a great indiscretion
to put such a letter as that into her power, "which," said he, "I have
dearly paid for, in the effect it has upon you." "I do not, I cannot,"
says she, "believe otherwise of that letter than you would have me. My
conduct, I think, shows you clearly I do not believe there is much
in that. And yet, Mr. Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what
past at Upton, so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman,
while I fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me?
Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion you have
profest to me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happiness can I assure
myself of with a man capable of so much inconstancy?" "O! my
Sophia," cries he, "do not doubt the sincerity of the purest passion
that ever inflamed a human breast. Think, most adorable creature, of
my unhappy situation, of my despair. Could I, my Sophia, have
flattered myself with the most distant hopes of being ever permitted
to throw myself at your feet in the manner I do now, it would not have
been in the power of any other woman to have inspired a thought
which the severest chastity could have condemned. Inconstancy to
you! O Sophia! if you can have goodness enough to pardon what is past,
do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy against
me. No repentance was ever more sincere. O! let it reconcile me to
my heaven in this dear bosom." "Sincere repentance, Mr. Jones,"
answered she, "will obtain the pardon of a sinner, but it is from
one who is a perfect judge of that sincerity. A human mind may be
imposed on; nor is there any infallible method to prevent it. You must
expect, however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentance to
pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its
sincerity." "Name any proof in my power," answered Jones eagerly.
"Time," replied she; "time alone, Mr. Jones, can convince me that
you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon these vicious
courses, which I should detest you for, if I imagined you capable of
persevering in them." "Do not imagine it," cries Jones. "On my knees I
intreat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall be the
business of my life to deserve." "Let it then," said she, "be the
business of some part of your life to show me you deserve it. I
think I have been explicit enough in assuring you, that, when I see
you merit my confidence, you will obtain it. After what is past,
sir, can you expect I should take you upon your word?"
  He replied, "Don't believe me upon my word; I have a better
security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to see and
to doubt." "What is that?" said Sophia, a little surprized. "I will
show you, my charming angel," cried Jones, seizing her hand and
carrying her to the glass. "There, behold it there in that lovely
figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, that mind which shines
through these eyes; can the man who shall be in possession of these be
inconstant? Impossible! my Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord
Rochester. You could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with
any eyes but your own." Sophia blushed and half smiled; but, forcing
again her brow into a frown- "If I am to judge," said she, "of the
future by the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when
I am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am out of
the room." "By heaven, by all that is sacred!" said Jones, "it never
was out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive the
grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to do with the
heart." "I will never marry a man," replied Sophia, very gravely, "who
shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as I am myself of
making such a distinction." "I will learn it," said Jones. "I have
learnt it already. The first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my
wife, taught it me at once; and all the rest of her sex from that
moment became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of
passion to my heart." "Well," says Sophia, "the proof of this must
be from time. Your situation, Mr. Jones, is now altered, and I
assure you I have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now
want no opportunity of being near me, and convincing me that your mind
is altered too." "O! my angel," cries Jones, "how shall I thank thy
goodness! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction in
my prosperity?-- Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you alone have
given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it the dear hope--
O! my Sophia, let it not be a distant one.- I will be all obedience to
your commands. I will not dare to press anything further than you
permit me. Yet let me intreat you to appoint a short tryal. O! tell me
when I may expect you will be convinced of what is most solemnly
true." "When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr. Jones," said she,
"I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not."- "O! don't look
unkindly thus, my Sophia," cries he. "I do not, I dare not press you.-
Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the period. Of
consider the impatience of love."-- "A twelvemonth, perhaps," said
she. "O! my Sophia," cries he, "you have named an eternity."- "Perhaps
it may be something sooner," says she; "I will not be teazed. If your
passion for me be what I would have it, I think you may now be easy."-
"Easy! Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as mine by so cold
a name.-- O! transporting thought! am I not assured that the blessed
day will come, when I shall call you mine; when fears shall be no
more; when I shall have that dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic
delight of making my Sophia happy?"-- "Indeed, sir," said she, "that
day is in your own power."-- "O! my dear, my divine angel," cried he,
"these words have made me mad with joy.-- But I must, I will thank
those dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss." He then
caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had never
ventured before.
