
                                 Henry Fielding

                     The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling

 To the Honourable George Lyttleton, Esq; One of the Lords Commissioners of the
                                    Treasury

Sir,
    Notwithstanding your constant Refusal, when I have asked Leave to prefix
your Name to this Dedication, I must still insist on my Right to desire your
Protection of this Work.
    To you, Sir, it is owing that this History was ever begun. It was by your
Desire that I first thought of such a Composition. So many Years have since
past, that you may have, perhaps, forgotten this Circumstance: But your Desires
are to me in the Nature of Commands; and the Impression of them is never to be
erased from my Memory.
    Again, Sir, without your Assistance this History had never been completed.
Be not startled at the Assertion. I do not intend to draw on you the Suspicion
of being a Romance Writer. I mean no more than that I partly owe to you my
Existence during great Part of the Time which I have employed in composing it:
another Matter which it may be necessary to remind you of; since there are
certain Actions of which you are apt to be extremely forgetful; but of these I
hope I shall always have a better Memory than yourself.
    Lastly, it is owing to you that the History appears what it now is. If there
be in this Work, as some have been pleased to say, a stronger Picture of a truly
benevolent Mind than is to be found in any other, who that knows you, and a
particular Acquaintance of yours, will doubt whence that Benevolence hath been
copied? The World will not, I believe, make me the Compliment of thinking I took
it from myself. I care not: This they shall own, that the two Persons from whom
I have taken it, that is to say, two of the best and worthiest Men in the World,
are strongly and zealously my Friends. I might be contented with this, and yet
my Vanity will add a third to the Number; and him one of the greatest and
noblest, not only in his Rank, but in every public and private Virtue. But here
whilst my Gratitude for the princely Benefactions of the Duke of Bedford bursts
from my Heart, you must forgive my reminding you, that it was you who first
recommended me to the Notice of my Benefactor.
    And what are your Objections to the Allowance of the Honour which I have
solicited? Why, you have commended the Book so warmly, that you should be
ashamed of reading your Name before the Dedication. Indeed, Sir, if the Book
itself doth not make you ashamed of your Commendations, nothing that I can here
write will, or ought. I am not to give up my Right to your Protection and
Patronage, because you have commended my Book: For though I acknowledge so many
Obligations to you, I do not add this to the Number; in which Friendship, I am
convinced, hath so little Share: Since that can neither biass your judgement, nor
pervert your Integrity. An Enemy may at any Time obtain your Commendation by
only deserving it; and the utmost which the Faults of your Friends can hope for
is your Silence; or, perhaps, if too severely accused, your gentle Palliation.
    In short, Sir, I suspect, that your Dislike of public Praise is your true
Objection to granting my Request. I have observed, that you have, in common with
my two other Friends, an Unwillingness to hear the least Mention of your own
Virtues; that, as a great Poet says of one of you, (he might justly have said it
of all three) you
 

                 Do Good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame.
 
If Men of this Disposition are as careful to shun Applause, as others are to
escape Censure, how just must be your Apprehension of your Character falling
into my Hands; since what would not a Man have Reason to dread, if attacked by
an Author who had received from him Injuries equal to my Obligations to you!
    And will not this Dread of Censure increase in Proportion to the Matter
which a Man is conscious of having afforded for it? If his whole Life, for
Instance, should have been one continued Subject of Satire, he may well tremble
when an incensed Satyrist takes him in Hand. Now, Sir, if we apply this to your
modest Aversion to Panegyric, how reasonable will your Fears of me appear!
    Yet surely you might have gratified my Ambition, from this single
Confidence, that I shall always prefer the Indulgence of your Inclinations to
the Satisfaction of my own. A very strong Instance of which I shall give you in
this Address; in which I am determined to follow the Example of all other
Dedicators, and will consider not what my Patron really deserves to have
written, but what he will be best pleased to read.
    Without further Preface then, I here present you with the Labours of some
Years of my Life. What Merit these Labours have is already known to yourself.
If, from your favourable judgement, I have conceived some Esteem for them, it
cannot be imputed to Vanity; since I should have agreed as implicitly to your
Opinion, had it been given in Favour of any other Man's Production. Negatively,
at least, I may be allowed to say, that had I been sensible of any great Demerit
in the Work, you are the last Person to whose Protection I would have ventured
to recommend it.
    From the Name of my Patron, indeed, I hope my Reader will be convinced, at
his very Entrance on this Work, that he will find in the whole Course of it
nothing prejudicial to the Cause of Religion and Virtue; nothing inconsistent
with the strictest Rules of Decency, nor which can offend even the chastest Eye
in the Perusal. On the contrary, I declare, that to recommend Goodness and
Innocence hath been my sincere Endeavour in this History. This honest Purpose
you have been pleased to think I have attained: And to say the Truth, it is
likeliest to be attained in Books of this Kind; for an Example is a Kind of
Picture, in which Virtue becomes as it were an Object of Sight, and strikes us
with an Idea of that Loveliness, which Plato asserts there is in her naked
Charms.
    Besides displaying that Beauty of Virtue which may attract the Admiration of
Mankind, I have attempted to engage a stronger Motive to Human Action in her
Favour, by convincing Men, that their true Interest directs them to a Pursuit of
her. For this Purpose I have shown, that no Acquisitions of Guilt can compensate
the Loss of that solid inward Comfort of Mind, which is the sure Companion of
Innocence and Virtue; nor can in the least balance the Evil of that Horror and
Anxiety which, in their Room, Guilt introduces into our Bosoms. And again, that
as these Acquisitions are in themselves generally worthless, so are the Means to
attain them not only base and infamous, but at best incertain, and always full
of Danger. Lastly, I have endeavoured strongly to inculcate, that Virtue and
Innocence can scarce ever be injured but by Indiscretion; and that it is this
alone which often betrays them into the Snares that Deceit and Villainy spread
for them. A Moral which I have the more industriously laboured, as the teaching
it is, of all others, the likeliest to be attended with Success; since, I
believe, it is much easier to make good Men wise, than to make bad Men good.
    For these Purposes I have employed all the Wit and Humour of which I am
Master in the following History; wherein I have endeavoured to laugh Mankind out
of their favourite Follies and Vices. How far I have succeeded in this good
Attempt, I shall submit to the candid Reader, with only two Requests: First,
That he will not expect to find Perfection in this Work; and Secondly, That he
will excuse some Parts of it, if they fall short of that little Merit which I
hope may appear in others.
    I will detain you, Sir, no longer. Indeed I have run into a Preface, while I
professed to write a Dedication. But how can it be otherwise? I dare not praise
you; and the only Means I know of to avoid it, when you are in my Thoughts, are
either to be entirely silent, or to turn my Thoughts to some other Subject.
    Pardon, therefore, what I have said in this Epistle, not only without your
Consent, but absolutely against it; and give me at least Leave, in this public
Manner, to declare, that I am, with the highest Respect and Gratitude,
            Sir,
             Your most Obliged,
             Obedient Humble Servant,
 
                                                                  Henry Fielding
 

                                     Book I

 Containing as much of the Birth of the Foundling as is necessary or proper to
           acquaint the Reader with in the Beginning of this History.

                                   Chapter I

                 The Introduction to the Work, or Bill of Fare
                                 to the Feast.
 
An Author ought to consider himself, not as a Gentleman who gives a private or
eleemosynary Treat, but rather as one who keeps a public Ordinary, at which all
Persons are welcome for their Money. In the former Case, it is well known, that
the Entertainer provides what Fare he pleases; and tho' 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
every Thing is not agreeable to their Taste, will challenge a Right to censure,
to abuse, and to d-n their Dinner without Controul.
    To prevent therefore giving Offence to their Customers by any such
Disappointment, it hath been usual, with the honest and well-meaning Host, to
provide a Bill of Fare, which all Persons may peruse at their first Entrance
into the House; and, having thence acquainted themselves with the Entertainment
which they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for
them, or may depart to some other Ordinary better accommodated to their Taste.
    As we do not disdain to borrow Wit or Wisdom from any Man who is capable of
lending us either, we have condescended to take a Hint from these honest
Victuallers, and shall prefix not only a general Bill of Fare to our whole
Entertainment, but shall likewise give the Reader particular Bills to every
Course which is to be served up in this and the ensuing Volumes.
    The Provision then which we have here made is no other than HUMAN NATURE.
Nor do I fear that my sensible Reader, though most luxurious in his Taste, will
start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named but one Article. The
Tortoise, as the Alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by much
Experience, besides the delicious Calibash and Calipee, contains many different
Kinds of Food; nor can the learned Reader be ignorant, that in Human Nature,
tho' 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 dressed?,
What oft' was thought, but ne'er so well expressed.
 
The same Animal which hath the Honour to have some Part of his Flesh eaten at
the Table of a Duke, may perhaps be degraded in another Part, and some of his
Limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest Stall in Town. Where then lies the
Difference between the Food of the Nobleman and the Porter, if both are at
Dinner on the same Ox or Calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the
garnishing, and the setting forth. Hence the one provokes and incites the most
languid Appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and
keenest.
    In like manner, the Excellence of the mental Entertainment consists less in
the Subject, than in the Author's Skill in well dressing it up. How pleased
therefore will the Reader be to find, that we have, in the following Work,
adhered closely to one of the highest Principles of the best Cook which the
present Age, or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great Man, as
is well known to all Lovers of polite eating, begins at first by setting plain
Things before his hungry Guests, rising afterwards by Degrees, as their Stomachs
may be supposed to decrease, to the very Quintessence of Sauce and Spices. In
like manner, we shall represent Human Nature at first to the keen Appetite of
our Reader, in that more plain and simple Manner in which it is found in the
Country, and shall hereafter hash and ragoo it with all the high French and
Italian Seasoning of Affectation and Vice which Courts and Cities afford. By
these Means, we doubt not but our Reader may be rendered desirous to read on for
ever, as the great Person, just above-mentioned, is supposed to have made some
Persons eat.
    Having premised thus much, we will now detain those, who like our Bill of
Fare, no longer from their Diet, and shall proceed directly to serve up the
first Course of our History, for their Entertainment.
 

                                   Chapter II

 A short Description of Squire Allworthy, and a fuller Account of Miss Bridget
                             Allworthy his Sister.
 
In that Part of the western Division of this Kingdom, which is commonly called
Somersetshire, there lately lived (and perhaps lives still) a Gentleman whose
Name was Allworthy, and who might well be called the Favourite of both Nature
and Fortune; for both of these seem to have contended which should bless and
enrich him most. In this Contention, Nature may seem to some to have come off
victorious, as she bestowed on him many Gifts; while Fortune had only one Gift
in her Power; but in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others
perhaps may think this single Endowment to have been more than equivalent to all
the various Blessings which he enjoyed from Nature. From the former of these, he
derived an agreeable Person, a sound Constitution, a solid Understanding, and a
benevolent Heart; by the latter, he was decreed to the Inheritance of one of the
largest Estates in the County.
    This Gentleman had, in his Youth, married a very worthy and beautiful Woman,
of whom he had been extremely fond: By her he had three Children, all of whom
died in their Infancy. He had likewise had the Misfortune of burying this
beloved Wife herself, about five Years before the Time in which this History
chooses to set out. This Loss, however great, he bore like a Man of Sense and
Constancy; tho' it must be confessed, 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 30, an Æra, 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 mention'd 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 (tho' 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 plead to
their Jurisdiction.
 

                                  Chapter III

   An odd Accident which befell 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 dy'd 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
Free-Stone 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 mispend 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, tho' 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 clothes, to his great Surprise, he beheld an Infant,
wrapt up in some coarse Linnen, 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 mean Time 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 tho' her Master, for
ought 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 clothes over his Back, and was
become incapable of shocking the pure Eyes of Mrs. Deborah Wilkins, who, tho' in
the 52d 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 Bridewel, and
whipped 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
Church-Warden's Door. It is a good Night, only a little rainy and windy; and if
it was well wrapt up, and put in a warm Basket, it is two to one but it lives
till it is found in the Morning. But if it should not, we have discharged our
Duty in taking proper care of it; and it is, perhaps, better for such Creatures
to die in a state of Innocence, than to grow up and imitate their Mothers; for
nothing better can be expected of them.«
    There were some Strokes in this Speech which, perhaps, would have offended
Mr. Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; but he had now got one of his
Fingers into the Infant's Hand, which by its gentle Pressure, seeming to implore
his Assistance, had certainly out-pleaded the Eloquence of Mrs. Deborah, had it
been ten times greater than it was. He now gave Mrs. Deborah positive Orders to
take the Child to her own Bed, and to call up a Maid-servant to provide it Pap
and other things against it waked. He likewise ordered that proper Clothes
should be procured for it early in the Morning, and that it should be brought to
himself as soon as he was stirring.
    Such was the Discernment of Mrs. Wilkins, and such the Respect she bore her
Master, under whom she enjoyed a most excellent Place, that her Scruples gave
way to his peremptory Commands; and she took the Child under her Arms, without
any apparent Disgust at the Illegality of its Birth; and declaring it was a
sweet little Infant, walked off with it to her own Chamber.
    Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing Slumbers, which a Heart that
hungers after Goodness, is apt to enjoy, when thoroughly satisfied. As these are
possibly sweeter than what are occasioned by any other hearty Meal, I should
take more Pains to display them to the Reader, if I knew any Air to recommend
him to for the procuring such an Appetite.
 

                                   Chapter IV

  The Reader's Neck brought into Danger by a Description, his Escape, and the
                 great Condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy.
 
The Gothick 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 rival'd
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 Foot, 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 Groupes 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 Abbey,
grown over with Ivy, and Part of the Front which remained still entire.
    The left Hand Scene presented the View of a 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, up rose the
Sun; than which one Object alone in this lower Creation could be more glorious,
and that Mr. Allworthy himself presented; a human Being replete with
Benevolence, meditating in what manner he might render himself most acceptable
to his Creator, by doing most good to his Creatures.
    Reader, take care, I have unadvisedly led thee to the Top of as high a Hill
as Mr. Allworthy's, and how to get thee down without breaking thy Neck, I do not
well know. However, let us e'en venture to slide down together, for Miss Bridget
rings her Bell, and Mr. Allworthy is summoned to Breakfast, where I must attend,
and, if you please, shall be glad of your Company.
    The usual Compliments having past between Mr. Allworthy and Miss Bridget,
and the Tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs. Wilkins, and told his Sister he
had a Present for her; for which she thanked him, imagining, I suppose, it had
been a Gown or some Ornament for her Person. Indeed, he very often made her such
Presents, and she in Complacence to him spent much time in adorning herself. I
say, in Complacence to him, because she always expressed 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 receive'd from her Master, produced the little
Infant. Great Surprises, 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 expressed 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-natur'd 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 blessed with an independent Fortune;
but these were always vented in a low Voice, and at the most amounted only to
what is called Muttering.
    However, what she withheld from the Infant, she bestowed with the utmost
Profuseness on the poor unknown Mother, whom she called an impudent Slut, a
wanton Hussy, an audacious Harlot, a wicked Jade, a vile Strumpet, with every
other Appellation with which the Tongue of Virtue never fails to lash those who
bring a Disgrace on the Sex.
    A Consultation was now entered into, how to proceed in order to discover the
Mother. A Scrutiny was first made into the Characters of the female Servants of
the House, who were all acquitted by Mrs. Wilkins, and with apparent Merit; for
she had collected them herself, and perhaps it would be difficult to find such
another Set of Scarecrows.
    The next Step was to examine among the Inhabitants of the Parish; and this
was referred to Mrs. Wilkins, who was to enquire with all imaginable Diligence,
and to make her Report in the Afternoon.
    Matters being thus settled, Mr. Allworthy withdrew to his Study, as was his
Custom, and left the Child to his Sister, who, at his Desire, had undertaken the
Care of it.
 

                                   Chapter V

  Containing a few common Matters, with a very uncommon Observation upon them.
 
When her Master was departed, Mrs. Deborah stood silent, expecting her Cue from
Miss Bridget; for as to what had past before her Master, the prudent Housekeeper
by no means relied upon it, as she had often known the Sentiments of the Lady in
her Brother's Absence to differ greatly from those which she had expressed in
his Presence. Miss Bridget did not, however, suffer her to continue long in this
doubtful Situation; for having looked some time earnestly at the Child, as it
lay asleep in the Lap of Mrs. Deborah, the good Lady could not forbear giving it
a hearty Kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully pleased with its
Beauty and Innocence. Mrs. Deborah no sooner observed this, than she fell to
squeezing and kissing with as great Raptures as sometimes inspire the sage Dame
of forty and five towards a youthful and vigorous Bridegroom, crying out in a
shrill Voice, »O the dear little Creature, the dear, sweet, pretty Creature!
well, I vow, it is as fine a Boy as ever was seen!«
    These Exclamations continued till they were interrupted by the Lady, who now
proceeded to execute the Commission given her by her Brother, and gave Orders
for providing all Necessaries for the Child, appointing a very good Room in the
House for his Nursery. Her Orders were indeed so liberal, that had it been a
Child of her own, she could not have exceeded them; but lest the virtuous Reader
may condemn her for showing too great Regard to a base-born Infant, to which all
Charity is condemned by Law as irreligious, we think proper to observe, that she
concluded the whole with saying, »Since it was her Brother's Whim to adopt the
little Brat, she supposed little Master must be treated with great Tenderness;
for her part, she could not help thinking it was an Encouragement to Vice; but
that she knew too much of the Obstinacy of Mankind to oppose any of their
ridiculous Humours.«
    With Reflections of this nature, she usually, as hath been hinted,
accompany'd every Act of Compliance with her Brother's Inclinations; and surely
nothing could more contribute to heighten the Merit of this Compliance, than a
Declaration that she knew at the same time the Folly and Unreasonableness of
those Inclinations to which she submitted. Tacit Obedience implies no Force upon
the Will, and consequently may be easily, and without any Pains, preserved; but
when a Wife, a Child, a Relation, or a Friend, performs what we desire, with
Grumbling, and Reluctance, with Expressions of Dislike and Dissatisfaction, the
manifest Difficulty which they undergo, must greatly enhance the Obligation.
    As this is one of those deep Observations which very few Readers can be
supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my
Assistance; but this is a Favour rarely to be expected in the Course of my Work.
Indeed I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such Instances as this,
where nothing but the Inspiration with which we Writers are gifted, can possibly
enable any one to make the Discovery.
 

                                   Chapter VI

 Mrs. Deborah is introduced into the Parish, with a Simile. A short Account of
 Jenny Jones, with the Difficulties and Discouragements which may attend young
                       Women in the Pursuit of Learning.
 
Mrs. Deborah, having disposed of the Child according to the Will of her Master,
now prepared to visit those Habitations which were supposed to conceal its
Mother.
    Not otherwise than when a Kite, tremendous Bird, is beheld by the feathered
Generation soaring aloft, and hovering over their Heads, the amorous Dove, and
every innocent little Bird spread wide the Alarm, and fly trembling to their
Hiding-places: He proudly beats the Air, conscious of his Dignity, and meditates
intended Mischief.
    So when the Approach of Mrs. Deborah was proclaimed through the Street, all
the Inhabitants ran trembling into their Houses, each Matron dreading lest the
Visit should fall to her Lot. She with stately Steps proudly advances over the
Field, aloft she bears her tow'ring Head, filled with Conceit of her own
Pre-eminence, and Schemes to effect her intended Discovery.
    The sagacious Reader will not, from this Simile, imagine these poor People
had any Apprehension of the Design with which Mrs. Wilkins was now coming
towards them; but as the great Beauty of the Simile may possibly sleep these
hundred Years, till some future Commentator shall take this Work in hand, I
think proper to lend the Reader a little Assistance in this Place.
    It is my Intention therefore to signify, that as it is the Nature of a Kite
to devour little Birds, so is it the Nature of such Persons as Mrs. Wilkins, to
insult and tyrannize over little People. This being indeed the Means which they
use to recompense to themselves their extreme Servility and Condescension to
their Superiors; for nothing can be more reasonable, than that Slaves and
Flatterers should exact the same Taxes on all below them, which they themselves
pay to all above them.
    Whenever Mrs. Deborah had Occasion to exert any extraordinary Condescension
to Miss Bridget, and by that means had a little sowered 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 judgement 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
Inconveniencies: For as it is not to be wondered at, that a young Woman so well
accomplished should have little Relish for the Society of those whom Fortune had
made her Equals, but whom Education had rendered so much her Inferiors; so is it
Matter of no greater Astonishment, that this Superiority in Jenny, together with
that Behaviour which is its certain Consequence, should produce among the rest
some little Envy and Ill-will towards her; and these had perhaps secretly burnt
in the Bosoms of her Neighbours, ever since her Return from her Service.
    Their Envy did not however display itself openly, till poor Jenny, to the
Surprise of every Body, and to the Vexation of all the young Women in these
Parts, had publicly 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 Embrio, 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, tho'
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, (tho' 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.
    Tho' 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, tho' delivered rather in Terms of Contrition, as it
appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs. Deborah, who now pronounced a second
judgement against her, in more opprobrious Language than before; nor had it any
better Success with the Bye-standers, 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 surprised a judicious Person, who had observed the Tranquility 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 Enquiry, returned
with much Triumph, and at the appointed Hour made a faithful Report to Mr.
Allworthy, who was much surprised at the Relation; for he had heard of the
extraordinary Parts and Improvements of this Girl, whom he intended to have
given in Marriage, together with a small Living, to a neighbouring Curate. His
Concern therefore on this Occasion, was at least equal to the Satisfaction which
appeared in Mrs. Deborah, and to many Readers may seem much more reasonable.
    Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, »For her Part, she should never
hereafter entertain a good Opinion of any Woman:« For Jenny before this had the
Happiness of being much in her good Graces also.
    The prudent Housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the unhappy Culprit
before Mr. Allworthy, in order, not, as it was hoped by some and expected by
all, to be sent to the House of Correction; but to receive wholesome Admonition
and Reproof, which those who relish that kind of instructive Writing, may peruse
in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VII

  Containing such grave Matter, that the Reader cannot laugh once through the
       whole Chapter, unless peradventure he should laugh at the Author.
 
When Jenny appeared, Mr. Allworthy took her into his Study, and spoke to her as
follows:
    »You know, Child, it is in my Power, as a Magistrate, to punish you very
rigorously for what you have done; and you will perhaps be the more apt to fear
I should execute that Power, because you have, in a manner, laid your Sins at my
Door.
    But perhaps this is one Reason which hath determined me to act in a milder
Manner with you: For, as no private Resentment should ever influence a
Magistrate, I will be so far from considering your having deposited the Infant
in my House, as an Aggravation of your Offence, that I will suppose, in your
Favour, this to have proceeded from a natural Affection to your Child; since you
might have some Hopes to see it thus better provided for, than was in the Power
of yourself, or its wicked Father, to provide for it. I should indeed have been
highly offended with you, had you exposed the little Wretch in the Manner of
some inhuman Mothers, who seem no less to have abandoned their Humanity, than to
have parted with their Chastity. It is the other Part of your Offence therefore
upon which I intend to admonish you, I mean the Violation of your Chastity. A
Crime, however lightly it may be treated by debauched Persons, very heinous in
itself, and very dreadful in its Consequences.
    The heinous Nature of this Offence must be sufficiently apparent to every
Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in Defiance of the Laws of our Religion,
and of the express Commands of him who founded that Religion.
    And here its Consequences may well be argued to be dreadful; for what can be
more so, than to incur the divine Displeasure, by the Breach of the divine
Commands; and that in an Instance, against which the highest Vengeance is
specifically denounced.
    But these Things, tho' 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 meer Tool and
Bubble of the Man. Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its
Meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational Passion, and can never be violent,
but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture bids us love our Enemies, it means
not with that fervent Love, which we naturally bear towards our Friends; much
less that we should sacrifice to them our Lives, and what ought to be dearer to
us, our Innocence. Now in what Light, but in 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 entirely 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 first 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 enquired, 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 farther Displeasure in her
present Situation, rather than she would forfeit her Honour, or Integrity, by
betraying another, he had but little Apprehension that she would be guilty of
falsehood towards himself.
    He therefore dismissed her with Assurances, that he would very soon remove
her out of the Reach of that Obloquy she had incurred, concluding with some
additional Documents, in which he recommended Repentance, saying, »Consider,
Child, there is one still to reconcile yourself to, whose Favour is of much
greater Importance to you than mine.«
 

                                  Chapter VIII

A Dialogue between Mesdames Bridget, and Deborah; containing more Amusement, but
                       less Instruction than the former.
 
When Mr. Allworthy had retired to his Study with Jenny Jones, as hath been seen,
Miss Bridget, with the good Housekeeper, had betaken themselves to a Post next
adjoining to the said Study; whence, through the Conveyance of a Key-hole, 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 Miss
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
Miss Bridget became often acquainted with her Brother's Inclinations, without
giving him the Trouble of repeating them to her. It is true, some
Inconveniencies attended this Intercourse, and she had sometimes Reason to cry
out with Thisbe, in Shakespeare, »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.«
    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 Tysiphone,
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
strictly 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 shock'd 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 Small-Pox; 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 force'd her; and I pity the poor Wretch with all my Heart.«
    Mrs. Deborah approved all these Sentiments, and the Dialogue concluded with
a general and bitter Invective against Beauty, and with many compassionate
Considerations for all honest, plain Girls, who are deluded by the wicked Arts
of deceitful Men.
 

                                   Chapter IX

               Containing Matters which will surprise 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; tho' some of the young Women cry'd 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 cry'd, »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 the Benevolence of Mr. Allworthy: But as to
his Power, he never used it; and as to his Benevolence, he exerted so much, that
he had thereby disobliged all his Neighbours: For it is a Secret well known to
great Men, that by conferring an Obligation, they do not always procure a
Friend, but are certain of creating many Enemies.
    Jenny was, however, by the Care and Goodness of Mr. Allworthy, soon removed
out of the Reach of Reproach; when Malice, being no longer able to vent its Rage
on her, began to seek another Object of its Bitterness, and this was no less
than Mr. Allworthy himself; for a Whisper soon went abroad, that he himself was
the Father of the foundling Child.
    This Supposition so well reconciled his Conduct to the general Opinion, that
it met with universal Assent; and the Outcry against his Lenity soon began to
take another Turn, and was changed into an Invective against his Cruelty to the
poor Girl. Very grave and good Women exclaimed against Men who begot Children
and then disowned them. Nor were there wanting some, who, after the Departure of
Jenny, insinuated, that she was spirited away with a Design too black to be
mentioned, and who gave frequent Hints, that a legal Inquiry ought to be made
into the whole Matter, and that some People should be forced to produce the
Girl.
    These Calumnies might have probably produced ill Consequences (at the least
might have occasioned some Trouble) to a Person of a more doubtful and
suspicious Character than Mr. Allworthy was blessed with; but in his Case they
had no such Effect; and, being heartily despised by him, they served only to
afford an innocent Amusement to the good Gossips of the Neighbourhood.
    But as we cannot possibly divine what Complexion 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,1 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 a Bridewel.
    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 choose the Road of Virtue,
Mr. Allworthy rather chose to encourage the Girl to return thither by the only
possible Means; for too true I am afraid it is, that many Women have become
abandoned, and have sunk to the last Degree of Vice by being unable to retrieve
the first Slip. This will be, I am afraid, always the Case while they remain
among their former Acquaintance; it was therefore wisely done by Mr. Allworthy,
to remove Jenny to a Place where she might enjoy the Pleasure of Reputation,
after having tasted the ill Consequences of losing it.
    To this Place therefore, wherever it was, we will wish her a good Journey,
and for the present take leave of her, and of the little Foundling her Child,
having Matters of much higher Importance to communicate to the Reader.
 

                                   Chapter X

   The Hospitality of Allworthy; with a short Sketch of the Characters of two
   Brothers, a Doctor, and a Captain, who were entertained by that Gentleman.
 
Neither Mr. Allworthy's House, nor his Heart, were shut against any Part of
Mankind, but they were both more particularly open to Men of Merit. To say the
Truth, this was the only House in the Kingdom where you was sure to gain a
Dinner by deserving it.
    Above all others, Men of Genius and Learning shared the principal Place in
his Favour; and in these he had much Discernment: For though he had missed the
Advantage of a learned Education, yet being blessed 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 clothes, 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 Solicitation to the contrary: For indeed, such Solicitations 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 Physick, 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
Touch-stone, 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 Name-sake, 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
Indulgencies, 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 35 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 deposite this, and appear all Gentleness and
good Humour. He was not ungenteel, nor entirely void of Wit, and in his Youth
had abounded in Spriteliness, 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 married 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 tho' we have not the least
Love or Respect for them?
    Whether any of these Motives operated on the Doctor we will not determine;
but so the Fact was. He sent for his Brother, and easily found Means to
introduce him at Allworthy's as a Person who intended only a short Visit to
himself.
    The Captain had not been in the House a Week before the Doctor had Reason to
felicitate himself on his Discernment. The Captain was indeed as great a Master
of the Art of Love as Ovid was formerly. He had besides received proper Hints
from his Brother, which he failed not to improve to the best Advantage.
 

                                   Chapter XI

     Containing many Rules, and some Examples, concerning falling in love:
  Descriptions of Beauty, and other more prudential Inducements to Matrimony.
 
It hath been observed by wise Men or Women, I forget which, that all Persons are
doomed to be in Love once in their Lives. No particular Season is, as I
remember, assigned for this; but the Age at which Miss Bridget was arrived seems
to me as proper a Period as any to be fixed on for this Purpose: It often indeed
happens much earlier; but when it doth not, I have observed, it seldom or never
fails about this Time. Moreover, we may remark that at this Season Love is of a
more serious and steady Nature than what sometimes shows itself in the younger
Parts of Life. The Love of Girls is uncertain, capricious, and so foolish that
we cannot always discover what the young Lady would be at; nay, it may almost be
doubted, whether she always knows this herself.
    Now we are never at a Loss to discern this in Women about Forty; for as such
grave, serious and experienced Ladies well know their own Meaning, so it is
always very easy for a Man of the least Sagacity to discover it with the utmost
Certainty.
    Miss Bridget is an Example of all these Observations. She had not been many
Times in the Captain's Company before she was seized with this Passion. Nor did
she go pining and moping about the House, like a puny foolish Girl, ignorant of
her Distemper: She felt, she knew, and she enjoyed, the pleasing Sensation, of
which, as she was certain it was not only innocent but laudable, she was neither
afraid nor ashamed.
    And to say the Truth, there is in all Points, great Difference between the
reasonable Passion which Women at this Age conceive towards Men, and the idle
and childish Liking of a Girl to a Boy, which is often fixed on the Outside
only, and on Things of little Value and no Duration; as on Cherry Cheeks, small
Lily-white Hands, slow-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 Perriwigmaker, 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 to 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.
    Tho' 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 choose to possess every
Convenience of Life with an ugly Woman, than a handsome one without any of those
Conveniencies. And having a very good Appetite, and but little Nicety, he
fancied he should play his Part very well at the matrimonial Banquet, without
the Sauce of Beauty.
    To deal plainly with the Reader, the Captain, ever since his Arrival, at
least from the Moment his Brother had proposed the Match to him, long before he
had discovered any flattering Symptoms in Miss Bridget, had been greatly
enamoured; that is to say, of Mr. Allworthy's House and Gardens, and of his
Lands, Tenements and Hereditaments; of all which the Captain was so passionately
fond, that he would most probably have contracted Marriage with them, had he
been obliged to have taken the Witch of Endor into the Bargain.
    As Mr. Allworthy therefore had declared to the Doctor, that he never
intended to take a second Wife, as his Sister was his nearest Relation, and as
the Doctor had fished out that his Intentions were to make any Child of hers his
Heir, which indeed the Law, without his Interposition, would have done for him;
the Doctor and his Brother thought it an Act of Benevolence to give Being to a
human Creature, who would be so plentifully provided with the most essential
Means of Happiness. The whole Thoughts therefore of both the Brothers, were how
to engage the Affections of this amiable Lady.
    But Fortune, who is a tender Parent, and often doth more for her favourite
Offspring than either they deserve or wish, had been so industrious for the
Captain, that whilst he was laying Schemes to execute his Purpose, the Lady
conceived the same Desires with himself, and was on her Side contriving how to
give the Captain proper Encouragement, without appearing too forward; for she
was a strict Observer of all Rules of Decorum. In this, however, she easily
succeeded; for as the Captain was always on the Look-out, no Glance, Gesture, or
Word, escaped him.
    The Satisfaction which the Captain received from the kind Behaviour of Miss
Bridget, was not a little abated by his Apprehensions of Mr. Allworthy; for,
notwithstanding his disinterested Professions, the Captain imagined he would,
when he came to act, follow the Example of the rest of the World, and refuse his
Consent to a Match, so disadvantageous in point of Interest, to his Sister. From
what Oracle he received this Opinion, I shall leave the Reader to determine;
but, however he came by it, it strangely perplexed him how to regulate his
Conduct so, as at once to convey his Affection to the Lady, and to conceal it
from her Brother. He, at length, resolved to take all private Opportunities of
making his Addresses; but in the Presence of Mr. Allworthy to be as reserved,
and as much upon his Guard as was possible; and this Conduct was highly approved
by the Brother.
    He soon found Means to make his Addresses, in express Terms, to his
Mistress, from whom he receive'd 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, tho' in the Opinion of a certain great Author, it is the
pleasantest Scene of Life to the Actor, is perhaps as dull and tiresome as any
whatever to the Audience) the Captain made his Advances in Form, the Citadel was
defended in Form, and at length, in proper Form, surrendered at Discretion.
    During this whole Time, which filled the Space of near a Month, the Captain
preserved great Distance of Behaviour to his Lady, in the Presence of the
Brother, and the more he succeeded with her in private, the more reserved was he
in public. And as for the Lady, she had no sooner secured her Lover, than she
behaved to him before Company with the highest Degree of Indifference; so that
Mr. Allworthy must have had the Insight of the Devil (or perhaps some of his
worse Qualities) to have entertained the least Suspicion of what was going
forward.
 

                                  Chapter XII

          Containing what the Reader may perhaps expect to find in it.
 
In all Bargains, whether to fight, or to marry, or concerning any other such
Business, little previous Ceremony is required, to bring the Matter to an Issue,
when both Parties are really in earnest. This was the Case at present, and in
less than a Month the Captain and his Lady were Man and Wife.
    The great Concern now was to break the Matter to Mr. Allworthy; and this was
undertaken by the Doctor.
    One Day then as Allworthy was walking in his Garden, the Doctor came to him,
and with great Gravity of Aspect, and all the Concern which he could possibly
affect in his Countenance, said, »I am come, Sir, to impart an Affair to you of
the utmost Consequence; but how shall I mention to you, what it almost distracts
me to think of!« He then launched forth into the most bitter Invectives both
against Men and Women; accusing the former of having no Attachment but to their
Interest, and the latter of being so addicted to vicious Inclinations, that they
could never be safely trusted with one of the other Sex. »Could I,« said he,
»Sir, have suspected, that a Lady of such Prudence, such judgement, 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, tho' 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, tho' perhaps not quite her Equal in Fortune; and if he
hath any Perfections in her Eye, which can make up that Deficiency, I see no
Reason why I should object to her Choice of her own Happiness; which I, no more
than herself, imagine to consist only in immense Wealth. I might, perhaps, from
the many Declarations I have made, of complying with almost any Proposal, have
expected to have been consulted on this Occasion; but these Matters are of a
very delicate Nature, and the Scruples of Modesty perhaps are not to be
overcome. As to your Brother, I have really no Anger against him at all. He hath
no Obligations to me, nor do I think he was under any Necessity of asking my
Consent, since the Woman is, as I have said, Sui Juris, and of a proper Age to
be entirely answerable only to herself for her Conduct.«
    The Doctor accused Mr. Allworthy of too great Lenity, repeated his
Accusations against his Brother, and declared that he should never more be
brought either to see, or to own him for his Relation. He then launched forth
into a Panegyric on Allworthy's Goodness, into the highest Encomiums on his
Friendship; and concluded, by saying, He should never forgive his Brother for
having put the Place which he bore in that Friendship, to a Hazard.
    Allworthy thus answer'd: »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 any thing 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, every thing 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, tho' it cost him some Pains to prevent now and then a
small Discomposure of his Muscles. He now praised every Period of what he had
heard, with the Warmth of a young Divine who hath the Honour to dine with a
Bishop the same Day in which his Lordship hath mounted the Pulpit.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

 Which concludes the first Book, with an Instance of Ingratitude, which we hope
                             will appear unnatural.
 
The Reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the Reconciliation (if
indeed it could be so called) was only Matter of Form; we shall therefore pass
it over, and hasten to what must surely be thought Matter of Substance.
    The Doctor had acquainted his Brother with what had past between Mr.
Allworthy and him; and added with a Smile. »I promise you, I paid you off; nay,
I absolutely desired the good Gentleman not to forgive you: For you know, after
he had made a Declaration in your Favour, I might, with Safety, venture on such
a Request with a Person of his Temper; and I was willing, as well for your Sake
as for my own, to prevent the least Possibility of a Suspicion.«
    Captain Blifil took not the least Notice of this, at that Time; but he
afterwards made a very notable Use of it.
    One of the Maxims which the Devil, in a late Visit upon Earth, left to his
Disciples, is, when once you are got up, to kick the Stool from under you. In
plain English, when you have made your Fortune by the good Offices of a Friend,
you are advised to discard him as soon as you can.
    Whether the Captain acted by this Maxim, I will not positively determine; so
far we may confidently say, that his Actions may be fairly derived from this
diabolical Principle; and indeed it is difficult to assign any other Motive to
them: For no sooner was he possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled to
Allworthy, than he began to show a Coldness to his Brother, which increased
daily; till at length it grew into Rudeness, and became very visible to every
one.
    The Doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this Behaviour, but
could obtain no other Satisfaction than the following plain Declaration: »If you
dislike any thing 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 Honey-moon, 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 Inconveniencies 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 those 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, tho' Envy is at best a very malignant Passion, yet is its Bitterness
greatly heightened by mixing with Contempt towards the same Object; and very
much afraid I am, that whenever an Obligation is joined to these two,
Indignation, and not Gratitude, will be the Product of all three.
 

                                    Book II

  Containing Scenes of matrimonial Felicity in different Degrees of Life; and
various other Transactions during the first two Years after the Marriage between
                  Captain Blifil, and Miss Bridget Allworthy.
 

                                   Chapter I

  Shewing what Kind of a History this is; what it is like, and what it is not
                                     like.
 
Tho' 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 Æras when the greatest Scenes have been transacted on
the human Stage.
    Such Histories as these do, in reality, very much resemble a News-Paper,
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 ætheris auris:
In dubioque fuit sub utrorum regna cadendum
Omnibus humanis esset, terraque marique.
 
Of which, we wish we could give our Reader 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 any thing 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 Guild-Hall, and who never trouble the
Public with the many Blanks they dispose of; but when a great Prize happens to
be drawn, the News-Papers 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 surprised, if in the Course of this Work, he
shall find some Chapters very short, and others altogether as long; some that
contain only the Time of a single Day, and others that comprise Years; in a
word, if my History sometimes seems to stand still, and sometimes to fly. For
all which I shall not look on myself as accountable to any Court of Critical
Jurisdiction whatever: For as I am, in reality, the Founder of a new Province of
Writing, so I am at liberty to make what Laws I please therein. And these Laws,
my Readers, whom I consider as my Subjects, are bound to believe in and to obey;
with which that they may readily and cheerfully comply, I do hereby assure them
that I shall principally regard their Ease and Advantage in all such
Institutions: For I do not, like a jure divino Tyrant, imagine that they are my
Slaves or my Commodity. I am, indeed, set over them for their own Good only, and
was created for their Use, and not they for mine. Nor do I doubt, while I make
their Interest the great Rule of my Writings, they will unanimously concur in
supporting my Dignity, and in rendering me all the Honour I shall deserve or
desire.
 

                                   Chapter II

  Religious Cautions against showing too much Favour to Bastards; and a great
                    Discovery made by Mrs. Deborah Wilkins.
 
Eight Months after the Celebration of the Nuptials between Captain Blifil and
Miss Bridget Allworthy, a young Lady of great Beauty, Merit, and Fortune, was
Miss Bridget, by reason of a Fright, delivered of a fine Boy. The Child, was
indeed, to all Appearance, perfect; but the Midwife discovered, it was born a
Month before its full Time.
    Tho' the Birth of an Heir by his beloved Sister was a Circumstance of great
Joy to Mr. Allworthy, yet it did not alienate his Affections from the little
Foundling, to whom he had been Godfather, had given his own Name of Thomas, and
whom he had hitherto seldom failed of visiting at least once a Day, in his
Nursery.
    He told his Sister, if she pleased, the new-born Infant should be bred up
together with little Tommy, to which she consented, tho' with some little
Reluctance: For she had truly a great Complacence for her Brother; and hence she
had always behaved towards the Foundling with rather more Kindness than Ladies
of rigid Virtue can sometimes bring themselves to show to these Children, who,
however innocent, may be truly called the living Monuments of Incontinence.
    The Captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what he condemned as a
Fault in Mr. Allworthy. He gave him frequent Hints, that to adopt the Fruits of
Sin was to give countenance to it. He quoted several Texts (for he was well read
in Scripture) such as, He visits the Sins of the Fathers upon the Children; and,
the Fathers have eaten sour Grapes, and the Children's Teeth are set on edge,
etc. Whence he argued the Legality of punishing the Crime of the Parent on the
Bastard. He said, »Tho' the Law did not positively allow the destroying such
base-born Children, yet it held them to be the Children of no body; that the
Church considered them as the Children of no body; 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 judgement against it. But to represent the Almighty as
avenging the Sins of the Guilty on the Innocent, was indecent, if not
blasphemous, as it was to represent him acting against the first Principles of
natural Justice, and against the original Notions of Right and Wrong, which he
himself had implanted in our Minds; by which we were to judge not only in all
Matters which were not revealed, but even of the Truth of Revelation itself. He
said, he knew many held the same Principles with the Captain on this Head; but
he was himself firmly convinced to the contrary, and would provide in the same
Manner for this poor Infant, as if a legitimate Child had had the Fortune to
have been found in the same Place.«
    While the Captain was taking all Opportunities to press these and such like
Arguments to remove the little Foundling from Mr. Allworthy's, of whose Fondness
for him he began to be jealous, Mrs. Deborah had made a Discovery, which in its
Event threatened at least to prove more fatal to poor Tommy, than all the
Reasonings of the Captain.
    Whether the insatiable Curiosity of this good Woman had carried her on to
that Business, or whether she did it to confirm herself in the good Graces of
Mrs. Blifil, who, notwithstanding her outward Behaviour to the Foundling,
frequently abused the Infant in private, and her Brother too for his Fondness to
it, I will not determine; but she had now, as she conceived, fully detected the
Father of the Foundling.
    Now as this was a Discovery of great Consequence, it may be necessary to
trace it from the Fountain-head. We shall therefore very minutely lay open those
previous Matters by which it was produced; and for that Purpose, we shall be
obliged to reveal all the Secrets of a little Family, with which my Reader is at
present entirely unacquainted; and of which the Oeconomy was so rare and
extraordinary, that I fear it will shock the utmost Credulity of many married
Persons.
 

                                  Chapter III

The Description of a domestic Government founded upon Rules directly contrary to
                              those of Aristotle.
 
My Reader may please to remember he hath been informed that Jenny Jones had
lived some Years with a certain Schoolmaster, who had, at her earnest Desire,
instructed her in Latin, in which, to do justice to her Genius, she had so
improved herself, that she was become a better Scholar than her Master.
    Indeed, tho' this poor Man had undertaken a Profession to which Learning
must be allowed necessary, this was the least of his Commendations. He was one
of the best-natured Fellows in the World, and was at the same time Master of so
much Pleasantry and Humour that he was reputed the Wit of the Country; and all
the neighbouring Gentlemen were so desirous of his Company, that as denying was
not his Talent, he spent much Time at their Houses, which he might with more
Emolument have spent in his School.
    It may be imagined, that a Gentleman so qualified, and so disposed, was in
no danger of becoming formidable to the learned Seminaries of Eton or
Westminster. To speak plainly, his Scholars were divided into two Classes. In
the upper of which was a young Gentleman, the Son of a neighbouring Squire, who
at the Age of Seventeen was just entered into his Syntaxis; and in the lower was
a second Son of the same Gentleman, who, together with seven Parish-boys, was
learning to read and write.
    The Stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the Schoolmaster in the
Luxuries of Life, had he not added to this Office those of Clerk and Barber, and
had not Mr. Allworthy added to the whole an Annuity of Ten Pound, 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 Pound, 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 notable 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 any
where else, in her Presence.
    Tho' 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, tho' 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 choose 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 Surprise 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 resolved -
 
she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her Alls, and be gone; 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 Recipe of Patience; for,
tho' he was not a great Adept in Latin, he remembered and well understood the
Advice contained in these Words:
 
                       - Leve fit, quod been 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 high 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 pass'd their Time unpleasantly enough that
Evening; but something or other happened before the next Morning, which a little
abated the Fury of Mrs. Partridge; and she at length admitted her Husband to
make his Excuses. To which she gave the readier Belief, as he had, instead of
desiring her to recall Jenny, professed a Satisfaction in her being dismissed,
saying, She was grown of little Use as a Servant, spending all her Time in
reading, and was become, moreover, very pert and obstinate: For indeed she and
her Master had lately had frequent Disputes in Literature; in which, as hath
been said, she was become greatly his Superior. This, however, he would by no
means allow; and, as he called her persisting in the Right, Obstinacy, he began
to hate her with no small Inveteracy.
 

                                   Chapter IV

   Containing one of the most bloody Battles, or rather Duels, that were ever
                         recorded in Domestic History.
 
For the Reasons mentioned in the preceding Chapter, and from some other
matrimonial Concessions, well known to most Husbands; and which, like the
Secrets of Free Masonry, 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, which ever Way they inclined: for, as she could be extremely angry, so
could she be altogether as fond.
    But tho' these Passions ordinarily succeeded 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 Tranquility, will be attended with its opposite: For which
Reason the Antients used, on such Occasions, to sacrifice to the Goddess Nemesis
; a Deity who was thought by them to look with an invidious Eye on human
Felicity, and to have a peculiar Delight in overturning it.
    As we are very far from believing in any such Heathen Goddess, or from
encouraging any Superstition, so we wish Mr. John Fr-, or some other such
Philosopher, would bestir himself a little, in order to find out the real Cause
of this sudden Transition, from good to bad Fortune, which hath been so often
remarked, and of which we shall proceed to give an Instance; for it is our
Province to relate Facts, and we shall leave Causes to Persons of much higher
Genius.
    Mankind have always taken great Delight in knowing and descanting on the
Actions of others. Hence there have been, in all Ages, and Nations, certain
Places set apart for public Rendezvous, where the Curious might meet, and
satisfy their mutual Curiosity. Among these, the Barbers Shops have justly borne
the Pre-eminence. Among the Greeks, Barbers News was a proverbial Expression,
and Horace, in one of his Epistles, makes honourable Mention of the Roman
Barbers in the same Light.
    Those of England are known to be no wise inferior to their Greek or Roman
Predecessors. You there see foreign Affairs discussed in a Manner little
inferior to that with which they are handled in the Coffee-houses; and domestick
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, any
thing 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, tho' I fancy we have Sluts enough
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 surprise 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 Ferosity from the elder Branches of her House, and, though
inferior in Strength, is equal in Fierceness to the noble Tyger 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, hollowing 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 torn her Cap and Hair from her Head, and her
Stays from her Body, giving her, at the same Time, several Blows, the Marks of
which she should carry to the Grave.
    The poor Man, who bore on his Face many more visible Marks of the
Indignation of his Wife, stood in silent Astonishment at this Accusation; which
the Reader will, I believe, bear Witness for him, had greatly exceeded the
Truth; for indeed he had not struck her once; and this Silence being interpreted
to be a Confession of the Charge, by the whole Court, they all began at once,
una voce, to rebuke and revile him, repeating often, that none but a Coward ever
struck a Woman.
    Mr. Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his Wife appealed to the
Blood on her Face, as an Evidence of his Barbarity, he could not help laying
Claim to his own Blood, for so it really was; as he thought it very unnatural,
that this should rise up (as we are taught that of a murdered Person often doth)
in Vengeance against him.
    To this the Women made no other Answer, than that it was 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 Heart's Bloods out
of their Bodies.
    After much Admonition for what was past, and much good Advice to Mr.
Partridge for his future Behaviour, the Company, at length, departed, and left
the Husband and Wife to a personal Conference together, in which Mr. Partridge
soon learned the Cause of all his Sufferings.
 

                                   Chapter V

 Containing much Matter to exercise the judgement 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 Good-will 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 chide 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 explicite 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 House-keeper
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 House-keeper: 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, no where 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 judgement 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 shall 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 choosing the Objects of
our Beneficence. A Consideration which, I make no Doubt, hath greatly checked
the Liberality of many a worthy and pious Man.«
    Mr. Allworthy answered, »He could not dispute with the Captain in the Greek
Language, and therefore could say nothing as to the true Sense of the Word,
which is translated Charity; but that he had always thought it was interpreted
to consist in Action, and that giving Alms constituted at least one Branch of
that Virtue.
    As to the meritorious Part,« he said, »he readily agreed with the Captain;
for where could be the Merit of barely discharging a Duty; which (he said) let
the Word Charity have what Construction it would, it sufficiently appeared to be
from the whole Tenor of the New Testament. And as he thought it an indispensable
Duty, enjoined both by the Christian Law, and by the Law of Nature itself; so
was it withal so pleasant, that if any Duty could be said to be its own Reward,
or to pay us while we are discharging it, it was this.
    To confess the Truth,« said he, »there is one Degree of Generosity, (of
Charity I would have called it) which seems to have some Shew 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
Christians, nay indeed, 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 expressed great Surprise 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 expressed 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 tho' he had privately satisfied himself of this from one
of Partridge's Neighbours, yet he was too generous to give any such Evidence to
Mr. Allworthy.
 