  At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, burst
into the room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, cried out,
"To her, boy, to her, go to her.-- That's it, little honeys, O that's
it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath she appointed the day, boy? What,
shall it be to-morrow or next day? It shan't be put off a minute
longer than next day, I am resolved." "Let me beseech you, sir,"
says Jones, "don't let me be the occasion"-- "Beseech mine a --,"
cries Western. "I thought thou hadst been a lad of higher mettle
than to give way to a parcel of maidenish tricks.-- I tell thee 'tis
all flim-flam. Zoodikers! she'd have the wedding to-night with all her
heart. Would'st not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for
once. What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?" "Why should I confess,
sir," says Sophia, "since it seems you are so well acquainted with
my thoughts?"-- "That's a good girl," cries he, "and dost consent
then?" "No, indeed, sir," says Sophia, "I have given no such
consent."-- "And wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?" says
Western.-"Indeed, sir," says she, "I have no such intention." "But I
can tell thee," replied he, "why hast nut; only because thou dost love
to be disobedient, and to plague and vex thy father." "Pray, sir,"
said Jones, interfering-- "I tell thee thou art a puppy," cries he.
"When I vorbid her, then it was all nothing but sighing and whining,
and languishing and writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee.
All the spirit of contrary, that's all. She is above being guided and
governed by her father, that is the whole truth on't. It is only to
disoblige and contradict me." "What would my papa have me do?" cries
Sophia. "What would I ha thee do?" says he, "why, gi' un thy hand this
moment."-- "Well, sir," says Sophia, "I will obey you.- There is my
hand, Mr. Jones." "Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow
morning?" says Western.-- "I will be obedient to you, sir," cries
she.-- "Why then to-morrow morning be the day," cries he. "Why then
to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since you will have it so,"
says Sophia. Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an
agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about the room,
presently crying out- "Where the devil is Allworthy? He is without
now, a talking with that d--d lawyer Dowling, when he should be
minding other matters." He then sallied out in quest of him, and very
opportunely left the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone.
  But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, "If you won't believe
me, you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy consent, Sophy, to be
married to-morrow?" "Such are your commands, sir," cries Sophia,
"and I dare not be guilty of disobedience." "I hope, madam," cries
Allworthy, "my nephew will merit so much goodness, and will be
always as sensible as myself of the great honour you have done my
family. An alliance with so charming and so excellent a young lady
would indeed be an honour to the greatest in England." "Yes," cries
Western, "but if I had suffered her to stand shill I shall I, dilly
dally, you might not have had that honour yet a while; I was forced to
use a little fatherly authority to bring her to." "I hope not, sir,"
cries Allworthy, "I hope there not the least constraint." "Why,
there," cries Western, "you may bid her unsay all again if you will.
Dost repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, Sophia?" "Indeed,
papa," cries she, "I do not repent, nor do I believe I ever shall,
of any promise in favour of Mr. Jones." "Then, nephew," cries
Allworthy, "I felicitate you most heartily; for I think you are the
happiest of men. And, madam, you will give me leave to congratulate
you on this joyful occasion: indeed, I am convinced you have
bestowed yourself on one who will be sensible of your great merit, and
who will at least use his best endeavours to deserve it." "His best
endeavours!" cries Western, "that he will, I warrant un.-- Harkee,
Allworthy, I'll bet thee five pounds to a crown we have a boy
to-morrow nine months; but prithee tell me what wut ha! Wut ha
Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? for, please jupiter, we'll make a night
on't." "Indeed, sir," said Allworthy, "you must excuse me; both my
nephew and I were engaged before I suspected this near approach of his
happiness."- "Engaged!" quoth the squire, "never tell me.- I won't
part with thee to-night upon any occasion. Shalt sup here, please
the lord Harry." "You must pardon me, my dear neighbour!" answered
Allworthy; "I have given a solemn promise, and that you know I never
break." "Why, prithee, who art engaged to?" cries the squire.--
Allworthy then informed him, as likewise of the company.--
"Odzookers!" answered the squire, "I will go with thee, and so shall
Sophy! for I won't part with thee to-night; and it would be barbarous
to part Tom and the girl." This offer was presently embraced by
Allworthy, and Sophia consented, having first obtained a private
promise from her father that he would not mention a syllable
concerning her marriage.
                             Chapter the Last

  In which the history is concluded

  Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, to wait
on his father, who received him much more kindly than he expected.
There likewise he met his uncle, who was returned to town in quest
of his new-married daughter.
  This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have happened to
the young gentleman; for these brothers lived in a constant state of
contention about the government of their children, both heartily
despising the method which each other took. Each of them therefore now
endeavoured, as much as he could, to palliate the offence which his
own child had committed, and to aggravate the match of the other. This
desire of triumphing over his brother, added to the many arguments
which Allworthy had used, so strongly operated on the old gentleman,
that he met his son with a smiling countenance, and actually agreed to
sup with him that evening at Mrs. Miller's.