                                   Chapter VI

The Trial of Partridge, the Schoolmaster, for Incontinency; The Evidence of his
  Wife; A short Reflection on the Wisdom of our Law; with other grave Matters,
              which those will like best who understand them most.
 
It may be wondered that a Story so well known, and which had furnished so much
Matter of Conversation, should never have been mentioned to Mr. Allworthy
himself, who was perhaps the only Person in that Country who had never heard of
it.
    To account in some measure for this to the Reader, I think proper to inform
him that there was no one in the Kingdom less interested in opposing that
Doctrine concerning the Meaning of the Word Charity, which hath been seen in the
preceding Chapter, than our good Man. Indeed, he was equally entitled 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 any thing 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 tho' 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, tho' at fifteen Miles Distance, brought back such a Confirmation of
the Schoolmaster's Guilt, that Mr. Allworthy determined to send for the
Criminal, and examine him viva voce. Mr. Partridge, therefore, was summoned to
attend, in order to his Defence (if he could make any) against this Accusation.
    At the Time appointed, before Mr. Allworthy himself, at Paradise-Hall, came
as well the said Partridge, with Anne his Wife, as Mrs. Wilkins, his Accuser.
    And now Mr. Allworthy being seated in the Chair of Justice, Mr. Partridge
was brought before him. Having heard his Accusation from the Mouth of Mrs.
Wilkins, he pleaded, Not guilty, making many vehement Protestations of his
Innocence.
    Mrs. Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest Apology for being
obliged to speak the Truth against her Husband, related all the Circumstances
with which the Reader hath already been acquainted; and at last concluded with
her Husband's Confession of his Guilt.
    Whether she had forgiven him or no, I will not venture to determine: But it
is certain, she was an unwilling Witness in this Cause, and it is probable, from
certain other Reasons would never have been brought to depose as she did, had
not Mrs. Wilkins, with great Art, fished all out of her, at her own House, and
had she not indeed made Promises in Mr. Allworthy's Name, that the Punishment of
her Husband should not be such as might any wise affect his Family.
    Partridge still persisted in asserting his Innocence, tho' 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, tho' he was innocent; and that he believed he
should have confessed 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 Commandiments. Besides, if
it had been out of Doors I had not mattered it so much; but with my own Servant,
in my own House, under my own Roof; to defile my own chaste Bed, which to be
sure he hath with his beastly stinking Whores. Yes, you Villain, you have
defiled my own Bed, you have; and then you have charged me with bullocking you
into owning the Truth. It is very likely, an't please your Worship, that I
should bullock him. - I have Marks enough 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 your 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 Surprise 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 Attonement 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 Dissention 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 (tho' 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.
    Tho' 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 tho' 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, tho' 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 tho' Mr. Allworthy
did not think, with some late Writers, that Mercy consists only in punishing
Offenders; yet he was as far from thinking that it is proper to this excellent
Quality to pardon great Criminals wantonly, without any Reason whatever. Any
Doubtfulness of the Fact, or any Circumstance of Mitigation, was never
disregarded; but the Petitions of an Offender, or the Intercessions of others,
did not in the least affect him. In a word, he never pardoned, because the
Offender himself, or his Friends, were unwilling that he should be punished.
    Partridge and his Wife were therefore both obliged to submit to their Fate;
which was indeed severe enough: For so far was he from doubling his Industry on
the account of his lessened Income, that he did in a manner abandon himself to
despair; and as he was by Nature indolent, that Vice now increased upon him, by
which means he lost the little School he had; so that neither his Wife nor
himself would have had any Bread to eat, had not the Charity of some good
Christian interposed, and provided them with what was just sufficient for their
Sustenance.
    As this Support was conveyed to them by an unknown Hand, they imagined, and
so, I doubt not, will the Reader, that Mr. Allworthy himself was their secret
Benefactor; who, though he would not openly encourage Vice, could yet privately
relieve the Distresses of the Vicious themselves, when these became too
exquisite and disproportionate to their Demerit. In which Light, their
Wretchedness appeared now to Fortune herself; for she at length took pity on
this miserable Couple, and considerably lessened the wretched State of Partridge
, by putting a final end to that of his Wife, who soon after caught the
Small-Pox, and died.
    The Justice which Mr. Allworthy had executed on Partridge, at first met with
universal Approbation; but no sooner had he felt its Consequences, than his
Neighbours began to relent, and to compassionate his Case; and presently after,
to blame that as Rigour and Severity, which they before called Justice. They now
exclaimed against punishing in cold Blood, and sang forth the Praises of Mercy
and Forgiveness.
    These Cries were considerably increased by the Death of Mrs. Partridge,
which, tho' owing to the Distemper above mentioned which is no Consequence of
Poverty or Distress, many were not ashamed to impute to Mr. Allworthy's
Severity, or, as they now termed it, Cruelty.
    Partridge, having now lost his Wife, his School, and his Annuity, and the
unknown Person having now discontinued the last-mentioned Charity, resolved to
change the Scene, and left the Country, where he was in Danger of starving with
the universal Compassion of all his Neighbours.
 

                                  Chapter VII

 A short Sketch of that Felicity which prudent Couples may extract from Hatred;
   with a short Apology for those People who overlook Imperfections in their
                                    Friends.
 
Tho' 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 any
thing else: For tho' an Affection placed on the Understanding is by many wise
Persons thought much 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 Superiour in
an Argument, is desirous of being still known to think himself in the Right. The
Captain, on the contrary, tho' 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 tho' this Complaisance 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 Condescention, 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; tho' 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,
tho' their Mate was never so disagreeable to them. Hence the Wife often puts on
Fits of Love and Jealousy, nay, even denies herself any Pleasure, to disturb and
prevent those of her Husband; and he again, in return, puts frequent Restraints
on himself, and stays at home in Company which he dislikes, in order to confine
his Wife to what she equally detests. Hence too must flow those Tears which a
Widow sometimes so plentifully sheds over the Ashes of a Husband with whom she
led a Life of constant Disquiet and Turbulency, and whom now she can never hope
to torment any more.
    But if ever any Couple enjoyed this Pleasure, it was at present experienced
by the Captain and his Lady. It was always a sufficient Reason to either of them
to be obstinate in any Opinion, that the other had previously asserted the
contrary. If the one proposed any Amusement, the other constantly objected to
it. They never loved or hated, commended or abused the same Person. And for this
Reason, as the Captain looked with an evil Eye on the little Foundling, his Wife
began now to caress it almost equally with her own Child.
    The Reader will be apt to conceive, that this Behaviour between the Husband
and Wife did not greatly contribute to Mr. Allworthy's Repose, as it tended so
little to that serene Happiness which he had designed for all three, from this
Alliance; but the Truth is, though he might be a little disappointed in his
sanguine Expectations, yet he was far from being acquainted with the whole
Matter: For, as the Captain was, from certain obvious Reasons, much on his Guard
before him, the Lady was obliged, for fear of her Brother's Displeasure, to
pursue the same Conduct. In fact, it is possible for a third Person to be very
intimate, nay even to live long in the same House, with a married Couple, who
have any tolerable Discretion, and not even guess at the sour Sentiments which
they bear to each other: For though the whole Day may be sometimes too short for
Hatred, as well as for Love; yet the many Hours which they naturally spend
together, apart from all Observers, furnish People of tolerable Moderation with
such ample Opportunity for the Enjoyment of either Passion, that, if they love,
they can support being a few Hours in Company, without toying, or if they hate,
without spitting in each other's Faces.
    It is possible, however, that Mr. Allworthy saw enough to render him a
little uneasy; for we are not always to conclude, that a wise Man is not hurt,
because he doth not cry out and lament himself, like those of a childish or
effeminate Temper. But indeed it is possible he might see some Faults in the
Captain, without any Uneasiness at all: For Men of true Wisdom and Goodness are
contented to take Persons and Things as they are, without complaining of their
Imperfections, or attempting to amend them. They can see a Fault in a Friend, a
Relation, or an Acquaintance, without ever mentioning it to the Parties
themselves, or to any others; and this often without lessening their Affection.
Indeed unless great Discernment be tempered with this overlooking Disposition,
we ought never to contract Friendship but with a Degree of Folly which we can
deceive: For I hope my Friends will pardon me, when I declare I know none of
them without a Fault; and I should be sorry if I could imagine I had any Friend
who could not see mine. Forgiveness, of this Kind, we give and demand in Turn.
It is an Exercise of Friendship, and, perhaps, none of the least pleasant. And
this Forgiveness we must bestow, without Desire of Amendment. There is, perhaps,
no surer Mark of Folly, than an Attempt to correct the natural Infirmities of
those we love. The finest Composition of human Nature, as well as the finest
China, may have a Flaw in it; and this, I am afraid, in either Case, is equally
incurable;. though, nevertheless, the Pattern may remain of the highest Value.
    Upon the whole then, Mr. Allworthy certainly saw some Imperfections in the
Captain; but, as this was a very artful Man, and eternally upon his Guard before
him, these appeared to him no more than Blemishes in a good Character; which his
Goodness made him overlook, and his Wisdom prevented him from discovering to the
Captain himself. Very different would have been his Sentiments, had he
discovered the whole; which, perhaps, would, in Time, have been the Case, had
the Husband and Wife long continued this Kind of Behaviour to each other; but
this kind Fortune took effectual Means to prevent, by forcing the Captain to do
that which rendered him again dear to his Wife, and restored all her Tenderness
and Affection towards him.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

 A Receipt to regain the lost Affections of a Wife, which hath never been known
                      to fail in the most desperate Cases.
 
The Captain was made large Amends for the unpleasant Minutes which he passed in
the Conversation of his Wife (and which were as few as he could contrive to make
them) by the pleasant Meditations he enjoyed when alone.
    These Meditations were entirely employed on Mr. Allworthy's Fortune; for
first, he exercised much Thought in calculating, as well as he could, the exact
Value of the whole; which Calculations he often saw Occasion to alter in his own
Favour: And secondly, and chiefly, he pleased himself with intended Alterations
in the House and Gardens, and in projecting many other Schemes, as well for
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, etc. 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 Suspence, 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 befell the Captain as he was taking his Evening Walk by
himself, so that no Body 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 Pick-axe and a Spade are only necessary;
and build Houses of five hundred by a hundred Feet, forgetting that of six by
two.«
 

                                   Chapter IX

 A Proof of the Infallibility of the foregoing Receipt, in the Lamentations of
 the Widow; with other suitable Decorations of Death, such as Physicians, etc.
                       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 enticed 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? O 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, etc. 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 had 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 surprised that Part of the
World who have been ignorant of the Fact we have above asserted.
    The Reader may, perhaps, be surprised, 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 his Nostrils.
    The Physicians, therefore, finding themselves anticipated in every thing
they ordered, were at a Loss how to employ that Portion of Time which it is
usual and decent to remain for their Fee, and were therefore necessitated to
find some Subject or other for Discourse; and what could more naturally present
itself than that before-mentioned?
    Our Doctors were about to take their Leave, when Mr. Allworthy, having given
over the Captain, and acquiesced in the divine Will, began to enquire after his
Sister, whom he desired them to visit before their Departure.
    This Lady was now recovered of her Fit, and, to use the common Phrase, as
well as could be expected for one in her Condition. The Doctors, therefore, all
previous Ceremonies being complied with, as this was a new Patient, attended,
according to Desire, and laid hold on each of her Hands, as they had before done
on those of the Corpse.
    The Case of the Lady was in the other Extreme from that of her Husband; for,
as he was past all the Assistance of Physic, so, in reality, she required none.
    There is nothing more unjust, than the vulgar Opinion by which Physicians
are misrepresented, as Friends to Death. On the contrary, I believe, if the
Number of those who recover by Physic could be opposed to that of the Martyrs to
it, the former would rather exceed the latter. Nay, some are so cautious on this
Head, that, to avoid a Possibility of killing the Patient, they abstain from all
Methods of curing, and prescribe nothing but what can neither do good nor harm.
I have heard some of these, with great Gravity, deliver it as a Maxim, That
Nature should be left to do her own Work, while the Physician stands by, as it
were to clap her on the Back, and encourage her when she doth well.
    So little then did our Doctors delight in Death, that they discharged the
Corpse after a single Fee; but they were not so disgusted with their living
Patient; concerning whose Case they immediately agreed, and fell to prescribing
with great Diligence.
    Whether, as the Lady had at first persuaded her Physicians to believe her
ill, they had now, in return, persuaded her to believe herself so, I will not
determine; but she continued a whole Month with all the Decorations of Sickness.
During this Time she was visited by Physicians, attended by Nurses, and received
constant Messages from her Acquaintance, to enquire after her Health.
    At length, the decent Time for Sickness and immoderate Grief being expired,
the Doctors were discharged, and the Lady began to see Company; being altered
only from what she was before by that Colour of Sadness in which she had dressed
her Person and Countenance.
    The Captain was now interred, and might, perhaps, have already made a large
Progress towards Oblivion, had not the Friendship of Mr. Allworthy taken Care to
preserve his Memory, by the following Epitaph, which was written by a Man of as
great Genius as Integrity, and one who perfectly well knew the Captain.
 
                                   Here lies,
                       In Expectation of a joyful Rising,
                                  The Body of
                              Captain JOHN BLIFIL.
                                     LONDON
                          had the Honour of his Birth,
                                     OXFORD
                               of his Education.
                                   His Parts
                        were an Honour to his Profession
                              and to his Country.
                            His Life to his Religion
                               and human Nature.
                             He was a dutiful Son,
                               a tender Husband,
                            an affectionate Father,
                              a most kind Brother,
                               a sincere Friend,
                              a devout Christian,
                                and a good Man.
                             His inconsolable Widow
                            hath erected this Stone,
                                The Monument of
                                  His Virtues,
                               and Her Affection.
 

                                    Book III

  Containing the most memorable Transactions which passed in the Family of Mr.
 Allworthy, from the Time when Tommy Jones arrived at the Age of Fourteen, till
he attained the Age of Nineteen. In this Book the Reader may pick up some Hints
                     concerning the Education of Children.
 

                                   Chapter I

                         Containing little or nothing.
 
The Reader will be pleased to remember, that at the Beginning of the Second Book
of this History, we gave him a Hint of our Intention to pass over several large
Periods of Time, in which nothing happened worthy of being recorded in a
Chronicle of this Kind.
    In so doing, we do not only consult our own Dignity and Ease; but the Good
and Advantage of the Reader: For besides, that by these Means we prevent him
from throwing away his Time in reading either without Pleasure or Emolument, we
give him at all such Seasons an Opportunity of employing that wonderful
Sagacity, of which he is Master, by filling up these vacant Spaces of Time with
his own Conjectures; for which Purpose, we have taken care to qualify him in the
preceding Pages.
    For Instance, what Reader but knows that Mr. Allworthy felt at first for the
Loss of his Friend, those Emotions of Grief, which on such Occasions enter into
all Men whose Hearts are not composed of Flint, or their Heads of as solid
Materials? Again, what Reader doth not know that Philosophy and Religion, in
time, moderated, and at last extinguished this Grief? The former of these,
teaching the Folly and Vanity of it, and the latter, correcting it, as unlawful,
and at the same time assuaging it by raising future Hopes and Assurances which
enable a strong and religious Mind to take leave of a Friend on his Deathbed
with little less Indifference than if he was preparing for a long Journey; and
indeed with little less Hope of seeing him again.
    Nor can the judicious Reader be at a greater Loss on Account of Mrs. Bridget
Blifil, who, he may be assured, conducted herself through the whole Season in
which Grief is to make its Appearance on the Outside of the Body, with the
strictest Regard to all the Rules of Custom and Decency, suiting the Alterations
of her Countenance to the several Alterations of her Habit: For as this changed
from Weeds to Black, from Black to Grey, from Grey to White, so did her
Countenance change from Dismal to Sorrowful, from Sorrowful to Sad, and from Sad
to Serious, till the Day came in which she was allowed to return to her former
Serenity.
    We have mentioned these two as Examples only of the Task which may be
imposed on Readers of the lowest Class. Much higher and harder Exercises of
judgement 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 tho' nothing worthy of a
Place in this History occurred within that Period; yet did several Incidents
happen, of equal Importance with those reported by the daily and weekly
Historians of the Age, in reading which, great Numbers of Persons consume a
considerable Part of their Time, very little, I am afraid, to their Emolument.
Now, in the Conjectures here proposed, some of the most excellent Faculties of
the Mind may be employed to much Advantage, since it is a more useful Capacity
to be able to foretel the Actions of Men in any Circumstance from their
Characters; than to judge of their Characters from their Actions. The former, I
own, requires the greater Penetration; but may be accomplished by true Sagacity,
with no less Certainty than the latter.
    As we are sensible that much the greatest Part of our Readers are very
eminently possessed of this Quality, we have left them a Space of twelve Years
to exert it in; and shall now bring forth our Heroe, at about fourteen Years of
Age, not questioning that many have been long impatient to be introduced to his
Acquaintance.
 

                                   Chapter II

 The Heroe of this great History appears with very bad Omens. A little Tale, of
  so LOW a Kind, that some may think it not worth their Notice. A Word or two
  concerning a Squire, and more relating to a Game-keeper, 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 Game-keeper, 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 Game-keeper and his
Family. Tho' 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 a Partridge, might
be thought to cultivate the same Superstition with the Bannians in India; many
of whom, we are told, dedicate their whole Lives to the Preservation and
Protection of certain Animals; was it not that our English Bannians, while they
preserve them from other Enemies, will most unmercifully slaughter whole
Horse-loads themselves, so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such
heathenish Superstition.
    I have, indeed, a much better Opinion of this Kind of Men than is
entertained by some, as I take them to answer the Order of Nature, and the good
Purposes for which they were ordained in a more ample Manner than many others.
Now, as Horace tells us, that there are a Set of human Beings,
 
                             Fruges consumere nati.
 
Born to consume the Fruits of the Earth. So, I make no manner of Doubt but that
there are others
 
                             Feras consumere nati.
 
Born to consume the Beasts of the Field, or, as it is commonly called, the Game;
and none, I believe, will deny, but that those Squires fulfil this End of their
Creation.
    Little Jones went one Day a shooting with the Game-keeper; 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 Game-keeper 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 horseback, at a little Distance
from them; and hearing the Gun go off, he immediately made towards the Place,
and discovered poor Tom: For the Game-keeper 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, tho' 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 alleged 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 Game-keeper 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 Game-keeper, whose Ruin he knew must now be the
Consequence.
    Nor did the Game-keeper pass his Time much better. He had the same
Apprehensions with the Youth; for whose Honour he had likewise a much tenderer
Regard than for his Skin.
    In the Morning, when Tom attended the Reverend Mr. Thwackum, the Person to
whom Mr. Allworthy had committed the Instruction of the two Boys, he had the
same Questions put to him by that Gentleman, which he had been asked the Evening
before, to which he returned the same Answers. The Consequence of this was, so
severe a Whipping, that it possibly fell little short of the Torture with which
Confessions are in some Countries extorted from Criminals.
    Tom bore his Punishment with great Resolution; and tho' 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 Game-keeper 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 Fullness of his Heart, had almost betrayed the Secret;
but the good Genius of the Game-keeper suggested to him what might be the
Consequence to the poor Fellow, and this Consideration sealed his Lips.
    Thwackum did all he could to dissuade 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!« cry'd Thwackum, with some Warmth, »mere Stubborness 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 farther, we shall briefly introduce
to our Reader's Acquaintance.
 

                                  Chapter III

  The Character of Mr. Square the Philosopher, and of Mr. Thwackum the Divine;
                          with a Dispute concerning -
 
The Name of this Gentleman who had then resided some time at Mr. Allworthy's
House, was Mr. Square. His natural Parts were not of the first Rate, but he had
greatly improved them by a learned Education. He was deeply read in the
Antients, and a profest Master of all the Works of Plato and Aristotle. Upon
which great Models he had principally form'd 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 tho' 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, much less dictate, an Untruth, is to assert an Absurdity too
shocking to be conceived.«
    »I purposely avoided,« says Square, »drawing a Conclusion which I thought
evident from what I have said; but if you perceived it, I am sure you have not
attempted to answer it. However, to drop the Article of Religion, I think it is
plain, from what you have said, that we have different Ideas of Honour; or why
do we not agree in the same Terms of its Explanation? I have asserted, that true
Honour and true Virtue are almost synonimous Terms, and they are both founded on
the unalterable Rule of Right, and the eternal Fitness of Things; to which an
Untruth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that true Honour
cannot support an Untruth. In this, therefore, I think we are agreed; but that
this Honour can be said to be founded on Religion, to which it is antecedent, if
by Religion be meant any positive Law -«
    »I agree,« answered Thwackum, with great Warmth, »with a Man who asserts
Honour to be antecedent to Religion! - Mr. Allworthy, did I agree -?«
    He was proceeding, when Mr. Allworthy interposed, telling them very coldly,
they had both mistaken his Meaning; for that he had said nothing of true Honour.
- It is possible, however, he would not have easily quieted the Disputants, who
were growing equally warm, had not another Matter now fallen out, which put a
final End to the Conversation at present.
 

                                   Chapter IV

 Containing a necessary Apology for the Author; and a childish Incident, which
                     perhaps requires an Apology likewise.
 
Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some Misconstructions,
into which the Zeal of some few Readers may lead them; for I would not willingly
give Offence to any, especially to Men who are warm in the Cause of Virtue or
Religion.
    I hope, therefore, no Man will, by the grossest Misunderstanding, or
Perversion, of my Meaning, misrepresent me, as endeavouring to cast any Ridicule
on the greatest Perfections of Human Nature; and which do, indeed, alone purify
and enoble the Heart of Man, and raise him above the Brute Creation. This,
Reader, I will venture to say, (and by how much the better Man you are yourself,
by so much the more will you be inclined to believe me) that I would rather have
buried the Sentiments of these two Persons in eternal Oblivion, than have done
any Injury to either of these glorious Causes.
    On the contrary, it is with a View to their Service that I have taken upon
me to record the Lives and Actions of two of their false and pretended
Champions. A treacherous Friend is the most dangerous Enemy; and I will say
boldly, that both Religion and Virtue have received more real Discredit from
Hypocrites, than the wittiest Profligates or Infidels could ever cast upon them:
Nay farther, as these two, in their Purity, are rightly called the Bands of
civil Society, and are indeed the greatest of Blessings; so when poisoned and
corrupted with Fraud, Pretence and Affectation, they have become the worst of
civil Curses, and have enabled Men to perpetrate the most cruel Mischiefs to
their own Species.
    Indeed, I doubt not but this Ridicule will in general be allowed; my chief
Apprehension is, as many true and just Sentiments often came from the Mouths of
these Persons, lest the whole should be taken together, and I should be
conceived to ridicule all alike. Now the Reader will be pleased to consider,
that as neither of these Men were Fools, they could not be supposed to have
holden none but wrong Principles, and to have uttered nothing but Absurdities;
what Injustice, therefore, must I have done to their Characters, had I selected
only what was bad, and how horridly wretched and maimed must their Arguments
have appeared!
    Upon the whole, it is not Religion or Virtue, but the Want of them which is
here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much neglected Virtue, and Square Religion,
in the Composition of their several Systems; and had not both utterly discarded
all natural Goodness of Heart, they had never been represented as the Objects of
Derision in this History; in which we will now proceed.
    This Matter, then, which put an end to the Debate mentioned in the last
Chapter, was no other than a Quarrel between Master Blifil and Tom Jones, the
Consequence of which had been a bloody Nose to the former; for though Master
Blifil, notwithstanding he was the younger, was in Size above the other's Match,
yet Tom was much his Superior at the noble Art of Boxing.
    Tom, however, cautiously avoided all Engagements with that Youth: For
besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive Lad amidst all his Roguery, and
really loved Blifil; Mr. Thwackum being always the Second of the latter, would
have been sufficient to deter him.
    But well says a certain Author, No Man is wise at all Hours; it is therefore
no Wonder that a Boy is not so. A Difference arising at Play between the two
Lads, Master Blifil called Tom a Beggarly Bastard. Upon which the latter, who
was somewhat passionate in his Disposition, immediately caused that Phænomenon
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 Game-keeper was there. Nay, he
said, - Yes you did, - deny it if you can, That you would not have confessed 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 Game-keeper
had begged him not to go into the Gentleman's Manor, and had at last gone
himself in Compliance with his Persuasions.« He said, »this was the whole Truth
of the Matter, and he would take his Oath of it;« and concluded with very
passionately begging Mr. Allworthy, »to have Compassion on the poor Fellow's
Family, especially as he himself only had been guilty, and the other had been
very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did.« »Indeed Sir,« said he, »it
could hardly be called a Lie that I told; for the poor Fellow was entirely
innocent of the whole Matter. I should have gone alone after the Birds; nay, I
did go at first, and he only followed me to prevent more Mischief. Do, pray,
Sir, let me be punished, take my little Horse away again; but pray, Sir, forgive
poor George.«
    Mr. Allworthy hesitated a few Moments, and then dismissed the Boys, advising
them to live more friendly and peaceably together.
 