  As for the other, who really loved his daughter with the most
immoderate affection, there was little difficulty in inclining him
to a reconciliation. He was no sooner informed by his nephew where his
daughter and her husband were, than he declared he would instantly
go to her. And when he arrived there, he scarce suffered her to fall
upon her knees before he took her up, and embraced her with a
tenderness which affected all who saw him; and in less than a
quarter of an hour was as well reconciled to both her and her
husband as if he had himself joined their hands.
  In this situation were affairs when Mr. Allworthy and his company
arrived to complete the happiness of Mrs. Miller, who no sooner saw
Sophia than she guessed everything that had happened; and so great was
her friendship to Jones, that it added not a few transports to those
she felt on the happiness of her own daughter.
  There have not, I believe, been many instances of a number of people
met together, where every one was so perfectly happy as in this
company. Amongst whom the father of young Nightingale enjoyed the
least perfect content; for, notwithstanding his affection for his son,
notwithstanding the authority and the arguments of Allworthy, together
with the other motive mentioned before, he could not so entirely be
satisfied with his son's choice; and, perhaps, the presence of
Sophia herself tended a little to aggravate and heighten his
concern, as a thought now and then suggested itself, that his son
might have had that lady, or some other such. Not that any of the
charms which adorned either the person or mind of Sophia created the
uneasiness; it was the contents of her father's coffers which set
his heart a longing. These were the charms which he could not bear
to think his son had sacrificed to the daughter of Mrs. Miller.
  The brides were both very pretty women; but so totally were they
eclipsed by the beauty of Sophia, that, had they not been two of the
best-tempered girls in the world, it would have raised some envy in
their breasts; for neither of their husbands could long keep his
eyes from Sophia, who sat at the table like a queen receiving
homage, or, rather, like a superior being receiving adoration from all
around her. But it was an adoration which they gave, not which she
exacted; for she was as much distinguished by her modesty and
affability, as by all her other perfections.
  The evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, but
those the most who had been most unhappy before. Their former
sufferings and fears gave such a relish to their felicity, as even
love and fortune, in their fullest flow, could not have given
without the advantage of such a comparison. Yet, as great joy,
especially after a sudden change and revolution of circumstances, is
apt to be silent, and dwells rather in the heart than on the tongue,
Jones and Sophia appeared the least merry of the whole company;
which Western observed with great impatience, often crying out to
them, "Why dost not talk, boy? Why dost look so grave? Hast lost thy
tongue, girl? Drink another glass of wine; sha't drink another glass."
And, the more to enliven her, he would sometimes sing a merry song,
which bore some relation to matrimony and the loss of a maidenhead.
Nay, he would have proceeded so far on that topic as to have driven
her out of the room, if Mr. Allworthy had not checkt him, sometimes by
looks, and once or twice by a "Fie! Mr. Western!" He began, indeed,
once to debate the matter, and assert his right to talk to his own
daughter as he thought fit; but, as nobody seconded him, he was soon
reduced to order.
  Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with the
chearfulness and good-humour of the company, that he insisted on their
meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all did so; and the
lovely Sophia, who was now in private become a bride too, officiated
as the mistress of the ceremonies, or, in the polite phrase, did the
honours of the table. She had that morning given her hand to Jones, in
the chapel at Doctors'-Commons, where Mr. Allworthy, Mr. Western,
and Mrs. Miller, were the only persons present.
  Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the
company, who were that day to dine with him, should be acquainted with
her marriage. The same secrecy was enjoined to Mrs. Miller, and
Jones undertook for Allworthy. This somewhat reconciled the delicacy
of Sophia to the public entertainment which, in compliance with her
father's will, she was obliged to go to, greatly against her own
inclinations. In confidence of this secrecy, she went through the
day pretty well, till the squire, who was now advanced into the second
bottle, could contain his joy no longer, but, filling out a bumper,
drank a health to the bride. The health was immediately pledged by all
present, to the great confusion of our poor blushing Sophia, and the
great concern of Jones upon her account. To say truth, there was not a
person present made wiser by this discovery; for Mrs. Miller had
whispered it to her daughter, her daughter to her husband, her husband
to his sister, and she to all the rest.
  Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with the
ladies, and the squire sat in to his cups, in which he was, by
degrees, deserted by all the company, except the uncle of young
Nightingale, who loved his bottle as well as Western himself. These
two, therefore, sat stoutly to it during the whole evening, and long
after that happy hour which had surrendered the charming Sophia to the
eager arms of her enraptured Jones.
  Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a conclusion,
in which, to our great pleasure, though contrary, perhaps, to thy
expectation, Mr. Jones appears to be the happiest of all humankind;
for what happiness this world affords equal to the possession of
such a woman as Sophia, I sincerely own I have never yet discovered.
  As to the other persons who have made any considerable figure in
this history, as some may desire to know a little more concerning
them, we will proceed, in as few words as possible, to satisfy their
curiosity.
  Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he
hath yielded to the importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to
settle L200 a-year upon him; to which Jones hath privately added a
third. Upon this income he lives in one of the northern counties,
about 200 miles distant from London, and lays up L200 a-year out of
it, in order to purchase a seat in the next parliament from a
neighbouring borough, which he has bargained for with an attorney
there. He is also lately turned Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very
rich widow of that sect, whose estate lies in that part of the
kingdom.
  Square died soon after he writ the before mentioned letter; and as
to Thwackum, he continues at his vicarage. He hath made many fruitless
attempts to regain the confidence of Allworthy, or to ingratiate
himself with Jones, both of whom he flatters to their faces, and
abuses behind their backs. But in his stead, Mr. Allworthy hath lately
taken Mr. Abraham Adams into his house, of whom Sophia is grown
immoderately fond, and declares he shall have the tuition of her
children.
  Mrs. Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains the
little remains of her fortune. She lives in reputation at the polite
end of the town, and is so good an economist, that she spends three
times the income of her fortune, without running in debt. She
maintains a perfect intimacy with the lady of the Irish peer; and in
acts of friendship to her repays all the obligations she owes to her
husband.
  Mrs. Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and hath spent
two months together with her in the country. Lady Bellaston made the
latter a formal visit at her return to town, where she behaved to
Jones as to a perfect stranger, and, with great civility, wished him
joy on his marriage.
  Mr. Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the
neighbourhood of Jones, where the young gentleman, his lady, Mrs.
Miller, and her little daughter reside, and the most agreeable
intercourse subsists between the two families.
  As to those of lower account, Mrs. Waters returned into the country,
had a pension of L60 a-year settled upon her by Mr. Allworthy, and
is married to Parson Supple, on whom, at the instance of Sophia,
Western hath bestowed a considerable living.
  Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran away,
and was never since heard of; and Jones bestowed the money on his
family, but not in equal proportions, for Molly had much the
greatest share.
  As for Partridge, Jones hath settled L50 a-year on him; and he
hath again set up a school, in which he meets with much better
encouragement than formerly, and there is now a treaty of marriage
on foot between him and Miss Molly Seagrim, which, through the
mediation of Sophia, is likely to take effect.
  We now return to take leave of Mr. Jones and Sophia, who, within two
days after their marriage, attended Mr. Western and Mr. Allworthy into
the country. Western hath resigned his family seat, and the greater
part of his estate, to his son-in-law, and hath retired to a lesser
house of his in another part of the country, which is better for
hunting. Indeed, he is often as a visitant with Mr. Jones, who, as
well as his daughter, hath an infinite delight in doing everything
in their power to please him. And this desire of theirs is attended
with such success, that the old gentleman declares he was never
happy in his life till now. He hath here a parlour and ante-chamber to
himself, where he gets drunk with whom he pleases: and his daughter is
still as ready as formerly to play to him whenever he desires it;
for Jones hath assured her that, as, next to pleasing her, one of
his highest satisfactions is to contribute to the happiness of the old
man; so, the great duty which she expresses and performs to her
father, renders her almost equally dear to him with the love which she
bestows on himself.
  Sophia hath already produced him two fine children, a boy and a
girl, of whom the old gentleman is so fond, that he spends much of his
time in the nursery, where he declares the tattling of his little
grand-daughter, who is above a year and a half old, is sweeter music
than the finest cry of dogs in England.
  Allworthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the marriage, and
hath omitted no instance of showing his affection to him and his lady,
who love him as a father. Whatever in the nature of Jones had a
tendency to vice, has been corrected by continual conversation with
this good man, by his union with the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He
hath also, by reflection on his past follies, acquired a discretion
and prudence very uncommon in one of his lively parts.
  To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man and
woman, than this fond couple, so neither can any be imagined more
happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest affection for each
other, an affection daily encreased and confirmed by mutual
endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their conduct towards their
relations and friends less amiable than towards one another. And
such is their condescension, their indulgence, and their beneficence
to those below them, that there is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a
servant, who doth not most gratefully bless the day when Mr. Jones was
married to his Sophia.


                                   -THE END-