                                   Chapter V

  The Opinions of the Divine and the Philosopher concerning the two Boys; with
              some Reasons for their Opinions, and other Matters.
 
It is probable, that by disclosing this Secret, which had been communicated in
the utmost Confidence to him, young Blifil preserved his Companion from a good
Lashing: For the Offence of the bloody Nose would have been of itself sufficient
Cause for Thwackum to have proceeded to Correction; but now this was totally
absorbed, in the Consideration of the other Matter; and with Regard to this, Mr.
Allworthy declared privately, he thought the Boy deserved Reward rather than
Punishment; so that Thwackum's Hand was withheld by a general Pardon.
    Thwackum, whose Meditations were full of Birch, exclaimed against this weak,
and, as he said he would venture to call it, wicked Lenity. To remit the
Punishment of such Crimes was, he said, to encourage them. He enlarged much on
the Correction of Children, and quoted many Texts from Solomon, and others;
which being to be found in so many other Books, shall not be found here. He then
applied himself to the Vice of Lying, on which Head he was altogether as learned
as he had been on the other.
    Square said, he had been endeavouring to reconcile the Behaviour of Tom with
his Idea of perfect Virtue; but could not. He owned there was something which at
first Sight appeared like Fortitude in the Action; but as Fortitude was a
Virtue, and falsehood a Vice, they could by no Means agree or unite together. He
added, that as this was in some measure to confound Virtue and Vice, it might be
worth Mr. Thwackum's Consideration, whether a larger Castigation might not be
laid on, upon that 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 Game-keeper 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, etc. 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
surprising 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 fail'd 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 Panegyricks 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; tho' 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; tho' as those seemed greatly over-ballanced by his good Qualities, they
did not incline Mr. Allworthy to part with him; nor would they indeed have
justified such a Proceeding: For the Reader is greatly mistaken, if he conceives
that Thwackum appeared to Mr. Allworthy in the same Light as he doth to him in
this History; and he is as much deceived, if he imagines, that the most intimate
Acquaintance which he himself could have had with that Divine, would have
informed him of those Things which we, from our Inspiration, are enabled to open
and discover. Of Readers who from such Conceits as these, condemn the Wisdom or
Penetration of Mr. Allworthy, I shall not scruple to say, that they make a very
bad and ungrateful Use of that Knowledge which we have communicated to them.
    These apparent Errors in the Doctrine of Thwackum, served greatly to
palliate the contrary Errors in that of Square, which our good Man no less saw
and condemned. He thought indeed that the different Exuberancies of these
Gentlemen, would correct their different Imperfections; and that from both,
especially with his Assistance, the two Lads would derive sufficient Precepts of
true Religion and Virtue. If the Event happened contrary to his Expectations,
this possibly proceeded from some Fault in the Plan itself; which the Reader
hath my Leave to discover, if he can: For we do not pretend to introduce any
infallible Characters into this History; where we hope nothing will be found
which hath never yet been seen in human Nature.
    To return therefore; the Reader will not, I think, wonder that the different
Behaviour of the two Lads above commemorated, produced the different Effects, of
which he hath already seen some Instance; and besides this, there was another
Reason for the Conduct of the Philosopher and the Pedagogue; but this being
Matter of great Importance, we shall reveal it in the next Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter VI

      Containing a better Reason still for the before-mentioned Opinions.
 
It is to be known then, that those two learned Personages, who have lately made
a considerable Figure on the Theatre of this History, had from their first
Arrival at Mr. Allworthy's House, taken so great an Affection, the one to his
Virtue, the other to his Religion, that they had meditated the closest Alliance
with him.
    For this Purpose they had cast their Eyes on that fair Widow, whom, tho' 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 Grand-mother, 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 Shakespeare
phrases it) »Stuff o' th' Conscience« or no. Thwackum was encouraged to the
Undertaking, by reflecting, that to covet your Neighbour's Sister is no where
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 Law-giver 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 Neighbours 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 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 villify him, would be highly pleasing to her; who, as
she hated the Boy, must love all those who did him any Hurt. In this Thwackum
had the Advantage; for while Square could only scarify the poor Lad's
Reputation, he could flea his Skin; and indeed he considered every Lash he gave
him as a Compliment paid to his Mistress; so that he could with the utmost
Propriety repeat this old flogging Line, »Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed
quod AMEM; I chastize thee not out of Hatred, but out of Love.« And this indeed
he often had in his Mouth, or rather, according to the old Phrase, never more
properly applied, at his Fingers Ends.
    For this Reason principally, the two Gentlemen concurred, as we have seen
above, in their Opinion concerning the two Lads; this being indeed almost the
only Instance of their concurring on any Point: For beside the Difference of
their Principles, they had both long ago strongly suspected each other's Design,
and hated one another with no little Degree of Inveteracy.
    This mutual Animosity was a good deal increased by their alternate
Successes: For Mrs. Blifil knew what they would be at long before they imagined
it; or indeed intended she should: For they proceeded with great Caution lest
she should be offended, and acquaint Mr. Allworthy; but they had no Reason for
any such Fear. She was well enough pleased with a Passion of which she intended
none should have any Fruits but herself. And the only Fruits she designed for
herself were Flattery and Courtship; for which Purpose, she soothed them by
Turns, and a long Time equally. She was indeed rather inclined to favour the
Parson's Principles; but Square's Person was more agreeable to her Eye; for he
was a comely Man; whereas the Pedagogue did in Countenance very nearly resemble
that Gentleman, who in the Harlot's Progress is seen correcting the Ladies in
Bridewel.
    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
guess'd) 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 perswade them she did not.
    Thwackum was the more confirmed in his Opinion, as she had more than once
slyly caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr. Allworthy, who was an Enemy to this
Exercise, was abroad; whereas she had never given any such Orders concerning
young Blifil. And this had likewise imposed upon Square. In reality, though she
certainly hated her own Son; of which, however monstrous it appears, I am
assured she is not a singular Instance, she appeared, notwithstanding all her
outward Compliance, to be in her Heart sufficiently displeased with all the
Favour shown by Mr. Allworthy to the Foundling. She frequently complained of
this behind her Brother's Back, and very sharply censured him for it, both to
Thwackum and Square; nay, she would throw it in the Teeth of Allworthy himself,
when a little Quarrel or Miff, as it is vulgarly called, arose between them.
    However, when Tom grew up, and gave Tokens of that Gallantry of Temper which
greatly recommends Men to Women, this Disinclination which she had discovered to
him when a Child, by Degrees abated, and at last she so evidently demonstrated
her Affection to him to be much stronger than what she bore her own Son, that it
was impossible to mistake her any longer. She was so desirous of often seeing
him, and discovered such Satisfaction and Delight in his Company, that before he
was eighteen Years old, he was become a Rival to both Square and Thwackum; and
what is worse, the whole Country began to talk as loudly of her Inclination to
Tom, as they had before done of that which she had shown to Square; on which
Account the Philosopher conceived the most implacable Hatred for our poor Heroe.
 

                                  Chapter VII

         In which the Author himself makes his Appearance on the Stage.
 
Tho' 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, tho' 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 thro' 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 confessed, 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, tho' these may give them great Comfort within, and administer to an
honest Pride in their own Minds, will by no Means, alas! do their Business in
the World. Prudence and Circumspection are necessary even to the best of Men.
They are indeed as it were a Guard to Virtue, without which she can never be
safe. It is not enough that your Designs, nay that your Actions are
intrinsically good, you must take Care they shall appear so. If your Inside be
never so beautiful, you must preserve a fair Outside also. This must be
constantly looked to, or Malice and Envy will take Care to blacken it so, that
the Sagacity and Goodness of an Allworthy will not be able to see through it,
and to discern the Beauties within. Let this, my young Readers, be your constant
Maxim, That no Man can be good enough to enable him to neglect the Rules of
Prudence; nor will Virtue herself look beautiful, unless she be bedecked with
the outward Ornaments of Decency and Decorum. And this Precept, my worthy
Disciples, if you read with due Attention, you will, I hope, find sufficiently
enforced by Examples in the following Pages.
    I ask Pardon for this short Appearance, by Way of Chorus on the Stage. It is
in Reality for my own Sake, that while I am discovering the Rocks on which
Innocence and Goodness often split, I may not be misunderstood to recommend the
very Means to my worthy Readers, by which I intend to show them they will be
undone. And this, as I could not prevail on any of my Actors to speak, I myself
was obliged to declare.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

 A childish Incident, in which, however, is seen a good-natur'd 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 every Thing 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 Game-keeper, 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 run down his Cheeks, and he thus proceeded) »It was to save them
from absolute Destruction, I parted with your dear Present, notwithstanding all
the Value I had for it. - I sold the Horse for them, and they have every
Farthing of the Money.«
    Mr. Allworthy now stood silent for some Moments, and before he spoke, the
Tears started from his Eyes. He at length dismissed Tom with a gentle Rebuke,
advising him for the future to apply to him in Cases of Distress, rather than to
use extraordinary Means of relieving them himself.
    This Affair was afterwards the Subject of much Debate between Thwackum and
Square. Thwackum held, that this was flying in Mr. Allworthy's Face, who had
intended to punish the Fellow for his Disobedience. He said, in some Instances,
what the World called Charity appeared to him to be opposing the Will of the
Almighty, which had marked some particular Persons for Destruction; and that
this was in like manner acting in Opposition to Mr. Allworthy; concluding, as
usual, with a hearty Recommendation of Birch.
    Square argued strongly, on the other Side, in Opposition perhaps to Thwackum
, or in Compliance with Mr. Allworthy, who seemed very much to approve what
Jones had done. As to what he urged on this Occasion, as I am convinced most of
my Readers will be much abler Advocates for poor Jones, it would be impertinent
to relate it. Indeed it was not difficult to reconcile to the Rule of Right, an
Action which it would have been impossible to deduce from the Rule of Wrong.
 

                                   Chapter IX

Containing an Incident of a more heinous Kind, with the Comments of Thwackum and
                                    Square.
 
It hath been observed by some Man of much greater Reputation for Wisdom than
myself, that Misfortunes seldom come single. An Instance of this may, I believe,
be seen in those Gentlemen who have the Misfortune to have any of their
Rogueries detected: For here Discovery seldom stops till the whole is come out.
Thus it happened to poor Tom; who was no sooner pardoned for selling the Horse,
than he was discovered to have some time before sold a fine Bible which Mr.
Allworthy gave him, the Money arising from which Sale he had disposed of in the
same Manner. This Bible Master Blifil had purchased, though he had already such
another of his own, partly out of Respect for the Book, and partly out of
Friendship to Tom, being unwilling that the Bible should be sold out of the
Family at half Price. He therefore disbursed 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 oftner 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 Enquiry,
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 stopped 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 Game-keeper 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 slyly drew him to the
Habitation of Black George; where the Family of that poor Wretch, namely, his
Wife and Children, were found in all the Misery with which Cold, Hunger, and
Nakedness, can affect human Creatures: For as to the Money they had received
from Jones, former Debts had consumed almost the whole.
    Such a Scene as this could not fail of affecting the Heart of Mr. Allworthy.
He immediately gave the Mother a couple of Guineas, with which he bid her cloath
her Children. The poor Woman burst into Tears at this Goodness, and while she
was thanking him, could not refrain from expressing her Gratitude to Tom; who
had, she said, long preserved both her and hers from starving. We have not, says
she, had a Morsel to eat, nor have these poor Children had a Rag to put on, but
what his Goodness hath bestowed on us: For indeed, besides the Horse and the
Bible, Tom had sacrificed a Night-gown and other Things to the Use of this
distressed Family.
    On their Return home, Tom made use of all his Eloquence to display the
Wretchedness of these People, and the Penitence of Black George himself; and in
this he succeeded so well, that Mr. Allworthy said, He thought the Man had
suffered enough for what was past; that he would forgive him, and think of some
Means of providing for him and his Family.
    Jones was so delighted with this News, that though it was dark when they
returned home, he could not help going back a Mile in a Shower of Rain to
acquaint the poor Woman with the glad Tidings; but, like other hasty Divulgers
of News, he only brought on himself the Trouble of contradicting it: For the
Ill-fortune of Black George made use of the very Opportunity of his Friend's
Absence to overturn all again.
 

                                   Chapter X

          In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in different Lights.
 
Master Blifil fell very short of his Companion in the amiable Quality of Mercy;
but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a much higher Kind, namely, in Justice:
In which he followed both the Precepts and Example of Thwackum and Square; for
though they would both make frequent Use of the Word Mercy, yet it was plain,
that in reality Square held it to be inconsistent with the Rule of Right; and
Thwackum was for doing Justice, and leaving Mercy to Heaven. The two Gentlemen
did indeed somewhat differ in Opinion concerning the Objects of this sublime
Virtue; by which Thwackum would probably have destroyed one half of Mankind, and
Square the other half.
    Master Blifil then, though he had kept Silence in the Presence of Jones, yet
when he had better considered the Matter, could by no Means endure the Thoughts
of suffering his Uncle to confer Favours on the Undeserving. He therefore
resolved immediately to acquaint him with the Fact which we have above slightly
hinted to the Readers. The Truth of which was as follows:
    The Game-keeper, 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 Higler 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 Higler
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 Game-keeper 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 Game-keeper was condemned, without having any
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 forbade 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 Game-keeper 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: Every Thing 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 not 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 in the End of a Book.
 

                                    Book IV

                         Containing the Time of a Year.
 

                                   Chapter I

                        Containing five Pages of Paper.
 
As Truth distinguishes our Writings, from those idle Romances which are filled
with Monsters, the Productions, not of Nature, but of distempered Brains; and
which have been therefore recommended by an eminent Critic to the sole Use of
the Pastry-cook: So, on the other hand, we would avoid any Resemblance to that
Kind of History which a celebrated Poet seems to think is no less calculated for
the Emolument of the Brewer, as the reading it should be always attended with a
Tankard of good Ale.
 
While - History with her Comrade Ale,
Sooths 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 hath ascribed only to Jove himself, can be Proof against a News-Paper of
many Volumes.
    We shall leave to the Reader to determine with what judgement 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 Tragic 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. Lock'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 sooth 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,
etc. 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 Alehouse 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 II

A short Hint of what we can do in the Sublime, and a Description of Miss Sophia
                                    Western.
 
Hushed be every ruder Breath. May the Heathen Ruler of the Winds confine in iron
Chains the boisterous Limbs of noisy Boreas, and the sharp-pointed Nose of
bitter-biting Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant Bed,
mount the western Sky, and lead on those delicious Gales, the Charms of which
call forth the lovely Flora from her Chamber, perfumed with pearly Dews, when on
the first 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 feather'd Choristers of Nature,
whose sweetest Notes not even Handel can excel, 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 Gallaxy, 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 dazling 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 mayst 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 Eye-brows 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, tho'
perhaps it was rather of the former Kind. Her Complexion had rather more of the
Lilly 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 Lillies, 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 judgement
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- though perhaps
she wanted a little of that Ease in her Behaviour, which is to be acquired only
by Habit, and living within what is called the polite Circle. But this, to say
the Truth, is often too dearly purchased; and though it hath Charms so
inexpressible, that the French, perhaps, among other Qualities, mean to express
this, when they declare they know not what it is, yet its Absence is well
compensated by Innocence; nor can good Sense, and a natural Gentility ever stand
in need of it.
 

                                  Chapter III

 Wherein the History goes back to commemorate a trifling Incident that happened
 some Years since; but which, trifling as it was, had some future Consequences.
 
The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth Year, when she is introduced into
this History. Her Father, as hath been said, was fonder of her than of any other
human Creature. To her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in order to engage her
Interest on the Behalf of his Friend the Game-keeper.
    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 Play-mates 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 her
Finger, and lie contented in her Bosom, where it seemed almost sensible of its
own Happiness; tho' 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 splipped 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 Name-sake, 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 any Thing. It seemed to me against the Law of Nature, by
which every Thing 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 would never 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 chide
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 flea'd.
    Sophia now returned to her Chamber, the two young Gentlemen were sent home,
and the rest of the Company returned to their Bottle; where a Conversation
ensued on the Subject of the Bird, so curious, that we think it deserves a
Chapter by itself.
 

                                   Chapter IV

Containing such very deep and grave Matters, that some Readers, perhaps, may not
                                   relish it.
 
Square had no sooner lighted his Pipe, than addressing himself to Allworthy, he
thus began: »Sir, I cannot help congratulating you on your Nephew; who, at an
Age when few Lads have any Ideas but of sensible Objects, is arrived at a
Capacity of distinguishing Right from Wrong. To confine any thing, seems to me
against the Law of Nature, by which every thing hath a Right to Liberty. These
were his Words; and the Impression hey 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 born 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 judgement 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 Brutus's 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 feræ Naturæ, 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 nonsuited; 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 this Debate interrupted; but it would probably have been soon
resumed, had not Mr. Allworthy presently called for his Coach, and carried off
the two Combatants.
    Such was the Conclusion of this Adventure of the Bird, and of the Dialogue
occasioned by it, which we could not help recounting to our Reader, though it
happened some Years before that Stage, or Period of Time, at which our History
is now arrived.
 

                                   Chapter V

                 Containing Matter accommodated to every Taste.
 
Parva leves capiunt Animos, »Small Things affect light Minds,« was the Sentiment
of a great Master of the Passion of Love. And certain it is, that from this Day
Sophia began to have some little Kindness for Tom Jones, and no little Aversion
for his Companion.
    Many Accidents from time to time improved both these Passions in her Breast;
which, without our recounting, the Reader may well conclude, from what we have
before hinted of the different Tempers of these Lads, and how much the one
suited with her own Inclinations more than the other. To say the Truth, Sophia,
when very young, discerned that Tom, though an idle, thoughtless, rattling
Rascal, was no-body'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 doth 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 doth 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 a 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, complaisant 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 sollicit 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 Linnen, 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 Game-keeper, which
luckily then happened to be vacant.
    Sophia answered, »Well, I will undertake this too; but I cannot promise you
as much Success as in the former Part, which I assure you I will not quit my
Father without obtaining. However, I will do what I can for the poor Fellow, for
I sincerely look upon him and his Family as Objects of great Compassion. - And
now, Mr. Jones, I must ask you a Favour -«
    »A Favour, Madam, (cries Tom) if you knew the Pleasure you have given me in
the Hopes of receiving a Command from you, you would think by mentioning it you
did confer the greatest Favour on me; for by this dear Hand I would sacrifice my
Life to oblige you.«
    He then snatched her Hand, and eagerly kissed it, which was the first Time
his Lips had ever touched her. The Blood, which before had forsaken her Cheeks,
now made her sufficient Amends, by rushing all over her Face and Neck with such
Violence, that they became all of a scarlet Colour. She now first felt a
Sensation to which she had been before a Stranger, and which, when she had
Leisure to reflect on it, began to acquaint her with some Secrets, which the
Reader, if he doth not already guess them, will know in due Time.
    Sophia, as soon as she could speak, (which was not instantly) informed him,
that the Favour she had to desire of him, was not to lead her Father through so
many Dangers in Hunting; for that, from what she had heard, she was terribly
frightened every Time they went out together, and expected some Day or other to
see her Father brought Home with broken Limbs. She therefore begged him, for her
Sake, to be more cautious; and, as he well knew Mr. Western would follow him,
not to ride so madly, nor to take those dangerous Leaps for the future.
    Tom promised faithfully to obey her Commands; and after thanking her for her
kind Compliance with his Request, took his Leave, and departed highly charmed
with his Success.
    Poor Sophia was charmed too; but in a very different Way. Her Sensations,
however, the Reader's Heart (if he or she have any) will better represent than I
can, if I had as many Mouths as ever Poet wished for, to eat, I suppose, those
many Dainties with which he was so plentifully provided.
    It was Mr. Western's Custom every Afternoon, as soon as he was drunk, to
hear his Daughter play on the Harpsichord: for he was a great Lover of Music,
and perhaps, had he lived in Town, might have passed for a Connoisseur: for he
always excepted against the finest Compositions of Mr. Handel. He never relished
any Music but what was light and airy; and indeed his most favourite Tunes, were
Old Sir Simon the King, St. George he was for England, Bobbing Joan, and some
others.
    His Daughter, though she was a perfect Mistress of Music, and would never
willingly have played any but Handel's, was so devoted to her Father's Pleasure,
that she learnt all those Tunes to oblige him. However, she would now and then
endeavour to lead him into her own Taste, and when he required the Repetition of
his Ballads, would answer with a »Nay, dear Sir,« and would often beg him to
suffer her to play something else.
    This Evening, however, when the Gentleman was retired from his Bottle, she
played all his Favourites three Times over, without any Solicitation. This so
pleased the good Squire, that he started from his Couch, gave his Daughter a
Kiss, and swore her Hand was greatly improved. She took this Opportunity to
execute her Promise to Tom, in which she succeeded so well, that the Squire
declared, if she would give him t'other Bout of old Sir Simon, he would give the
Game-keeper 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, and 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 past 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-one, was really a fine young Fellow; and
that Lady, by her Encouragements to him, seemed daily more and more to think him
so.
    Allworthy was not, however, moved with their Malice. He declared himself
very well satisfied with what Jones had done. He said, the Perseverance and
Integrity of his Friendship was highly commendable, and he wished he could see
more frequent Instances of that Virtue.
    But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such Sparks as my Friend Tom,
perhaps because they do not pay more ardent Addresses to her, gave now a very
different Turn to all his Actions, and showed them to Mr. Allworthy in a Light
far less agreeable than that Gentleman's Goodness had hitherto seen them in.
 

                                   Chapter VI

 An Apology for the Insensibility of Mr. Jones, to all the Charms of the lovely
Sophia; in which possibly we may, in a considerable Degree, lower his Character
 in the Estimation of those Men of Wit and Gallantry, who approve the Heroes in
                          most of our modern Comedies.
 
There are two Sorts of People, who I am afraid, have already conceived some
Contempt for my Heroe, on Account of his Behaviour to Sophia. The former of
these will blame his Prudence in neglecting an Opportunity to possess himself of
Mr. Western's Fortune; and the latter will no less despise him for his
Backwardness to so fine a Girl, who seemed ready to fly into his Arms, if he
would open them to receive her.
    Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit him of either
of these Charges; (for Want of Prudence admits of no Excuse; and what I shall
produce against the latter Charge, will, I apprehend, be scarce satisfactory);
yet as Evidence may sometimes be offered in Mitigation, I shall set forth the
plain Matter of Fact, and leave the whole to the Reader's Determination.
    Mr. Jones had Somewhat about him, which, though I think Writers are not
thoroughly agreed in its Name, doth certainly inhabit some human Breasts; whose
Use is not so properly to distinguish Right from Wrong, as to prompt and incite
them to the former, and to restrain and with-hold them from the latter.
    This Somewhat may be indeed resembled to the famous Trunk-maker in the
Playhouse: for whenever the Person who is possessed of it doth what is right, no
ravished or friendly Spectator is so eager, or so loud in his Applause; on the
contrary, when he doth wrong, no Critic is so apt to hiss and explode him.
    To give a higher Idea of the Principle I mean, as well as one more familiar
to the present Age; it may be considered as sitting on its Throne in the Mind,
like the LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR of this Kingdom in his Court; where it presides,
governs, directs, judges, acquits and condemns according to Merit and Justice;
with a Knowledge which nothing escapes, a Penetration which nothing can deceive,
and an Integrity which nothing can corrupt.
    This active Principle may perhaps be said to constitute the most essential
Barrier between us, and our Neighbours the Brutes; for if there be some in the
human Shape, who are not under any such Dominion, I choose rather to consider
them as Deserters from us to our Neighbours; among whom they will have the Fate
of Deserters, and not be placed in the first Rank.
    Our Heroe, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square I will not
determine, was very strongly under the Guidance of this Principle: for though he
did not always act rightly, yet he never did otherwise without feeling and
suffering for it. It was this which taught him, that to repay the Civilities and
little Friendships of Hospitality by robbing the House where you have received
them, is to be the basest and meanest of Thieves. He did not think the Baseness
of this Offence lessened by the Height of the Injury committed; on the contrary,
if to steal another's Plate deserved Death and Infamy, it seemed to him
difficult to assign a Punishment adequate to the robbing a Man of his whole
Fortune, and of his Child into the Bargain.
    This Principle therefore prevented him from any Thought of making his
Fortune by such Means (for this, as I have said, is an active Principle, and
doth not content itself with Knowledge or Belief only). Had he been greatly
enamoured of Sophia, he possibly might have thought otherwise; but give me Leave
to say, there is great Difference between running away with a Man's Daughter
from the Motive of Love, and doing the same Thing from the Motive of Theft.
    Now though this young Gentleman was not insensible of the Charms of Sophia;
tho' 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 surprised at our long Taciturnity as to
this Matter; and quite at a Loss to divine who this Woman was; since we have
hitherto not dropped 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 Suspence, 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 tho' 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 choose 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 Wellbeing 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 over-ballanced by the Considerations of the Affection which
she visibly bore him, and of the Situation into which he had brought her. The
former of these created Gratitude, the latter Compassion; and both together with
his Desire for her Person, raised in him a Passion, which might, without any
great Violence to the Word, be called Love; though, perhaps, it was at first not
very judiciously placed.
    This then was the true Reason of that Insensibility which he had shown to
the Charms of Sophia, and that Behaviour in her, which might have been
reasonably enough interpreted as an Encouragement to his Addresses: For as he
could not think of abandoning his Molly, poor and destitute as she was, so no
more could he entertain a Notion of betraying such a Creature as Sophia. And
surely, had he given the least Encouragement to any Passion for that young Lady,
he must have been absolutely guilty of one or other of those Crimes; either of
which would, in my Opinion, have very justly subjected him to that Fate, which
at his first Introduction into this History, I mentioned to have been generally
predicted as his certain Destiny.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                    Being the shortest Chapter in this Book.
 
Her Mother first perceived the Alteration in the Shape of Molly, and in order to
hide it from her Neighbours, she foolishly clothed her in that Sack which Sophia
had sent her. Though indeed that young Lady had little Apprehension, that the
poor Woman would have been weak enough to let any of her Daughters wear it in
that Form.
    Molly was charmed with the first Opportunity she ever had of showing her
Beauty to Advantage; for though she could very well bear to contemplate herself
in the Glass, even when dressed? in Rags; and though she had in that Dress
conquered the Heart of Jones, and perhaps of some others; yet she thought the
Addition of Finery would much improve her Charms, and extend her Conquests.
    Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this Sack, with a new laced
Cap, and some other Ornaments which Tom had given her, repairs to Church with
her Fan in her Hand the very next Sunday. The Great are deceived, if they
imagine they have appropriated Ambition and Vanity to themselves. These noble
Qualities flourish as notably in a Country Church, and Churchyard, as in the
Drawing-Room, or in the Closet. Schemes have indeed been laid in the Vestry,
which would hardly disgrace the Conclave. Here is a Ministry, and here is an
Opposition. Here are Plots and Circumventions, Parties and Factions, equal to
those which are to be found in Courts.
    Nor are the Women here less practised in the highest Feminine Arts than
their fair Superiors in Quality and Fortune. Here are Prudes and Coquettes. Here
are Dressing and Ogling, falsehood, Envy, Malice, Scandal; in short, every Thing
which is common to the most splendid Assembly, or politest Circle. Let those of
high Life, therefore, no longer despise the Ignorance of their Inferiors; nor
the Vulgar any longer rail at the Vices of their Betters.
    Molly had seated herself some time before she was known by her Neighbours.
And then a Whisper ran through the whole Congregation, »Who is she?« But when
she was discovered, such sneering, gigling, tittering, and laughing, ensued
among the Women, that Mr. Allworthy was obliged to exert his Authority to
preserve any Decency among them.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

    A Battle sung by the Muse in the Homerican 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 Council 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 whileom 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 Squawls, 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 Stower had nourished, where he first learnt the vocal Art, with
which, wandring up and down at Wakes and Fairs, he cheered the rural Nymphs and
Swains, when upon the Green they interweav'd the sprightly Dance; while he
himself stood fidling 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, O
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 Pattins; nay the very Pattin 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 stopped
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 ancient 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
Church-yard.
    Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a Mob assembled, and two Women in
the Posture in which we left the Combatants, stopped 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 Mol 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 Molly, 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 Horsewhipping of that Day.
    Having scoured the whole Coast of the Enemy, as well as any of Homer's
Heroes ever did, or as Don Quixotte, or any Knight Errant in the World could
have done, he returned to Molly, whom he found in a Condition, which must give
both me and my Reader Pain, was it to be described here. Tom raved like a
Madman, beat his Breast, tore his Hair, stamped on the Ground, and vowed the
utmost Vengeance on all who had been concerned. He then pulled off his Coat, and
buttoned it round her, put his Hat upon her Head, wiped the Blood from her Face
as well as he could with his Handkerchief, and called out to the Servant to ride
as fast as possible for a Side-saddle, or a Pillion, that he might carry her
safe home.
    Master Blifil objected to the sending away the Servant, as they had only one
with them; but as Square seconded the Order of Jones, he was obliged to comply.
    The Servant returned in a very short Time with the Pillion, and Molly,
having collected her Rags as well as she could, was placed behind him. In which
Manner she was carried home, Square, Blifil, and Jones, attending.
    Here Jones, having received his Coat, given her a sly Kiss, and whispered
her that he would return in the Evening, quitted his Molly, and rode on after
his Companions.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                 Containing Matter of no very peaceable Colour.
 
Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed Rags, than her Sisters
began to fall violently upon her; particularly her eldest Sister, who told her
she was well enough served. »How had she the Assurance to wear a Gown which
young Madam Western had given to Mother! If one of us was to wear it, I think,«
says she, »I myself have the best Right; but I warrant you think it belongs to
your Beauty. I suppose you think yourself more handsomer than any of us.« »Hand
her down the Bit of Glass from over the Cupboard,« cries another, »I'd wash the
Blood from my Face before I tauked of my Beauty.« »You'd better have minded what
the Parson says,« cries the eldest, »and not a harkened after Men Voke.«
»Indeed, Child, and so she had,« says the Mother sobbing, »she hath brought a
Disgrace upon us all. She's the vurst of the Vamily that ever was a Whore.« »You
need not upbraid me with that, Mother,« cries Molly, »you yourself was brought
to-bed of Sister there within a Week after you was married.« »Yes, Hussy,«
answered the enraged Mother, »so I was, and what was the mighty Matter of that?
I was made an honest Woman then; and if you was to be made an honest Woman, I
should not be angry; but you must have to be doing with a Gentleman, you nasty
Slut, you will have a Bastard, Hussy, you will; and that I defy any one to say
of me.«
    In this Situation Black George found his Family, when he came home for the
Purpose before mentioned. As his Wife and three Daughters were all of them
talking together, and most of them crying, it was some time before he could get
an Opportunity of being heard; but as soon as such an Interval occurred, he
acquainted the Company with what Sophia had said to him.
    Goody Seagrim then began to revile her Daughter afresh. »Here,« says she,
»you have brought us into a fine Quandary indeed. What will Madam say to that
big Belly? Oh that ever I should live to see this Day.«
    Molly answered with great Spirit, »And what is this mighty Place which you
have got for me, Father?« (for he had not well understood the Phrase used by
Sophia of being about her Person) »I suppose it is to be under the Cook; but I
shan't wash Dishes for any Body. 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
Kitchin, and truly I don't care my Daughter should be a Scullion Wench: For poor
as I am, I am a Gentlewoman. And thof I was obliged, as my Father, who was a
Clergyman, died worse than nothing, and so could not give me a Shilling of
Potion, to undervalue myself, by marrying a poor Man, yet I would have you to
know, I have a Spirit above all them Things. Marry come up, it would better
become Madam Western to look at Home, and remember who her own Grandfather was.
Some of my Family, for ought 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 some thing 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
Tranquility.
    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 any
Thing so low and detestable.
    The whole Family were soon reduced to a State of perfect Quiet: For the
Virtue of this Medicine, like that of Electricity, is often communicated through
one Person to many others, who are not touched by the Instrument. To say the
Truth, as they both operate by Friction, it may be doubted whether there is not
something analogous between them, of which Mr. Freke would do well to enquire
before he publishes the next Edition of his Book.
    A Council was now called, in which, after many Debates, Molly still
persisting that she would not go to Service, it was at length resolved, that
Goody Seagrim herself should wait on Miss Western, and endeavour to procure the
Place for her eldest Daughter, who declared great Readiness to accept it; but
Fortune, who seems to have been an Enemy of this little Family, afterwards put a
Stop to her Promotion.
 

                                   Chapter X

 A Story told by Mr. Supple, the Curate. The Penetration of Squire Western. His
         great Love for his Daughter, and the Return to it made by her.
 
The next Morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr. Western, and was at his Return
invited by that Gentleman to Dinner.
    The lovely Sophia shone forth that Day with more Gaiety and Sprightliness
than usual. Her Battery was certainly levelled at our Heroe; though, I believe,
she herself scarce yet knew her own Intention; but if she had any Design of
charming him, she now succeeded.
    Mr. Supple, the Curate of Mr. Allworthy's Parish, made one of the Company.
He was a good-natured worthy Man; but chiefly remarkable for his great
Taciturnity at Table, though his Mouth was never shut at it. In short, he had
one of the best Appetites in the World. However, the Cloth was no sooner taken
away, than he always made sufficient Amends for his Silence: For he was a very
hearty Fellow; and his Conversation was often entertaining, never offensive.
    At his first Arrival, which was immediately before the Entrance of the
Roast-beef, he had given an Intimation that he had brought some News with him,
and was beginning to tell, that he came that Moment from Mr. Allworthy's, when
the Sight of the Roast-beef struck him dumb, permitting him only to say Grace,
and to declare he must pay his Respect to the Baronet: For so he called the
Sirloin.
    When Dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his News, he began as
follows, »I believe, Lady, your Ladyship observed a young Woman at Church
yesterday at Even-song, who was dressed? 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 Cycno,
 
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 Game-keeper, 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 Church-yard, 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 Bridewel, 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 all together 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 Twopence, 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
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 Whoremaster as any within five Miles o'un. No, no. It will
do'n no Harm with he, assure your self; nor with any Body 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 News-papers, 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-ach. This Remission was presently granted: For indeed she seldom
had Occasion to ask him twice, as he loved her with such ardent Affection, that
by gratifying her, he commonly conveyed the highest Gratification to himself.
She was really what he frequently called her, his little Darling; and she well
deserved to be so: For she returned all his Affection in the most ample Manner.
She had preserved the most inviolable Duty to him in all Things; and this her
Love made not only easy, but so delightful, that when one of her Companions
laughed at her for placing so much Merit in such scrupulous Obedience, as that
young Lady called it, Sophia answered, »You mistake me, Madam, if you think I
value myself upon this Account: For besides that I am barely discharging my
Duty, I am likewise pleasing myself. I can truly say, I have no Delight equal to
that of contributing to my Father's Happiness; and if I value myself, my Dear,
it is on having this Power, and not on executing it.«
    This was a Satisfaction, however, which poor Sophia was incapable of tasting
this Evening. She therefore not only desired to be excused from her Attendance
at the Harpsichord, but likewise begged that he would suffer her to absent
herself from Supper. To this Request likewise the Squire agreed, though not
without some Reluctance; for he scarce ever permitted her to be out of his
Sight, unless when he was engaged with his Horses, Dogs, or Bottle. Nevertheless
he yielded to the Desire of his Daughter, though the poor Man was, at the same
Time, obliged to avoid his own Company, (if I may so express myself) by sending
for a neighbouring Farmer to sit with him.
 

                                   Chapter XI

  The narrow Escape of Molly Seagrim, with some Observations for which we have
                  been forced to dive pretty deep into Nature.
 
Tom Jones had ridden one of Mr. Western's Horses that Morning in the Chace: 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 Conscientiæ,
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, (so he now called Allworthy)
for he durst, he said, be assured, that when he had alleged 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 Rodomontade; 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 ballancing 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 these 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 Game-keeper proceeded. He supported the Father in order
to corrupt the Daughter, and preserved the Family from starving, to bring one of
them to Shame and Ruin. This is Friendship! this is Generosity! As Sir Richard
Steele says, Gluttons who give high Prices for Delicacies, are very worthy to be
called generous. In short, I am resolved, from this Instance, never to give Way
to the Weakness of Human Nature more, nor to think any thing Virtue which doth
not exactly quadrate with the unerring Rule of Right.«
    The Goodness of Allworthy had prevented those Considerations from occurring
to himself; yet were they too plausible to be absolutely and hastily rejected,
when laid before his Eyes by another. Indeed what Square had said sunk very
deeply into his Mind, and the Uneasiness which it there created was very visible
to the other; though the good Man would not acknowledge this, but made a very
slight Answer, and forcibly drove off the Discourse to some other Subject. It
was well, perhaps, for poor Tom, that no such Suggestions had been made before
he was pardoned; for they certainly stamped in the Mind of Allworthy the first
bad Impression concerning Jones.
 

                                  Chapter XII

 Containing much clearer Matters; but which flowed from the same Fountain with
                        those in the preceding Chapter.
 
The Reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me to Sophia. She passed
the Night, after we saw her last, in no very agreeable Manner. Sleep befriended
her but little, and Dreams less. In the Morning, when Mrs. Honour her Maid
attended her, at the usual Hour, she was found already up and dressed?.
    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 no body 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 do'st 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! Every body says it as well as I - To be sure, I never thought as
it was any Harm to say a young Man was handsome; but to be sure I shall never
think him so any more now; for handsome is that handsome does. A Beggar Wench!
-«
    »Stop thy Torrent of Impertinence,« cries Sophia, »and see whether my Father
wants me at Breakfast.«
    Mrs. Honour then flung out of the Room, muttering much to herself - of which
- »Marry come up, I assure you,« was all that could be plainly distinguished.
    Whether Mrs. Honour really deserved that Suspicion, of which her Mistress
gave her a Hint, is a Matter which we cannot indulge our Reader's Curiosity by
resolving. We will however make him Amends, in disclosing what passed in the
Mind of Sophia.
    The Reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret Affection for Mr.
Jones had insensibly stolen into the Bosom of this young Lady. That it had there
grown to a pretty great Height before she herself had discovered it. When she
first began to perceive its Symptoms, the Sensations were so sweet and pleasing,
that she had not Resolution sufficient to check or repel them; and thus she went
on cherishing a Passion of which she never once considered the Consequences.
    This Incident relating to Molly, first opened her Eyes. She now first
perceived the Weakness of which she had been guilty; and though it caused the
utmost Perturbation in her Mind, yet it had the Effect of other nauseous Physic,
and for the Time expelled her Distemper. Its Operation indeed was most
wonderfully quick; and in the short Interval, while her Maid was absent, so
entirely removed all Symptoms, that when Mrs. Honour returned with a Summons
from her Father, she was become perfectly easy, and had brought herself to a
thorough Indifference for Mr. Jones.
    The Diseases of the Mind do in almost every Particular imitate those of the
Body. For which Reason, we hope, That learned Faculty, for whom we have so
profound a Respect, will pardon us the violent Hands we have been necessitated
to lay on several Words and Phrases, which of Right belong to them, and without
which our Descriptions must have been often unintelligible.
    Now there is no one Circumstance in which the Distempers of the Mind bear a
more exact Analogy to those which are called Bodily, than that Aptness which
both have to a Relapse. This is plain, in the violent Diseases of Ambition and
Avarice. I have known Ambition, when cured at Court by frequent Disappointments,
(which are the only Physic for it) to break out again in a Contest for Foreman
of the Grand Jury at an Assizes; and have heard of a Man who had so far
conquered Avarice, as to give away many a Sixpence, that comforted himself, at
last, on his Death-bed, by making a crafty and advantagious 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 surprizingly
strong for her Age) could suggest, to subdue and expel it. In this she so far
succeeded, that she began to hope from Time and Absence a perfect Cure. She
resolved therefore to avoid Tom Jones, as much as possible; for which Purpose
she began to conceive a Design of visiting her Aunt, to which she made no Doubt
of obtaining her Father's Consent.
    But Fortune, who had other Designs in her Head, put an immediate Stop to any
such Proceeding, by introducing an Accident, which will be related in the next
Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

A dreadful Accident which befell 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 Chace; 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 Chace, 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 eminent 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 her's by the Bridle. The unruly Beast presently reared
himself an End on his hind Legs, and threw his lovely Burthen from his Back, and
Jones caught her in his Arms.
    She was so affected with the Fright, that she was not immediately able to
satisfy Jones, who was very 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 Jones. An impartial Spectator, who had met them on the Way,
would, on viewing their several Countenances, have concluded Sophia alone to
have been the Object of Compassion: For as to Jones, he exulted in having
probably saved the Life of the young Lady, at the Price only of a broken Bone;
and Mr. Western, though he was not unconcerned at the Accident which had
befallen Jones, was, however, delighted in a much higher Degree with the
fortunate Escape of his Daughter.
    The Generosity of Sophia's Temper construed this Behaviour of Jones into
great Bravery; and it made a deep Impression on her Heart: For certain it is,
that there is no one Quality which so generally recommends Men to Women as this;
proceeding, if we believe the common Opinion, from that natural Timidity of the
Sex; which is, says Mr. Osborne, so great, that a Woman is »the most cowardly of
all the Creatures God ever made.« A Sentiment more remarkable for its Bluntness,
than for its Truth. Aristotle, in his Politics, doth them, I believe, more
Justice, when he says, »The Modesty and Fortitude of Men differ from those
Virtues in Women; for the Fortitude which becomes a Woman, would be Cowardice in
a Man; and the Modesty which becomes a Man, would be Pertness in a Woman.« Nor
is there, perhaps, more of Truth in the Opinion of those who derive the
Partiality which Women are inclined to show to the Brave, from this Excess of
their Fear. Mr. Bayle (I think, in his Article of Helen) imputes this, and with
greater Probability, to their violent Love of Glory; for the Truth of which, we
have the Authority of him, who, of all others, saw farthest into human Nature;
and who introduces the Heroine of his Odyssey, the great Pattern of matrimonial
Love and Constancy, assigning the Glory of her Husband as the only Source of her
Affection towards him.2
    However this be, certain it is that the Accident operated very strongly on
Sophia; and, indeed, after much Enquiry into the Matter, I am inclined to
believe, that at this very Time, the charming Sophia made no less Impression on
the Heart of Jones; to say Truth, he had for some Time become sensible of the
irresistible Power of her Charms.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

The Arrival of a Surgeon. His Operations, and a long Dialogue between Sophia and
                                   her Maid.
 
When they arrived in Mr. Western's Hall, Sophia, who had totter'd along with
much Difficulty, sunk down in a 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, (tho' 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 stripped 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 finish'd his laboured Harangue, with which the Audience,
tho' it had greatly raised their Attention and Admiration, were not much
edified, as they really understood not a single Syllable of all he had said, he
proceeded to Business, which he was more expeditious in finishing, than he had
been in beginning.
    Jones was then ordered into a Bed, which Mr. Western compelled him to accept
at his own House, and Sentence of Water-Gruel was passed upon him.
    Among the good Company which had attended in the Hall during the
Bone-setting, Mrs. Honour was one; who being summoned to her Mistress as soon as
it was over, and asked by her how the young Gentleman did, presently launched
into extravagant Praises on the Magnimity, 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 entirely 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 gentle Folks 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 no-body can say that I am base born, my
grand-father was a Clergyman3, and would have been very angry, I believe, to
have thought any of his Family should have taken up with Molly Seagrim's dirty
Leavings.«
    Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her Maid to run on in this Manner, from
wanting sufficient Spirits to stop her Tongue, which the Reader may probably
conjecture was no very easy Task: For, certainly there were some Passages in her
Speech, which were far from being agreeable to the Lady. However, she now
checked the Torrent, as there seemed no End of its Flowing. »I wonder,« says
she, »at your Assurance in daring to talk thus of one of my Father's Friends. As
to the Wench, I order you never to mention her Name to me. And, with Regard to
the young Gentleman's Birth, those who can say nothing more to his Disadvantage,
may as well be silent on that Head, as I desire you will be for the future.«
    »I am sorry, I have offended your Ladyship,« answered Mrs. Honour, »I am
sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your Ladyship can, and as for abusing
Squire Jones, I can call all the Servants in the House to witness, that whenever
any Talk hath been about Bastards, I have always taken his Part: For which of
you, says I to the Footmen, would not be a Bastard, if he could, to be made a
Gentleman of? and, says I, I am sure he is a very fine Gentleman; and he hath
one of the whitest Hands in the World: For to be sure so he hath; and says I,
one of the sweetest temperedest, best naturedest Men in the World he is, and
says I, all the Servants and Neighbours all round the Country loves him. And, to
be sure, I could tell your Ladyship something, but that I am afraid it would
offend you.« - »What could you tell me, Honour?« says Sophia. »Nay, Ma'am, to be
sure he meant nothing by it, therefore I would not have your Ladyship be
offended.« - »Prithee tell me,« says Sophia, - »I will know it this Instant.«
»Why, Ma'am,« answered Mrs. Honour, »he came into the Room, one Day last Week
when I was at Work, and there lay your Ladyship's Muff on a Chair, and to be
sure he put his Hands into it, that very Muff your Ladyship gave me but
yesterday; La, says I, Mr. Jones, you will stretch my Lady's Muff and spoil it;
but he still kept his Hands in it, and then he kissed it - to be sure, I hardly
ever saw such a Kiss in my Life as he gave it.« - »I suppose he did not know it
was mine,« reply'd 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, cry'd he; but who can see any
thing 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 Harpsicord to my Master,
Mr. Jones was sitting in the next Room, and methought he looked melancholy. La!
says I, Mr. Jones, what's the Matter? A Penny for your Thoughts, says I; Why,
Hussy, says he, starting up from a Dream, what can I be thinking of when that
Angel your Mistress is playing? And then squeezing me by the Hand - Oh! Mrs.
Honour, says he, how happy will that Man be! - and then he sighed; upon my
Troth, his Breath is as sweet as a Nosegay - but to be sure he meant no Harm by
it. So I hope your Ladyship will not mention a Word: For he gave me a Crown
never to mention it, and made me swear upon a Book, but I believe, indeed, it
was not the Bible.«
    Till something of a more beautiful Red than Vermilion be found out, I shall
say nothing of Sophia's Colour on this Occasion. »Ho-nour,« says she, »I - if
you will not mention this any more to me, - nor to any Body 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, tho' 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 any thing you have not told me before.«
»Yes, Honour, says he, (this was some time afterwards when he gave me the
Crown). I am neither such a Coxcomb, or such a Villain as to think of her, in
any other Delight, but as my Goddess; as such I will always worship and adore
her while I have Breath. This was all, Ma'am, I will be sworn, to the best of my
Remembrance; I was in a Passion with him, myself, till I found he meant no
Harm.« »Indeed, Honour,« says Sophia, »I believe you have a real Affection for
me; I was provoked the other Day when I gave you Warning; but if you have a
Desire to stay with me, you shall.« »To be sure, Ma'am,« answered Mrs. Honour,
»I shall never desire to part with your Ladyship. To be sure, I almost cried my
Eyes out when you gave me Warning. It would be very ungrateful in me, to desire
to leave your Ladyship; because as why, I should never get so good a Place
again. I am sure I would live and die with your Ladyship - for, as poor Mr.
Jones said, happy is the Man -«
    Here the Dinner-bell interrupted a Conversation which had wrought such an
Effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more obliged to her bleeding in the
Morning, than she, at the time, had apprehended she should be. As to the present
Situation of her Mind, I shall adhere to a Rule of Horace, by not attempting to
describe it, from Despair of Success. Most of my Readers will suggest it easily
to themselves, and the few who cannot, would not understand the Picture, or at
least would deny it to be natural, if ever so well drawn.
 

                                     Book V

        Containing a Portion of Time, somewhat longer than Half a Year.
 

                                   Chapter I

       Of the Serious in writing; and for what Purpose it is introduced.
 
Peradventure there may be no Parts in this prodigious Work which will give the
Reader less Pleasure in the perusing, than those which have given the Author the
greatest Pains in composing. Among these probably may be reckoned those initial
Essays which we have prefixed to the historical Matter contained in every Book;
and which we have determined to be essentially necessary to this kind of
Writing, of which we have set ourselves at the Head.
    For this our Determination we do not hold ourselves strictly bound to assign
any Reason; it being abundantly sufficient that we have laid it down as a Rule
necessary to be observed in all Prosai-comi-epic Writing. Who ever demanded the
Reasons of that nice Unity of Time or Place which is now established to be so
essential to dramatick Poetry? What Critick 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 ancient
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, tho' we are unfortunately not able to see
so far.
    Now, in Reality, the World have paid too great a Compliment to Critics, and
have imagined them Men of much greater Profundity than they really are. From
this Complaisance, the Critics have been emboldened to assume a Dictatorial
Power, and have so far succeeded that they are now become the Masters, and have
the Assurance to give Laws to those Authors, from whose Predecessors they
originally received them.
    The Critic, rightly considered, is no more than the Clerk, whose Office it
is to transcribe the Rules and Laws laid down by those great Judges, whose vast
Strength of Genius hath placed them in the Light of Legislators in the several
Sciences over which they presided. This Office was all which the Critics of old
aspired to, nor did they ever dare to advance a Sentence, without supporting it
by the Authority of the Judge from whence it was borrowed.
    But in Process of Time, and in Ages of Ignorance, the Clerk began to invade
the Power and assume the Dignity of his Master. The Laws of Writing were no
longer founded on the Practice of the Author, but on the Dictates of the Critic.
The Clerk became the Legislator, and those very peremptorily gave Laws, whose
Business it was, at first, only to transcribe them.
    Hence arose an obvious, and, perhaps, an unavoidable Error: For these
Critics being Men of shallow Capacities, very easily mistook mere Form for
Substance. They acted as a Judge would, who should adhere to the lifeless Letter
of Law, and reject the Spirit. Little Circumstances which were, perhaps,
accidental in a great Author, were, by these Critics, considered to constitute
his chief Merit, and transmitted as Essentials to be observed by all his
Successors. To these Encroachments, Time and Ignorance, the two great Supporters
of Imposture, gave Authority; and thus, many Rules for good Writing have been
established, which have not the least Foundation in Truth or Nature; and which
commonly serve for no other Purpose than to curb and restrain Genius, in the
same Manner, as it would have restrained the Dancing-master, had the many
excellent Treatises on that Art, laid it down as an essential Rule, that every
Man must dance in Chains.
    To avoid, therefore, all Imputation of laying down a Rule for Posterity,
founded only on the Authority of ipse dixit; for which, to say the Truth, we
have not the profoundest Veneration; we shall here wave the Privilege above
contended for, and proceed to lay before the Reader, the Reasons which have
induced us, to intersperse these several digressive Essays, in the Course of
this Work.
    And here we shall of Necessity be led to open a new Vein of Knowledge,
which, if it hath been discovered, hath not, to our Remembrance, been wrought on
by any ancient 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 any thing, 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, tho' 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 improv'd.
 
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 any thing 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 (tho' 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 surprised that Horace should cavil at this Art in Homer;
but indeed he contradicts himself in the very next Line.
 
Indignor quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus,
Verum Opere in longo fas est obrepere Somnum.
 
I grieve if e'er great Homer chance to sleep,
Yet Slumbers on long Works have right to creep.
 
For we are not here to understand, as, perhaps, some have, that an Author
actually falls asleep while he is writing. It is true that Readers are too apt
to be so overtaken; but if the Work was as long as any of Oldmixon, the Author
himself is too well entertained to be subject to the least Drowsiness. He is, as
Mr. Pope observes,
 
                  Sleepless himself to give his Readers Sleep.
 
To say the Truth, these soporific Parts are so many Scenes of Serious artfully
interwoven, in order to contrast and set off the rest; and this is the true
Meaning of a late facetious Writer, who told the Public, that whenever he was
dull, they might be assured there was a Design in it.
    In this Light then, or rather in this Darkness, I would have the Reader to
consider these initial Essays. And after this Warning, if he shall be of
Opinion, that he can find enough of Serious in other Parts of this History, he
may pass over these, in which we profess to be laboriously dull, and begin the
following Books, at the second Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter II

 In which Mr. Jones receives many friendly Visits during his Confinement; with
   some fine Touches of the Passion of Love, scarce visible to the naked Eye.
 
Tom Jones had many Visitors during his Confinement, tho' some, perhaps, were not
very agreeable to him. Mr. Allworthy saw him almost every Day; but tho' 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 wholsome 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 judgement 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 judgement had not overtaken him before; but it might
be perceived by this, that divine Punishments, tho' 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, tho' I too well know all
Exhortations will be vain and fruitless. But liberavi Animam meam. I can accuse
my own Conscience of no Neglect; tho' 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 judgement 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 unparallelled 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 Hollow, 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 judgement upon thee. D-n it, says I,
how can that be? Did not he come by it in Defence of a young Woman? A judgement
indeed! Pox, if he never doth any thing 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 had his Petticuoats on, I should ha lent un a
Flick; for I love thee dearly, my Boy, and d-n me if there is any thing in my
Power which I won't do for thee. Sha't take thy Choice of all the Horses in my
Stable to-morrow Morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch.« Jones
thanked him, but declined accepting the Offer. - »Nay,« added the Squire, »Sha't
ha the sorrel Mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty Guineas, and comes six
Years old this Grass.« »If she had cost me a thousand,« cries Jones
passionately, »I would have given her to the Dogs.« »Pooh! pooh!« answered
Western, »what because she broke thy Arm. Shouldst forget and forgive. I thought
hadst been more a Man than to bear Malice against a dumb Creature.« - Here
Sophia interposed, and put an End to the Conversation, by desiring her Father's
Leave to play to him; a Request which he never refused.
    The Countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one Change during the
foregoing Speeches; and probably she imputed the passionate Resentment which
Jones had expressed against the Mare to a different Motive from that from which
her Father had derived it. Her Spirits were at this Time in a visible Flutter;
and she played so intolerably ill, that had not Western soon fallen asleep, he
must have remarked it. Jones, however, who was sufficiently awake, and was not
without an Ear any more than without Eyes, made some Observations; which being
joined to all which the Reader may remember to have passed formerly, gave him
pretty strong Assurances, when he came to reflect on the whole, that all was not
well in the tender Bosom of Sophia. An Opinion which many young Gentlemen will,
I doubt not, extremely wonder at his not having been well confirmed in long ago.
To confess the Truth, he had rather too much Diffidence in himself, and was not
forward enough in seeing the Advances of a young Lady; a Misfortune which can be
cured only by that early Town Education, which is at present so generally in
Fashion.
    When these Thoughts had fully taken Possession of Jones, they occasioned a
Perturbation in his Mind, which, in a Constitution less pure and firm than his,
might have been, at such a Season, attended with very dangerous Consequences. He
was truly sensible of the great Worth of Sophia. He extremely liked her Person,
no less admired her Accomplishments, and tenderly loved her Goodness. In
Reality, as he had never once entertained any Thought of possessing her, nor had
ever given the least voluntary Indulgence to his Inclinations, he had a much
stronger Passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His Heart now
brought forth the full Secret, at the same Time that it assured him the adorable
Object returned his Affection.
 

                                  Chapter III

  Which all, who have no Heart, will think to contain much ado about nothing.
 
The Reader will perhaps imagine, the Sensations which now arose in Jones to have
been so sweet and delicious, that they would rather tend to produce a cheerful
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 this 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 controlled by Compassion for another Woman. The Idea
of lovely Molly now intruded itself before him. He had sworn eternal Constancy
in her Arms, and she had as often vowed never to outlive 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 the more so, at least to a good Mind, from being, at the same
time, the Object of Compassion.
    Amidst these Thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless Night, and in the
Morning the Result of the whole was to abide by Molly, and to think no more of
Sophia.
    In this virtuous Resolution he continued all the next Day till the Evening,
cherishing the Idea of Molly, and driving Sophia from his Thoughts; but in the
fatal Evening, a very trifling Accident set all his Passions again on Float, and
worked so total a Change in his Mind, that we think it decent to communicate it
in a fresh Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter IV

           A little Chapter, in which is contained a little Incident.
 
Among other Visitants, who paid their Compliments to the young Gentleman in his
Confinement, Mrs. Honour was one. The Reader, perhaps, when he reflects on some
Expressions which have formerly dropped 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 been 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 had been, unless you knew what I
had 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 any thing; 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 Linnen, 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 Larissæus Achilles,
Non anni domuere decem, non mille Carinæ.
 
What Diomede, or Thetis' greater Son,
A thousand Ships, nor ten Years Siege had done,
False Tears, and fawning Words, the City won.
                                                                         DRYDEN.
 
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 V

             A very long Chapter, containing a very great Incident.
 
But though this victorious Deity easily expelled his avowed Enemies from the
Heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to supplant the Garrison which he
himself had placed there. To lay aside all Allegory, the Concern for what must
become of poor Molly, greatly disturbed and perplexed the Mind of the worthy
Youth. The superior Merit of Sophia, totally eclipsed, or rather extinguished
all the Beauties of the poor Girl; but Compassion instead of Contempt succeeded
to Love. He was convinced the Girl had placed all her Affections, and all her
Prospect of future Happiness in him only. For this he had, he knew, given
sufficient Occasion, by the utmost Profusion of Tenderness towards her: A
Tenderness which he had taken every Means to persuade her he would always
maintain. She, on her Side, had assured him of her firm Belief in his Promise,
and had with the most solemn Vows declared, that on his fulfilling, or breaking
these Promises, it depended, whether she should be the happiest, or the 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 every Thing 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 Dispair? Can I be such
a Villain? Here, when the Genius of poor Molly seem'd 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 Ballance 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 superiour to her
Expectation, and which might indulge her Vanity, by setting her above all her
Equals. He resolved therefore, to take the first Opportunity of making a
Proposal of this Kind.
    One Day accordingly, when his Arm was so well recovered, that he could walk
easily with it slung in a Sash, he stole forth, at a Season when the Squire was
engaged in his Field Exercises, and visited his Fair one. Her Mother and
Sisters, whom he found taking their Tea, informed him first that Molly was not
at Home; but afterwards, the eldest Sister acquainted him with a malicious
Smile, that she was above Stairs a-bed. Tom had no Objection to this Situation
of his Mistress, and immediately ascended the Ladder which led towards her
Bed-Chamber; but when he came to the Top, he, to his great 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 Surprise, it is apt to create
such a total Perturbation and Confusion, that we are often thereby deprived of
the Use of all our Faculties. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that the
unexpected Sight of Mr. Jones should so strongly operate on the Mind of Molly,
and should overwhelm her with such Confusion, that for some Minutes she was
unable to express the great Raptures, with which the Reader will suppose she was
affected on this Occasion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed, and as it
were enchanted by the Presence of his beloved Object, that he for a while forgot
Sophia, and consequently the principal Purpose of his Visit.
    This, however, soon recurred to his Memory; and after the first Transports
of their Meeting were over, he found Means by Degrees to introduce a Discourse
on the fatal Consequences which must attend their Amour, if Mr. Allworthy, who
had strictly forbidden him ever seeing her more, should discover that he still
carried on this Commerce. Such a Discovery, which his Enemies gave him Reason to
think would be unavoidable, must, he said, end in his Ruin, and consequently in
hers. Since, therefore, their hard Fates had determined that they must separate,
he advised her to bear it with Resolution, and swore he would never omit any
Opportunity through the Course of his Life, of showing her the Sincerity of his
Affection, by providing for her in a Manner beyond her utmost Expectation, or
even beyond her Wishes, if ever that should be in his Power; concluding, at
last, that she might soon find some Man who would marry her, and who would make
her much happier than she could be by leading a disreputable Life with him.
    Molly remained a few Moments in Silence, and then bursting into a Flood of
Tears, she began to upbraid him in the following Words. »And is this 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 any where 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 Fastning, and discovered
every thing 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 tyed 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 Night-cap 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 Surprise 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 tho' 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 Desert: 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 (tho'
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 eldest 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 contented 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, tho' 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, taste
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 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 judgement 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 rejoyced 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,
tho' he once had the Possession of her Person, that none but Square had ever
been Master of her Heart.
 

                                   Chapter VI

 By comparing which with the former, the Reader may possibly correct some Abuse
  which he hath formerly been guilty of, in the Application of the Word Love.
 
The Infidelity of Molly, which Jones had now discovered, would, perhaps, have
vindicated a much greater Degree of Resentment than he expressed on the
Occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from that Moment, very few, I
believe, would have blamed him.
    Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the Light of Compassion; and
tho' his Love to her was not of that Kind which could give him any great
Uneasiness at her Inconstancy, yet was he not a little shocked on reflecting
that he had himself originally corrupted her Innocence; for to this Corruption
he imputed all the Vice, into which she appeared now so likely to plunge
herself.
    This Consideration gave him no little Uneasiness, till Betty, the eldest
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 Tranquility; 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 forbade him
to address any of his Discourse to her; nay, to avoid meeting her Eyes, with the
utmost Caution; Nature was no less busy in counterplotting him. Hence, at the
Approach of the young Lady, he grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If
his Eyes accidentally met hers, the Blood rushed into his Cheeks, and his
Countenance became all over Scarlet. If common Civility ever obliged him to
speak to her, as to drink her Health at Table, his Tongue was sure to faulter.
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 Free Masons, any common Sign of Communication.
In reality, it is only because they have the same thing in their Heads, and
their Thoughts are turned the same Way. Thus, that Sophia saw, and that Western
did not see the plain Symptoms of Love in Jones can be no Wonder, when we
consider that the Idea of Love never entered into the Head of the Father,
whereas the Daughter, at present, thought of nothing else.
    When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent Passion which tormented poor
Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its Object, she had not the
least Difficulty in discovering the true Cause of his present Behaviour. This
highly endeared him to her, and raised in her Mind two of the best Affections
which any Lover can wish to raise in a Mistress. These were Esteem and Pity; for
sure the most outragiously 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 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 any Thing of the other's Approach. A By-stander would have
discovered sufficient Marks of Confusion, in the Countenance of each; but they
felt it too much themselves to make any Observation. As soon as Jones had a
little recovered his first Surprise, 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-achs, 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 Complaisance 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 steadfastly on her, he cry'd, »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 any Thing to offend you - I did not mean it - indeed, I would rather have
died - nay, the very Thought would kill me.« »You surprise 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, tho' 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 a different Nature from those in which the Reader hath lately been
conversant, will be communicated to him in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                 In which Mr. Allworthy appears on a Sick-Bed.
 
Mr. Western was become so fond of Jones, that he was unwilling to part with him,
tho' 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 Æsculapian Art are in the Right in
advising, that the Moment the Disease is 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 Physick 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 ancient 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 oftner Hours of Labour and Fatigue, of Pain and Sorrow. One of the Roman
Poets, I remember, likens our leaving Life to our Departure from a Feast. A
Thought which hath often occurred to me, when I have seen Men struggling to
protract an Entertainment, and to enjoy the Company of their Friends a few
Moments longer. Alas! how short is the most protracted of such Enjoyments! How
immaterial the Difference between him who retires the soonest, and him who stays
the latest! This is seeing Life in the best View, and this Unwillingness to quit
our Friends is the most amiable Motive, from which we can derive the Fear of
Death; and yet the longest Enjoyment which we can hope for of this Kind is of so
trivial a Duration, that it is to a wise Man truly contemptible. Few Men, I own,
think in this Manner: for, indeed, few Men think of Death till they are in its
Jaws. However gigantic and terrible an Object this may appear when it approaches
them, they are nevertheless incapable of seeing it at any Distance; nay, tho'
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 Surprise, 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 tho' I have settled long ago, I think proper to mention such Heads
of it as concern any of you, that I may have the Comfort of perceiving you are
all satisfied with the Provision I have there made for you.
    Nephew Blifil, I leave you the Heir to my whole Estate, except only 500 l. a
Year which is to revert to you after the Death of your Mother, and except one
other Estate of 500 l. a Year, and the Sum of 6000 l. which I have bestowed in
the following Manner.
    The Estate of 500 l. a Year I have given to you, Mr. Jones. And as I know
the Inconvenience which attends the Want of ready Money, I have added 1000 l. 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 dropped her Pearls as fast as the Arabian Trees their Medicinal Gums; for this
was a Ceremonial which that Gentlewoman never omitted on a proper Occasion.
    After this Mr. Allworthy again laid himself down on his Pillow, and
endeavoured to compose himself to Rest.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                Containing Matter rather natural than pleasing.
 
Besides Grief for her Master, there was another Source for that briny Stream
which so plentifully rose above the two mountainous Cheek Bones of the
House-keeper. 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 becomed him better to have repented of
his Sins on his Death-bed, than to glory in them, and give away his Estate out
of his own Family to a mis-begotten Child. Found in his Bed, forsooth! A pretty
Story! Ay, ay, those that hide know where to find. Lord forgive him, I warrant
he hath many more Bastards to answer for, if the Truth was known. One Comfort
is, they will all be known where he is a going now. The Servants will find some
Token to remember me by. Those were the very Words, I shall never forget them,
if I was to live a thousand Years. Ay, ay, I shall remember you for huddling me
among the Servants. One would have thought he might have mentioned my Name as
well as that of Square; but he is a Gentleman forsooth, though he had not
Clothes to 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 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.
Tho' they breathed not their Resentment so loud, yet from the Discontent which
appeared in their Countenances, as well as from the following Dialogue, we
collect that no great Pleasure reigned in their Minds.
    About an Hour after they had left the sick Room, Square met Thwackum in the
Hall, and accosted him thus, »Well, Sir, have you heard any News of your Friend
since we parted from him?« »If you mean Mr. Allworthy,« answered Thwackum, »I
think you might rather give him the Appellation of your Friend: For he seems to
me to have deserved that Title.« »The Title is as good on your Side,« replied
Square, »for his Bounty, such as it is, hath been equal to both.« »I should not
have mentioned it first,« cries Thwackum, »but since you begin, I must inform
you I am of a different Opinion. There is a wide Distinction between voluntary
Favours and Rewards. The Duty I have done in his Family, and the Care I have
taken in the Education of his two Boys, are Services for which some Men might
have expected a greater Return. I would not have you imagine I am therefore
dissatisfied; for St. Paul hath taught me to be content with the little I have.
Had the Modicum been less, I should have known my Duty. But though the Scripture
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
Ballance 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 every Thing 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 authorised 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 enquire 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: For 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 Surprise,
and that at a Time when he hourly expected the severest Blow he was capable of
feeling from the Malice of Fortune. He said, the present Occasion would put to
the Test those excellent Rudiments, which he had learnt from Mr. Thwackum and
Mr. Square, and it would be entirely owing to them, if he was enabled to survive
such Misfortunes.
    It was now debated whether Mr. Allworthy should be informed of the Death of
his Sister; This the Doctor violently opposed, in which, I believe, the whole
College will 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 towards the sick Room; where the Physician first entered, and approached
the Bed, in order to feel his Patient's Pulse, which he had no sooner done, than
he declared he was much better, that the last Application had succeeded to a
Miracle, and had brought the Fever to intermit. So that, he said, there appeared
now to be as little Danger as he had before apprehended there were Hopes.
    To say the Truth, Mr. Allworthy's Situation had never been so bad, as the
great Caution of the Doctor had represented it; but as a wise General never
despises his Enemy, however inferior that Enemy's Force may be, so neither doth
a wise Physician ever despise a Distemper, however inconsiderable. As the former
preserves the same strict Discipline, places the same Guards, and employs the
same Scouts, tho' 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 dropped a tender Tear, then composed his Countenance, and at last
cried, »The Lord's Will be done in every Thing.«
    He now enquired for the Messenger; but Blifil told him, it had been
impossible to detain him a Moment; for he appeared by the great Hurry he was in
to have some Business of Importance on his Hands: That he complained of being
hurried, and driven and torn out of his Life, and repeated many Times, that if
he could divide himself into four Quarters, he knew how to dispose of every one.
    Allworthy then desired Blifil to take Care of the Funeral. He said, he would
have his Sister deposited in his own Chapel; and as to the Particulars, he left
them to his own Discretion, only mentioning the Person whom he would have
employed on this Occasion.
 

                                   Chapter IX

 Which, among other Things, may serve as a Comment on that Saying of Æschines,
  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 apprised 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
Expressions towards Blifil might have on the Sick, this Apprehension stilled his
Rage, at the present; and he grew afterwards so satisfied with finding that this
News had, in fact, produced no Mischief, that he suffered his Anger to die in
his own Bosom, without ever mentioning it to Blifil.
    The Physician dined that Day at Mr. Allworthy's; and having after Dinner
visited his Patient, he returned to the Company, and told them, that he had now
the Satisfaction to say, with Assurance, that his Patient was out of all Danger:
That he had brought his Fever to a perfect Intermission, and doubted not by
throwing in the Bark to prevent its Return.
    This Account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such immoderate Excess of
Rapture, that he might be truly said to be drunk with Joy. An Intoxication which
greatly forwards the Effects of Wine; and as he was very free too with the
Bottle on this Occasion, (for he drank many Bumpers to the Doctor's Health, as
well as to other Toasts) he became very soon literally drunk.
    Jones had naturally violent animal Spirits. These being set on Float, and
augmented by the Spirit of Wine, produced most extravagant Effects. He kissed
the Doctor, and embraced him with the most passionate Endearments; swearing
that, next to Mr. Allworthy himself, he loved him of all Men living. »Doctor,«
added he, »you deserve a Statue to be erected to you at the public Expense, for
having preserved a Man, who is not only the Darling of all good Men who know
him, but a Blessing to Society, the Glory of his Country, and an Honour to Human
Nature. D-n me if I don't love him better than my own Soul.«
    »More shame for you,« cries Thwackum. »Though I think you have reason to
love him, for he hath provided very well for you. And, perhaps, it might have
been better for some Folks, that he had not lived to see just Reason of revoking
his Gift.«
    Jones now, looking on Thwackum with inconceivable Disdain, answered, »And
doth thy mean Soul imagine that any such Considerations could weigh with me? No,
let the Earth open and swallow her own Dirt (if I had Millions of Acres I would
say it) rather than swallow up my dear glorious Friend.«
 
Quis Desiderio sit Pudor aut modus
Tam chari Capitis?4
 
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 synonimous 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 any thing ungenerous, unfair,
or ill-natured, exercised on those 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. Tho' 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 them 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 increase 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 Impressions 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 smoked 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
every thing seemed in Statu quo.
    But though the Quarrel was, in all Appearance, perfectly reconciled, the
Good-humour which had been interrupted by it, was by no means restored. All
Merriment was now at an End, and the subsequent Discourse consisted only of
grave Relations of Matters of Fact, and of as grave Observations upon them. A
Species of Conversation, in which, though there is much of Dignity and
Instruction, there is but little Entertainment. As we presume, therefore, to
convey only this last to the Reader, we shall pass by whatever was said, till
the rest of the Company having, by Degrees, dropped off, left only Square and
the Physician together; at which Time the Conversation was a little heightened
by some Comments on what had happened between the two young Gentlemen; both of
whom the Doctor declared to be no better than Scoundrels; to which Appellation
the Philosopher, very sagaciously shaking his Head, agreed.
 

                                   Chapter X

Shewing the Truth of many Observations of Ovid, and of other more grave Writers,
  who have proved, beyond Contradiction, that Wine is often the Fore-runner 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 all together the most enchanting Harmony. In this Scene,
so sweetly accommodated to Love, he meditated on his dear Sophia. While his
wanton Fancy roved 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 blessed 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,
dressed? 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 dote on thee alone. The chastest
Constancy will I ever preserve to thy Image. Tho' 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 Pitch-fork in her Hand, Molly Seagrim approached. Our
Heroe had his Pen-knife in his Hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned
Purpose, of carving on the Bark; when the Girl coming near him cry'd 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 Parly, 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- 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, tho' 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 any Thing more than he knows
already. For his Sake, therefore, I shall keep my Learning to myself, and return
to my History.
    It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth Things by Halves. To say
Truth, there is no End to her Freaks whenever she is disposed to gratify or
displease. No sooner had our Heroe retired with his Dido, but
 
Speluncam Blifil, Dux et Divinus eandem
Deveniunt. -
 
the Parson and the young Squire, who were taking a serious Walk, arrived at the
Stile which leads into the Grove, and the latter caught a View of the Lovers,
just as they were sinking out of Sight.
    Blifil knew Jones very well, tho' he was at above a hundred Yards Distance,
and he was as positive to the Sex of his Companion, tho' not to the individual
Person. He started; blessed himself, and uttered a very solemn Ejaculation.
    Thwackum express'd some Surprise 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 judgement of the sagacious Reader: For we never
choose 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 wholsome 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 surprise him; nay, indeed, so incapable was Thwackum of
concealing his Indignation, and such Vengeance did he mutter forth every Step he
took, that this alone must have abundantly satisfied Jones, that he was (to use
the Language of Sportsmen) found sitting.
 

                                   Chapter XI

In which a Simile in Mr. Pope's Period of a Mile, introduces as bloody a Battle
    as can possibly be fought, without the Assistance of Steel or cold Iron.
 
As in the Season of RUTTING (an uncouth Phrase, by which the Vulgar denote that
gentle Dalliance, which in the well-wooded Forest5 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, thro' 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 prophane,
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 Centinel over his Love, stamps the Ground with his Foot, and
with his Horns brandished aloft in Air, proudly provokes the apprehended Foe to
Combat.
    Thus, and more terrible, when he perceived the Enemy's Approach, leap'd
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, tho' 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 stepped forward directly into the Fern, without any great
Consideration of what might, in the mean Time, 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 dextrously 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 tho' 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 ancient 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; the Owner of them, at the same
Time, crying out, »Are not you ashamed and be d-nd to you, to fall two of you
upon one?«
    The Battle, which was of the Kind, that for Distinction's Sake is called
ROYAL, now raged with the utmost Violence during a few Minutes; till Blifil
being a second Time laid sprawling by Jones, Thwackum condescended to apply for
Quarter to his new Antagonist, who was now found to be Mr. Western himself: For
in the Heat of the Action none of the Combatants had recognized him.
    In Fact, that honest Squire, happening in his Afternoon's Walk with some
Company, to pass through the Field where the bloody Battle was fought, and
having concluded from seeing three Men engaged, that two of them must be on a
Side, he hastened from his Companions, and with more Gallantry than Policy,
espoused the Cause of the weaker Party. By which generous Proceeding, he very
probably prevented Mr. Jones from becoming a Victim to the Wrath of Thwackum,
and to the pious Friendship which Blifil bore his old Master: For besides the
Disadvantage of such Odds, Jones had not yet sufficiently recovered the former
Strength of his broken Arm. This Reinforcement, however, soon put an End to the
Action, and Jones with his Ally obtained the Victory.
 

                                  Chapter XII

 In which is seen a more moving Spectacle, than all the Blood in the Bodies of
     Thwackum and Blifil and of Twenty other such, is capable of producing.
 
The rest of Mr. Western's Company were now come up, being just at the Instant
when the Action was over. These were the honest Clergyman, whom we have formerly
seen at Mr. Western's Table; Mrs. Western the Aunt of Sophia; and lastly, the
lovely Sophia herself.
    At this Time, the following was the Aspect of the bloody Field. In one
Place, lay on the Ground, all pale and almost breathless, the vanquished Blifil.
Near him stood the Conqueror Jones, almost covered with Blood, part of which was
naturally his own, and part had been lately the Property of the Reverend Mr.
Thwackum. In a third Place stood the said Thwackum, like King Porus, sullenly
submitting to the Conqueror. The last Figure in the Piece was Western the Great,
most gloriously forbearing the vanquished Foe.
    Blifil, in whom there was little Sign of Life, was at first the principal
Object of the Concern of every one, and particularly of Mrs. Western, who had
drawn from her Pocket a Bottle of Hartshorn, and was herself about to apply it
to his Nostrils; when on a sudden the Attention of the whole Company was
diverted from poor Blifil, whose Spirit, if it had any such Design, might have
now taken an Opportunity of stealing off to the other World, without any
Ceremony.
    For now a more melancholy and a more lovely Object lay motionless before
them. This was no other than the charming Sophia herself, who, from the Sight of
Blood, or from Fear for her Father, or from some other Reason, had fallen down
in a Swoon, before any one could get to her Assistance.
    Mrs. Western first saw her, and screamed. Immediately two or three Voices
cried out, »Miss Western is dead.« Hartshorn, Water; every Remedy was called
for, almost at one and the same Instant.
    The Reader may remember, that in our Description of this Grove, we mentioned
a murmuring Brook, which Brook did not come there, as such gentle Streams flow
through vulgar Romances, with no other Purpose than to murmur. No; Fortune had
decreed to enoble 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 Water-side: She stretched out her
Arms, opened her Eyes, and cried, »Oh, Heavens!« just as her Father, Aunt and
the Parson came up.
    Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely Burthen in his Arms, now
relinquished his Hold; but gave her at the same Instant a tender Caress, which,
had her Senses been then perfectly restored, could not have escaped her
Observation. As she expressed, therefore, no Displeasure at this Freedom, we
suppose she was not sufficiently recovered from her Swoon at the Time.
    This tragical Scene was now converted into a sudden Scene of Joy. In this,
our Heroe was, most certainly, the principal Character: For as he probably felt
more extatic Delight in having saved Sophia, than she herself received from
being saved; so neither were the Congratulations paid to her, equal to what were
conferred on Jones, especially by Mr. Western himself, who, after having once or
twice embraced his Daughter, fell to hugging and kissing Jones. He called him
the Preserver of Sophia, and declared there was nothing, except her, or his
Estate, which he would not give him; but upon Recollection, he afterwards
excepted his Fox-hounds, the Chevalier, and Miss Slouch (for so he called his
favourite Mare).
    All Fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the Object of the
Squire's Consideration. »Come, my Lad,« says Western, »D'off thy Quoat and wash
thy Feace: For att in a devilish Pickle, I promise thee. Come, come, wash
thyself, and shat go Huome with me; and wel 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 tho' 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 receive'd 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 enquire 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 Wastecoat 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 buffetted 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 would soon rid the Country of these Vermin.«
    »I would as soon rid the Country of Foxes,« cries Western. »I think we ought
to encourage the recruiting those Numbers which we are every Day losing in the
War: But where is she? - Prithee, Tom, show me.« He then began to beat about, in
the same Language, and in the same Manner, as if he had been beating for a Hare,
and at last cried out, »Soho! Puss is not far off. Here's her Form, upon my
Soul; I believe I may cry stole away.« And indeed so he might, for he had now
discovered the Place whence the poor Girl had, at the Beginning of the Fray,
stolen away, upon as many Feet as a Hare generally uses in travelling.
    Sophia now desired her Father to return home; saying, she found herself very
faint, and apprehended a Relapse. The Squire immediately complied with his
Daughter's Request (for he was the fondest of Parents). He earnestly endeavoured
to prevail with the whole Company to go and sup with him; but Blifil and
Thwackum absolutely refused; the former saying, There were more Reasons than he
could then mention, why he must decline this Honour; and the latter declaring
(perhaps rightly) that it was not proper for a Person of his Function to be seen
at any Place in his present Condition.
    Jones was incapable of refusing the Pleasure of being with his Sophia. So on
he marched with Squire Western and his Ladies, the Parson bringing up the Rear.
This had, indeed, offered to tarry with his Brother Thwackum, professing, his
Regard for the Cloth would not permit him to depart; but Thwackum would not
accept the Favour, and, with no great Civility, pushed him after Mr. Western.
    Thus ended this bloody Fray; and thus shall end the fifth Book of this
History.
 

                                    Book VI

                         Containing about three Weeks.
 

                                   Chapter I

                                    Of Love.
 
In our last Book we have been obliged to deal pretty much with the Passion of
Love; and, in our succeeding Book, shall be forced to handle this Subject still
more largely. It may not, therefore, in this Place, be improper to apply
ourselves to the Examination of that modern Doctrine, by which certain
Philosophers, among many other wonderful Discoveries, pretend to have found out,
that there is no such Passion in the human Breast.
    Whether these Philosophers be the same with that surprising Sect, who are
honourably mentioned by the late Dr. Swift; as having, by the mere Force of
Genius alone, without the least Assistance of any Kind of Learning, or even
Reading, discovered that profound and invaluable Secret, That there is no G-: 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 any thing 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 Shakespeare 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 Sir-loin of Roast-beef.
 

                                   Chapter II

 The Character of Mrs. Western. Her great Learning and Knowledge of the World,
and an Instance of the deep Penetration which she derived from those Advantages.
 
The Reader hath seen Mr. Western, his Sister and Daughter, with young Jones, and
the Parson, going together to Mr. Western's House, where the greater Part of the
Company spent the Evening with much Joy and Festivity. Sophia was indeed the
only grave Person: For as to Jones, though Love had now gotten entire Possession
of his Heart, yet the pleasing Reflection on Mr. Allworthy's Recovery, and the
Presence of his Mistress, joined to some tender Looks which she now and then
could not refrain from giving him, so elevated our Heroe, that he joined the
Mirth of the other three, who were perhaps as good-humoured People as any in the
World.
    Sophia retained the same Gravity of Countenance the next Morning at
Breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than usual, leaving her Father
and Aunt together. The Squire took no Notice of this Change in his Daughter's
Disposition. To say the Truth, though he was somewhat of a Politician, and had
been twice a Candidate in the Country Interest at an Election, he was a Man of
no great Observation. His Sister was a Lady of a different Turn. She had lived
about the Court, and had seen the World. Hence she had acquired all that
Knowledge which the said World usually communicates; and was a perfect Mistress
of Manners, Customs, Ceremonies, and Fashions; nor did her Erudition stop here.
She had considerably improved her Mind by Study; she had not only read all the
modern Plays, Operas, Oratorios, Poems and Romances; in all which she was a
Critic; but had gone thro' 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 any body 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, etc. 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 Simperings,
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 any thing the Matter with the
Girl? « »I think there is,« replies she, »and something of much Consequence
too.« »Why she doth not complain of any Thing,« 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 any thing 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 judgement 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 warned 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 any Thing than a Courtier, and a
Presbyterian, and a Hannoverian 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?« »O, your humble Servant, Sir,«
answered the Lady, »we are obliged to you for allowing us a Capacity in any
Thing. Since you are pleased then, most politic Sir, to ask my Advice, I think
you may propose the Match to Allworthy yourself. There is no Indecorum in the
Proposal's coming from the Parent of either Side. King Alcinous, in Mr. Pope's
Odyssey, offers his Daughter to Ulysses. I need not caution so politic a Person
not to say that your Daughter is in Love; that would indeed be against all
Rules.« »Well,« said the Squire, »I will propose it; but I shall certainly, lend
un a Flick, if he should refuse me.« »Fear not,« cries Mrs. Western, »the Match
is too advantageous to be refused.« »I don't know that,« answered the Squire,
»Allworthy is a queer B-ch, and Money hath no Effect o'un.« »Brother,« said the
Lady, »your Politics astonish me. Are you really to be imposed on by
Professions? Do you think Mr. Allworthy hath more Contempt for Money than other
Men, because he professes more. Such Credulity would better become one of us
weak Women, than that wise Sex which Heaven hath formed for Politicians. Indeed,
Brother, you would make a fine Plenipo to negotiate with the French. They would
soon persuade you, that they take Towns out of mere defensive Principles.«
»Sister,« answered the Squire, with much Scorn, »Let your Friends at Court
answer for the Towns taken; as you are a Woman, I shall lay no Blame upon you:
For I suppose they are wiser than to trust Women with Secrets.« He accompanied
this with so sarcastical a Laugh, that Mrs. Western could bear no longer. She
had been all this Time fretted in a tender Part (for she was indeed very deeply
skilled in these Matters, and very violent in them) and therefore burst forth in
a Rage, declared her Brother to be both a Clown and a Blockhead, and that she
would stay no longer in his House.
    The Squire, tho', 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, etc. 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
tho' too susceptible of an Affront offered to her Skill in Politics, on which
she much valued herself, was a Woman of a very extraordinary good and sweet
Disposition.
    Having first, therefore, laid violent Hands on the Horses, for whose Escape
from the Stable no Place but the Window was left open; he next applied himself
to his Sister, softened and soothed her, by unsaying all he had said, and by
Assertions directly contrary to those which had incensed her. Lastly, he
summoned the Eloquence of Sophia to his Assistance, who, besides a most graceful
and winning Address, had the Advantage of being heard with great Favour and
Partiality by her Aunt.
    The Result of the whole was a kind Smile from Mrs. Western, who said,
»Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as those have their Use in the
Army of the Empress Queen, so you likewise have some good in you. I will
therefore once more sign a Treaty of Peace with you, and see that you do not
infringe it on your Side; at least, as you are so excellent a Politician, I may
expect you will keep your Leagues like the French, till your Interest calls upon
you to break them.«
 

                                  Chapter III

                    Containing two Defiances to the Critics.
 
The Squire having settled Matters with his Sister, as we have seen in the last
Chapter, was so greatly impatient to communicate the Proposal to Allworthy, that
Mrs. Western had the utmost Difficulty to prevent him from visiting that
Gentleman in his Sickness, for this Purpose.
    Mr. Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr. Western at the Time when he
was taken ill. He was, therefore, no sooner discharged out of the Custody of
Physic, but he thought (as was usual with him on all Occasions, both the highest
and the lowest) of fulfilling his Engagement.
    In the Interval between the Time of the Dialogue in the last Chapter, and
this Day of public Entertainment, Sophia had, from certain obscure Hints thrown
out by her Aunt, collected some Apprehension that the sagacious Lady suspected
her Passion for Jones. She now resolved to take this Opportunity of wiping out
all such Suspicion, and for that Purpose to put an entire Constraint on her
Behaviour.
    First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy Heart with the
utmost Sprightliness in her Countenance, and the highest Gayety 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 a 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 ways
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 profess'd 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 Bedfellow, he was his humble Servant, and hoped there was no Harm done.«
    Allworthy endeavoured to soften this Resentment by many Elogiums 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 tho' 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, tho' 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 every Thing at the
Price only of a little Trouble, and carries home all the good Things I have
mentioned, while he keeps his Health, his Innocence, and his Reputation, the
common Prices which are paid for them by others, entire and to himself.
    From this Moderation, likewise, he learns two other Lessons, which complete
his Character. First, never to be intoxicated when he hath made the best
Bargain, nor dejected when the Market is empty, or when its Commodities are too
dear for his Purchase.
    But I must remember on what Subject I am writing, and not trespass too far
on the Patience of a good-natured Critic. Here therefore I put an End to the
Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter IV

                       Containing sundry curious Matters.
 
As soon as Mr. Allworthy returned home, he took Mr. Blifil apart, and after some
Preface, communicated to him the Proposal which had been made by Mr. Western,
and, at the same Time, informed him how agreeable this Match would be to
himself.
    The Charms of Sophia had not made the least Impression on Blifil; not that
his Heart was pre-engaged; neither was he totally insensible of Beauty, or had
any Aversion to Women; but his Appetites were, by Nature, so moderate, that he
was able by Philosophy or by Study, or by some other Method, easily to subdue
them; and as to that Passion which we have treated of in the first Chapter of
this Book, he had not the least Tincture of it in his whole Composition.
    But tho' 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 stopped 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 a Union. With Mr.
Blifil's Consent, therefore, he wrote the next Morning to Mr. Western,
acquainting him that his Nephew had very thankfully and gladly received the
Proposal, and would be ready to wait on the young Lady, whenever she should be
pleased to accept his Visit.
    Western was much pleased with this Letter, and immediately returned an
Answer; in which, without having mentioned a Word to his Daughter, he appointed
that very Afternoon for opening the Scene of Courtship.
    As soon as he had dispatched this Messenger, he went in Quest of his Sister,
whom he found reading and expounding the Gazette to Parson Supple. To this
Exposition he was obliged to attend near a Quarter of an Hour, tho' 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 cheerfully undertook; tho' perhaps her Brother was a little obliged to that
agreeable Northern Aspect which had so delighted her, that he heard no Comment
on his Proceedings: for they were certainly somewhat too hasty and violent.
 

                                   Chapter V

          In which is related what passed between Sophia and her Aunt.
 
Sophia was in her Chamber reading, when her Aunt came in. The Moment she saw
Mrs. Western, she shut the Book with so much Eagerness, that the good Lady could
not forbear asking her, What Book that was which she seemed so much afraid of
showing. »Upon my Word, Madam,« answered Sophia, »it is a Book which I am
neither ashamed nor afraid to own I have read. It is the Production of a young
Lady of Fashion, whose good Understanding, I think, doth Honour to her Sex, and
whose good Heart is an Honour to Human Nature.« Mrs. Western then took up the
Book, and immediately after threw it down, saying - »Yes, the Author is of a
very good Family; but she is not much among People one knows. I have never read
it; for the best Judges say, there is not much in it.« »I dare not, Madam, set
up my own Opinion,« says Sophia, »against the best Judges, but there appears to
me a great deal of human Nature in it; and in many Parts, so much true
Tenderness and Delicacy, that it hath cost me many a Tear.« »Ay, and do you love
to cry then?« says the Aunt. »I love a tender Sensation,« answered the Niece,
»and would pay the Price of a Tear for it at any Time.« »Well, but show me,«
said the Aunt, »what was you reading when I came in; there was something very
tender in that, I believe, and very loving too. You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah!
Child, you should read Books, which would teach you a little Hypocrisy, which
would instruct you how to hide your Thoughts a little better.« »I hope, Madam,«
answered Sophia, »I have no Thoughts which I ought to be ashamed of
discovering.« »Ashamed! no,« cries the Aunt, »I don't think you have any
Thoughts which you ought to be ashamed of, and yet, Child, you blushed just now
when I mentioned the Word Loving. Dear Sophy, be assured you have not one
Thought which I am not well acquainted with; as well, Child, as the French are
with our Motions, long before we put them in Execution. Did you think, Child,
because you have been able to impose upon your Father, that you could impose
upon me? Do you imagine I did not know the Reason of your overacting all that
Friendship for Mr. Blifil yesterday? I have seen a little too much of the World,
to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not blush again. I tell you it is a Passion you
need not be ashamed of. - It is a Passion I myself approve, and have already
brought your Father into the Approbation of it. Indeed, I solely consider your
Inclination; for I would always have that gratified, if possible, though one may
sacrifice higher Prospects. Come, I have News which will delight your very Soul.
Make me your Confident, and I will undertake you shall be happy to the very
Extent of your Wishes.« »La, Madam,« says Sophia, looking more foolishly than
ever she did in her Life, »I know not what to say - Why, Madam, should you
suspect?« - »Nay, no Dishonesty,« returned Mrs. Western. »Consider, you are
speaking to one of your own Sex, to an Aunt, and I hope you are convinced you
speak to a Friend. Consider, you are only revealing to me what I know already,
and what I plainly saw yesterday through that most artful of all Disguises,
which you had put on, and which must have deceived any one who had not perfectly
known the World. Lastly, consider it is a Passion which I highly approve.« »La,
Madam,« says Sophia, »you come upon one so unawares, and on a sudden. To be
sure, Madam, I am not blind - and certainly, if it be a Fault to see all human
Perfections assembled together - But is it possible my Father and you, Madam,
can see with my Eyes?« »I tell you,« answered the Aunt, »we do entirely approve;
and this very Afternoon your Father hath appointed for you to receive your
Lover.« »My Father, this Afternoon!« cries Sophia, with the Blood starting from
her Face. - »Yes, Child,« said the Aunt, »this Afternoon. You know the
Impetuosity of my Brother's Temper. I acquainted him with the Passion which I
first discovered in you that Evening when you fainted away in the Field. I saw
it in your Fainting. I saw it immediately upon your Recovery. I saw it that
Evening at Supper, and the next Morning at Breakfast: (you know, Child, I have
seen the World). Well, I no sooner acquainted my Brother; but he immediately
wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed it Yesterday, Allworthy
consented, (as to be sure he must with Joy) and this Afternoon, I tell you, you
are to put on all your best Airs.« »This Afternoon!« cries Sophia. »Dear Aunt,
you frighten me out of my Senses.« »O, my Dear,« said the Aunt, »you will soon
come to yourself again; for he is a charming young Fellow, that's the Truth
on't.« »Nay, I will own,« says Sophia, »I know none with such Perfections. So
brave, and yet so gentle; so witty, yet so inoffensive; so humane, so civil, so
genteel, so handsome! What signifies his being base born, when compared with
such Qualifications as these?« »Base born! what do you mean,« said the Aunt,
»Mr. Blifil base born!« Sophia turned instantly pale at this Name, and faintly
repeated it. Upon which the Aunt cried, »Mr. Blifil, ay Mr. Blifil, of whom else
have we been talking?« »Good Heavens,« answered Sophia, ready to sink, »of Mr.
Jones, I thought; I am sure I know no other who deserves -« »I protest,« cries
the Aunt, »you frighten me in your Turn. Is it Mr. Jones, and not Mr. Blifil,
who is the Object of your Affection?« »Mr. Blifil!« repeated Sophia. »Sure it is
impossible you can be in earnest; if you are, I am the most miserable Woman
alive.« Mrs. Western now stood a few Moments silent, while Sparks of fiery Rage
flashed from her Eyes. At length, collecting all her Force of Voice, she
thundered forth in the following articulate Sounds:
    »And is it possible you can think of disgracing your Family by allying
yourself to a Bastard? Can the Blood of the Westerns submit to such
Contamination! If you have not Sense sufficient to restrain such monstrous
Inclinations, I thought the Pride of our Family would have prevented you from
giving the least Encouragement to so base an Affection; much less did I imagine
you would ever have had the Assurance to own it to my Face.«
    »Madam,« answered Sophia, trembling, »what I have said you have extorted
from me. I do not remember to have ever mentioned the Name of Mr. Jones, with
Approbation, to any one before; nor should I now, had I not conceived he had 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 groveling a Thought. A Family so noted for the Prudence
of its Women -« Here she run 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 any thing 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 any thing
positively; she was obliged to promise that she would see Mr. Blifil, and be as
civil to him as possible; but begged her Aunt that the Match might not be
hurried on. She said, »Mr. Blifil was by no means agreeable to her, and she
hoped her Father would be prevailed on not to make her the most wretched of
Women.«
    Mrs. Western assured her, »that the Match was entirely agreed upon, and that
nothing could or should prevent it.« »I must own,« said she, »I looked on it as
on a Matter of Indifference; nay, perhaps, had some Scruples about it before,
which were actually got over by my thinking it highly agreeable to your own
Inclinations; but now I regard it as the most eligible Thing in the World; nor
shall there be, if I can prevent it, a Moment of Time lost on the Occasion.«
    Sophia replied, »Delay at least, Madam, I may expect from both your Goodness
and my Father's. Surely you will give me Time to endeavour to get the better of
so strong a Disinclination as I have at present to this Person.«
    The Aunt answered, »She knew too much of the World to be so deceived; that
as she was sensible another Man had her Affections, she should persuade Mr.
Western to hasten the Match as much as possible. It would be bad Politics
indeed,« added she, »to protract a Siege when the Enemy's Army is at Hand, and
in Danger of relieving it. No, no, Sophy,« said she, »as I am convinced you have
a violent Passion, which you can never satisfy with Honour, I will do all I can
to put your Honour out of the Care of your Family: For when you are married
those Matters will belong only to the Consideration of your Husband. I hope,
Child, you will always have Prudence enough to act as becomes you; but if you
should not, Marriage hath saved many a Woman from Ruin.«
    Sophia well understood what her Aunt meant; but did not think proper to make
her an Answer. However, she took a Resolution to see Mr. Blifil, and to behave
to him as civilly as she could: For on that Condition only she obtained a
Promise from her Aunt to keep secret the Liking which her ill Fortune, rather
than any Scheme of Mrs. Western, had unhappily drawn from her.
 

                                   Chapter VI

Containing a Dialogue between Sophia and Mrs. Honour, which may a little relieve
those tender Affections which the foregoing Scene may have raised in the Mind of
                             a good-natur'd 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 Mrs. 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 tease 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 Ladyship, and to be sure I would serve your La'ship with my Life.« »My dear
Honour,« says Sophia, »tis not in thy Power to be of any Service to me. I am
irretrievably undone.« »Heaven forbid,« answered the Waiting-woman; »but if I
can't be of any Service to you, pray tell me, Madam, it will be some Comfort to
me to know; Pray, dear Ma'am, tell me what's the Matter.« »My Father,« cries
Sophia, »is going to marry me to a Man I both despise and hate.« »O, dear
Ma'am,« answered the other, »Who is this wicked Man? for to be sure he is very
bad, or your La'ship would not despise him.« »His Name is Poison to my Tongue,«
replied Sophia, »thou wilt know it too soon.« Indeed, to confess the Truth, she
knew it already, and therefore was not very inquisitive as to that Point. She
then proceeded thus: »I don't pretend to give your La'ship Advice, whereof your
La'ship knows much better than I can pretend to, being but a Servant; but,
i-fackins! no Father in England should marry me against my Consent. And to be
sure, the Squire is so good, that if he did but know your La'ship despises and
hates the young Man, to be sure he would not desire you to marry him. And if
your La'ship would but give me Leave to tell my Master so - To be sure, it would
be more properer to come from your own Mouth; but as your La'ship doth not care
to foul your Tongue with his nasty Name.« »You are mistaken, Honour,« says
Sophia, »my Father was determined before he ever thought fit to mention it to
me.« »More Shame for him,« cries Honour, »you are to go to Bed to him, and not
Master. And thof a Man may be a very proper Man, yet every Woman mayn't think
him handsome alike. I am sure my Master would never act in this Manner of his
own Head. I wish some People would trouble themselves only with what belongs to
them; they would not, I believe, like to be served so, if it was their own Case:
For tho' 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 Pity some Folks had not been better born; nay, as
for that Matter, I should not mind it my self: 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 Ladyship 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 a-cross, and looking so melancholy
all this Morning; I vow and protest it made me almost cry to see him.« »To see
whom?« says Sophia. »Poor Mr. Jones,« answered Honour. »See him! Why, where did
you see him?« cries Sophia. »By the Canal, Ma'am,« says Honour. »There he hath
been walking all this Morning, and at last there he laid himself down; I believe
he lies there still. To be sure, if it had not been for my Modesty, being a Maid
as I am, I should have gone and spoke to him. Do, Ma'am, let me go and see, only
for a Fancy, whether he is there still.« »Pugh!« says Sophia, »There! no, no,
what should he do there? He is gone before this Time to be sure. Besides, why -
what - why should you go to see? - Besides, I want you for something else. Go,
fetch me my Hat and Gloves. I shall walk with my Aunt in the Grove before
Dinner.« Honour did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her Hat on; when
looking in the Glass, she fancied the Ribbon with which her Hat was tied, did
not become her, and so sent her Maid back again for a Ribbon of a different
Colour; and then giving Mrs. Honour repeated Charges not to leave her Work on
any Account, as she said it was in violent Haste, and must be finished that very
Day, she muttered something more about going to the Grove, and then sallied out
the contrary Way, and walked as fast as her tender trembling Limbs could carry
her, directly towards the Canal.
    Jones had been there, as Mrs. Honour had told her: He had indeed spent two
Hours there that Morning in melancholy Contemplation on his Sophia, and had gone
out from the Garden at one Door, the Moment she entered it at another. So that
those unlucky Minutes which had been spent in changing the Ribbons, had
prevented the Lovers from Meeting at this Time. A most unfortunate Accident,
from which my fair Readers will not fail to draw a very wholesome Lesson. And
here I strictly forbid all Male Critics to intermeddle with a Circumstance,
which I have recounted only for the Sake of the Ladies, and upon which they only
are at Liberty to comment.
 

                                  Chapter VII

A Picture of formal Courtship in Miniature, as it always ought to be drawn, and
              a Scene of a tenderer Kind, painted at full Length.
 
It was well remarked by one, (and perhaps by more) that Misfortunes do not come
single. This wise Maxim was now verified by Sophia, who was not only
disappointed of seeing the Man she loved; but had the Vexation of being obliged
to dress herself out, in order to receive a Visit from the Man she hated.
    That Afternoon, Mr. Western, for the first Time, acquainted his Daughter
with his Intention; telling her, he knew very well that she had heard it before
from her Aunt. Sophia looked very grave upon this, nor could she prevent a few
Pearls from stealing into her Eyes. »Come, come,« says Western, »none of your
Maidenish Airs; I know all; I assure you, Sister hath told me all.«
    »Is it possible,« says Sophia, »that my Aunt can have betrayed me already?«
»Ay, ay,« says Western, »betrayed you! ay. Why, you betrayed yourself yesterday
at Dinner. You showed your Fancy very plainly, I think. But you young Girls
never know what you would be at. So you cry because I am going to marry you to
the Man you are in Love with! Your Mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just
in the same Manner; but it was all over within twenty-four Hours after we were
married: Mr. Blifil is a brisk young Man, and will soon put an End to your
Squeamishness. Come, cheer up, cheer 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 that 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 choose 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,
tho' 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. »O 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-ned,« 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, tho' 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 quick-sighted, 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
can'st do;« and then swore many execrable Oaths that he would turn her out of
Doors unless she consented to the Match.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                     The Meeting between Jones and Sophia.
 
Jones departed instantly in Quest of Sophia, whom he found just risen from the
Ground where her Father had left her, with the Tears trickling from her Eyes,
and the Blood running from her Lips. He presently ran to her, and with a Voice
full at once of Tenderness and Terrour, cried, »O my Sophia, what means this
dreadful Sight!« - She looked softly at him for a Moment before she spoke, and
then said, »Mr. Jones, for Heaven's Sake, how came you here? - Leave me, I
beseech you, this Moment.« »Do not,« says he, »impose so harsh a Command upon me
- my Heart bleeds faster than those Lips. O Sophia, how easily could I drain my
Veins to preserve one Drop of that dear Blood.« »I have too many Obligations to
you already,« answered she, »for sure you meant them such.« - Here she looked at
him tenderly almost a Minute, and then bursting into an Agony, cried, - »O 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 Look 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,
- »O 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.
O Sophia, your Father hath sent me to you, to be an Advocate for my odious
Rival, to solicite 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
doted like me. Do not unkindly with-hold 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 with-hold 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 Ballance.« »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
with-draw her Hand from Jones, and he almost as unable to hold it; when the
Scene, which I believe some of my Readers will think had lasted long enough, was
interrupted by one of so different a Nature, that we shall reserve the Relation
of it for a different Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter IX

             Being of a much more tempestuous Kind than the former.
 
Before we proceed with what now happened to our Lovers, it may be proper to
recount what had past in the Hall, during their tender Interview.
    Soon after Jones had left Mr. Western in the Manner above-mentioned, his
Sister came to him; and was presently informed of all that had past 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 explicite 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 Thunder-struck 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 Surprise. 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 indeed, rather roared forth
Intentions of Revenge every Step he went.
    As when two Doves, or two Wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon and Phillis (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 dressed? her Cheeks; Fear shakes her whole
Frame, and her Lover scarce supports her trembling, tottering Limbs.
    Or as when two Gentlemen, Strangers to the wonderous 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 threatning 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 Terrour on Sophia's Account given him Liberty to reflect a Moment on
what any otherways concerned himself, than as his Love made him partake whatever
affected her.
    And now the Squire having burst open the Door, beheld an Object which
instantly suspended all his Fury against Jones; this was the ghastly Appearance
of Sophia, who had fainted away in her Lover's Arms. This tragical Sight Mr.
Western no sooner beheld, than all his Rage forsook him, he roared for Help with
his utmost Violence; ran first to his Daughter, then back to the Door, calling
for Water, and then back again to Sophia, never considering in whose Arms she
then was, nor, perhaps, once recollecting that there was such a Person in the
World as Jones: For, indeed, I believe, the present Circumstances of his
Daughter were now the sole Consideration which employed his Thoughts.
    Mrs. Western and a great Number of Servants soon came to the Assistance of
Sophia, with Water, Cordials, and every Thing 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 wholsome 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 pacify'd;
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 surprising, 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 Wroth
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 Clytus;
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 any Thing 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 free-born Englishman. To say Truth, the Parson submitted to
please his Palate at the Squire's Table, at the Expense of suffering now and
then this Violence to his Ears. He contented himself with thinking he did not
promote this evil Practice, and that the Squire would not swear an Oath the less
if he never entered within his Gates. However, tho' he was not guilty of ill
Manners by rebuking a Gentleman in his own House, he paid him off obliquely in
the Pulpit; which had not, indeed, the good Effect of working a Reformation in
the Squire himself, yet it so far operated on his Conscience, that he put the
Laws very severely in Execution against others, and the Magistrate was the only
Person in the Parish who could swear with Impunity.
 

                                   Chapter X

                   In which Mr. Western visits Mr. Allworthy.
 
Mr. Allworthy was now retired from Breakfast with his Nephew, well satisfied
with the Report of the young Gentleman's successful Visit to Sophia (for he
greatly desired the Match, more on Account of the young Lady's Character than of
her Riches) when Mr. Western broke abruptly in upon them, and without any
Ceremony began as follows.
    »There, you have done a fine Piece of Work truly. You have brought up your
Bastard to a fine Purpose; not that I believe you have had any Hand in it
neither, that is, as a Man may say, designedly; but there is a fine Kettle of
Fish made on't up at our House.« »What can be the Matter, Mr. Western?« said
Allworthy. »O Matter enough of all Conscience; my Daughter hath fallen in Love
with your Bastard, that's all, but I won't ge her a Hapenny, 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 licked 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'll sooner ge my Esteate to the zinking Fund,
that it may be sent to Hannover 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 Hapenny, not a Hapenny 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, tho' 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 seed him kiss her in all
my Life; and so far from courting her, he used rather to be more silent when she
was in Company than at any other Time: And as for the Girl, she was always less
civil to'n than to any young Man that came to the House. As to that Matter, I am
not more easy to be deceived than another, I would not have you think I am,
Neighbour.« Allworthy could scarce refrain Laughter at this; but he resolved to
do a Violence to himself: For he perfectly well knew Mankind, and had too much
good Breeding and good Nature to offend the Squire in his present Circumstances.
He then asked Western what he would have him do upon this Occasion. To which the
other answered, »That he would have him keep the Rascal away from his House, and
that he would go and lock up the Wench: For he was resolved to make her marry
Mr. Blifil in Spite of her Teeth.« He then shook Blifil by the Hand, and swore
he would have no other Son-in-law. Presently after which he took his Leave,
saying, his House was in such Disorder, that it was necessary for him to make
Haste home, to take care his Daughter did not give him the Slip; and as for
Jones, he swore if he caught him at his House, he would qualify him to run for
the Gelding's 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 with-hold 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 any Thing worse than I already
know? Tell me, I beseech you.« »No,« replied Blifil, »it is now past, and
perhaps he may have repented of it.« »I command you on your Duty,« said
Allworthy, »to tell me what you mean.« »You know, Sir,« says Blifil, »I never
disobeyed you; but I am sorry I mentioned it, since it may now look like
Revenge, whereas, I thank Heaven, no such Motive ever entered my Heart; and if
you oblige me to discover it, I must be his Petitioner to you for your
Forgiveness.« »I will have no Conditions,« answered Allworthy, »I think I have
shown Tenderness enough towards him, and more, perhaps, than you ought to thank
me for.« »More, indeed, I fear than he deserved,« cries Blifil, »for in the very
Day of your utmost Danger, when myself and all the Family were in Tears, he
filled the House with Riot and Debauchery. He drank and sung and roared, and
when I gave him a gentle Hint of the Indecency of his Actions, he fell into a
violent Passion, swore many Oaths, called me Rascal, and struck me.« »How!«
cries Allworthy, »did he dare to strike you?« »I am sure,« cries Blifil, »I have
forgiven him that long ago. I wish I could so easily forget his Ingratitude to
the best of Benefactors; and yet, even that, I hope you will forgive him, since
he must have certainly been possessed with the Devil: For that very Evening, as
Mr. Thwackum and myself were taking the Air in the Fields, and exulting in the
good Symptoms which then first began to discover themselves, we unluckily saw
him engaged with a Wench in a Manner not fit to be mentioned. Mr. Thwackum, with
more Boldness than Prudence, advanced to rebuke him, when, (I am sorry to say
it) he fell upon the worthy Man, and beat him so outragiously, that I wish he
may have yet recovered the Bruises. Nor was I without my Share of the Effects of
his Malice, while I endeavoured to protect my Tutor: But that I have long
forgiven, nay I prevailed with Mr. Thwackum to forgive him too, and not to
inform you of a Secret which I feared might be fatal to him. And now, Sir, since
I have unadvisedly dropped a Hint of this Matter, and your Commands have obliged
me to discover the whole, let me intercede with you for him.« »O Child,« said
Allworthy, »I know not whether I should blame or applaud your Goodness, in
concealing such Villany a Moment; but where is Mr. Thwackum? Not that I want any
Confirmation of what you say; but I will examine all the Evidence of this
Matter, to justify to the World the Example I am resolved to make of such a
Monster.«
    Thwackum was now sent for, and presently appeared. He corroborated every
Circumstance which the other had deposed. Nay, he produced the Record upon his
Breast, where the Handwriting of Mr. Jones remained very legible in black and
blue. He concluded with declaring to Mr. Allworthy, that he should have long
since informed him of this Matter, had not Mr. Blifil, by the most earnest
Interpositions, prevented him. »He is,« says he, »an excellent Youth; though
such Forgiveness of Enemies is carrying the Matter too far.«
    In reality, Blifil had taken some Pains to prevail with the Parson, and to
prevent the Discovery at that Time; for which he had many Reasons. He knew that
the Minds of Men are apt to be softened and relaxed from their usual Severity by
Sickness. Besides, he imagined that if the Story was told when the Fact was so
recent, and the Physician about the House, who might have unravelled the real
Truth, he should never be able to give it the malicious Turn which he intended.
Again, he resolved to hoard up this Business, till the Indiscretion of Jones
should afford some additional Complaints; for he thought the joint Weight of
many Facts falling upon him together, would be the most likely to crush him; and
he watched therefore some such Opportunity as that, with which Fortune had now
kindly presented him. Lastly, by prevailing with Thwackum to conceal the Matter
for a Time, he knew he should confirm an Opinion of his Friendship to Jones,
which he had greatly laboured to establish in Mr. Allworthy.
 

                                   Chapter XI

A short Chapter; but which contains sufficient Matter to affect the good-natured
                                    Reader.
 
It was Mr. Allworthy's Custom never to punish any one, not even to turn away a
Servant, in a Passion. He resolved, therefore, to delay passing Sentence on
Jones till the Afternoon.
    The poor young Man attended at Dinner, as usual; but his Heart was too much
loaded to suffer him to eat. His Grief too was a good deal aggravated by the
unkind Looks of Mr. Allworthy; whence he concluded that Western had discovered
the whole Affair between him and Sophia: But as to Mr. Blifil's Story, he had
not the least Apprehension; for of much the greater Part he was entirely
innocent, and for the Residue, as he had forgiven and forgotten it himself, so
he suspected no Remembrance on the other Side. When Dinner was over, and the
Servants departed, Mr. Allworthy began to harangue. He set forth, in a long
Speech, the many Iniquities of which Jones had been guilty, particularly those
which this Day had brought to light, and concluded by telling him, »that unless
he could clear himself of the Charge, he was resolved to banish him from 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,
etc. while he lay ill, out of Modesty sunk every thing that related particularly
to himself, which indeed principally constituted the Crime, Jones could not deny
the Charge. His Heart was, besides, almost broken already, and his Spirits were
so sunk, that he could say nothing for himself; but acknowledged the whole, and,
like a Criminal in Despair, threw himself upon Mercy; concluding, »That tho' 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
Pennyless, and some said, naked from the House of his inhuman Father.
 

                                  Chapter XII

                         Containing Love Letters, etc.
 
Jones was commanded to leave the House immediately, and told, that his Clothes
and every thing else should be sent to him whithersoever he should order them.
    He accordingly set out, and walked above a Mile, not regarding, and indeed
scarce knowing whither he went. At length a little Brook obstructing his
Passage, he threw himself down by the Side of it; nor could he help muttering
with some little Indignation, »Sure my Father will not deny me this Place to
rest in?«
    Here he presently fell into the most violent Agonies, tearing his Hair from
his Head, and using most other Actions which generally accompany Fits of
Madness, Rage, and Despair.
    When he had in this Manner vented the first Emotions of Passion, he began to
come a little to himself. His Grief now took another Turn, and discharged itself
in a gentler Way, till he became at last cool enough to reason with his Passion,
and to consider what Steps were proper to be taken in his deplorable Condition.
    And now the great Doubt was how to act with regard to Sophia. The Thoughts
of leaving her almost rent his Heart asunder; but the Consideration of reducing
her to Ruin and Beggary still racked him, if possible, more; and if the violent
Desire of possessing her Person could have induced him to listen one Moment to
this Alternative, still he was by no means certain of her Resolution to indulge
his Wishes at so high an Expense. The Resentment of Mr. Allworthy, and the
Injury he must do to his Quiet, argued strongly against this latter; and lastly,
the apparent Impossibility of his Success, even if he would sacrifice all these
Considerations to it, came to his Assistance; and thus Honour at last, backed
with Despair, with Gratitude to his Benefactor, and with real Love to his
Mistress, got the better of burning Desire, and he resolved rather to quit
Sophia, than to 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 every thing 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, every
        thing is to me a Trifle.
            O my 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 any
thing else, therein; for in Truth he had, in his frantic Disposition, tossed
every thing 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 Game-keeper 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
apprised of their Value, had very carefully put them up for his own Use.
    The Game-keeper 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 Game-keeper 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 Game-keeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who having received
Sophia's Letter from him, instantly withdrew, and eagerly breaking it open, read
as follows:
 
        Sir,
            »It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw you. Your
        submitting, on my Account, to such cruel Insults from my Father, lays me
        under an Obligation I shall ever own. As you know his Temper, I beg you
        will, for my Sake, avoid him. I wish I had any Comfort to send you; but
        believe this, that nothing but the last Violence shall ever give my Hand
        or Heart where you would be sorry to see them bestowed.«
 
Jones read this Letter a hundred Times over, and kissed it a hundred Times as
often. His Passion now brought all tender Desires back into his Mind. He
repented that he had writ to Sophia in the Manner we have seen above; but he
repented more that he had made use of the Interval of his Messenger's Absence to
write and dispatch a Letter to Mr. Allworthy, in which he had faithfully
promised and bound himself to quit all Thoughts of his Love. However, when his
cool Reflections returned, he plainly perceived that his Case was neither mended
nor altered by Sophia's Billet, unless to give him some little Glimpse of Hope
from her Constancy, of some favourable Accident hereafter. He therefore resumed
his Resolution, and taking leave of Black George, set forward to a Town about
five Miles distant, whither he had desired Mr. Allworthy, unless he pleased to
revoke his Sentence, to send his Things after him.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

  The Behaviour of Sophia on the present Occasion; which none of her Sex will
 blame, who are capable of behaving in the same Manner. And the Discussion of a
                    knotty Point in the Court of Conscience.
 
Sophia had passed the last twenty-four Hours in no very desirable Manner. During
a large Part of them she had been entertained by her Aunt, with Lectures of
Prudence, recommending to her the Example of the polite World, where Love (so
the good Lady said) is at present entirely laughed at, and where Women consider
Matrimony, as Men do Offices of public Trust, only as the Means of making their
Fortunes, and of advancing themselves in the World. In commenting on which Text
Mrs. Western had displayed her Eloquence during several Hours.
    These sagacious Lectures, though little suited either to the Taste or
Inclination of Sophia, were, however, less irksome to her than her own Thoughts,
that formed the Entertainment of the Night, during which she never once closed
her Eyes.
    But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her Bed, yet, having no
Avocation from it, she was found there by her Father at his Return from
Allworthy's, which was not till past Ten o' Clock in the Morning. He went
directly up to her Apartment, opened the Door, and seeing she was not up - cried
- »Oh! you are safe then, and I am resolved to keep you so.« He then locked the
Door, and delivered the Key to Honour, having first given her the strictest
Charge, with great Promises of Rewards for her Fidelity, and most dreadful
Menaces of Punishment, in case she should betray her Trust.
    Honour's Orders were not to suffer her Mistress to come out of her Room
without the Authority of the Squire himself, and to admit none to her but him
and her Aunt; but she was herself to attend her with whatever Sophia pleased,
except only Pen, Ink, and Paper, of which she was forbidden the Use.
    The Squire ordered his Daughter to dress herself and attend him at Dinner;
which she obeyed; and having sat the usual Time, was again conducted to her
Prison.
    In the Evening, the Goaler Honour brought her the Letter which she received
from the Game-keeper. 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 touch'd 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 presumptious 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 for 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 Country,
or in the next to it, that if your La'ship was but to look as if you had a Mind
to him, would not come about to make his Offers directly.« »What a Wretch dost
thou imagine me,« cries Sophia, »by affronting my Ears with such Stuff! I detest
all Mankind.« »Nay, to be sure, Ma'am,« answered Honour, »your La'ship hath had
enough to give you a Surfeit of them. To be used ill by such a poor beggarly
bastardly Fellow.« »Hold your blasphemous Tongue,« cries Sophia, »how dare you
mention his Name with Disrespect before me? He use me ill? No, his poor bleeding
Heart suffered more when he writ the cruel Words, than mine from reading them.
O! he is all heroic Virtue, and angelic Goodness. I am ashamed of the Weakness
of my own Passion, for blaming what I ought to admire. - O Honour! it is my Good
only which he consults. To my Interest he sacrifices both himself and me. - The
Apprehension of ruining me hath driven him to Despair.« »I am very glad,« says
Honour, »to hear your La'ship takes that into your Consideration: for to be
sure, it must be nothing less than Ruin, to give your Mind to one that is turned
out of Doors, and is not worth a Farthing in the World.« »Turned out of Doors!«
cries Sophia hastily, »how! what dost thou mean?« »Why, to be sure, Ma'am, my
Master no sooner told Squire Allworthy about Mr. Jones having offered to make
Love to your Ladyship, than the Squire stripped him stark naked, and turned him
out of Doors.« »Ha!« says Sophia, »have I been the cursed, wretched Cause of his
Destruction? - Turn'd 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 Ladyship 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 any thing 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 tho' her Father was very liberal to her, she was
much too generous herself 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 that Matter before, when
he deprived poor Jones of his 500 l. 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 stepped in to
her Assistance, and very strenuously urged, that the real Distinction between
the two Actions, did not lie in the different Degrees of Honour, but of Safety:
For that the secreting the 500 l. 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 complete Victory in the
Mind of Black George, and after making him a few Compliments on his Honesty,
forced him to deliver the Money to Jones.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

  A short Chapter, containing a short Dialogue between Squire Western and his
                                    Sister.
 
Mrs. Western had been engaged abroad all that Day. The Squire met her at her
Return home; and when she enquired after Sophia, he acquainted her that he had
secured her safe enough. »She is locked up in Chamber,« cries he, »and Honour
keeps the Key.« As his Looks were full of prodigious Wisdom and Sagacity when he
gave his Sister this Information, it is probable he expected much Applause from
her for what he had done; but how was he disappointed, when with a most
disdainful Aspect, she cry'd, »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.«6 »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 over-grown School-boy 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 Hannover Rats. Pox! I hope the Times are a coming that 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 Hannover 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 Hannover 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 chide me for thinking on her, and
would ha' her left to you.« »And if you will promise to interpose no more,«
answered she, »I will, out of my Regard to my Niece, undertake the Charge.«
»Well, do then,« said the Squire, »for you know I always agreed, that Women are
the properest to manage Women.«
    Mrs. Western then departed, muttering something with an Air of Disdain,
concerning Women and the Management of the Nation. She immediately repaired to
Sophia's Apartment, who was now, after a Day's Confinement released again from
her Captivity.
 

                                    Book VII

                             Containing three Days.
 

                                   Chapter I

                 A Comparison between the World and the Stage.
 
The World hath been often compared to the Theatre; and many grave Writers, as
well as the Poets, have considered human Life as a great Drama, resembling, in
almost every Particular, those scenical Representations, which Thespis is first
reported to have invented, and which have been since received with so much
Approbation and Delight in all polite Countries.
    This Thought hath been carried so far, and is become so general, that some
Words proper to the Theatre, and which were, at first, metaphorically applied to
the World, are now indiscriminately and literally spoken of both: Thus Stage and
Scene are by common Use grown as familiar to us, when we speak of Life in
general, as when we confine ourselves to dramatic Performances; and when
Transactions behind the Curtain are mentioned, St. James's is more likely to
occur to our Thoughts than Drury-Lane.
    It may seem easy enough to account for all this, by reflecting that the
theatrical Stage is nothing more than a Representation, or, as Aristotle calls
it, an Imitation of what really exists; and hence, perhaps, we might fairly pay
a very high Compliment to those, who by their Writings or Actions have been so
capable of imitating Life, as to have their Pictures, in a Manner confounded
with, or mistaken for the Originals.
    But, in Reality, we are not so fond of paying Compliments to these People,
whom we use as Children frequently do the Instruments of their Amusement; and
have much more Pleasure in hissing and buffeting them, than in admiring their
Excellence. There are many other Reasons which have induced us to see this
Analogy between the World and the Stage.
    Some have considered the larger Part of Mankind in the Light of Actors, as
personating Characters no more their own, and to which, in Fact, they have no
better Title, than the Player hath to be in Earnest thought the King or Emperor
whom he represents. Thus the Hypocrite may be said to be a Player; and indeed
the Greeks called them both by one and the same Name.
    The Brevity of Life hath likewise given Occasion to this Comparison. So the
immortal Shakespeare:
 
- 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 thee7 all human Actions take their Springs,
The Rise of Empires, and the Fall of Kings!
See the VAST THEATRE OF TIME display'd,
While o'er the Scene succeeding Heroes tread!
With Pomp the shining Images succeed,
What Leaders triumph, and what Monarchs bleed!
Perform the Parts thy Providence assign'd,
Their Pride, their Passions to thy Ends inclin'd:
A while 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!
 
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,
every Thing 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 12th
Chapter of the preceding Book, where she introduced Black George running away
with the 500 l. 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, tho' 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 Villainy,
without punishing them very severely for the Sake of Example. Some of the
Author's Friends, cry'd - »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, etc. 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 any Thing besides Dictionaries and Spelling-Books
who hath not this Privilege) can censure the Action, without conceiving any
absolute Detestation of the Person, whom perhaps Nature may not have designed to
act an ill Part in all her Dramas: For in this Instance, Life most exactly
resembles the Stage, since it is often the same Person who represents the
Villain and the Heroe; and he who engages your Admiration To-day, will probably
attract your Contempt To-Morrow. As Garrick, whom I regard in Tragedy to be the
greatest Genius the World hath ever produced, sometimes condescends to play the
Fool; so did Scipio the Great and Lælius the Wise, according to Horace, many
Years ago: nay, Cicero reports them to have been incredibly childish. - These,
it is true play'd 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 entitled 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 Judgement, and sometimes without any
Regard to their Talents. Thus the Man, as well as the Player, may condemn what
he himself acts; nay, it is common to see Vice sit as awkwardly on some Men, as
the Character of Iago would on the honest Face of Mr. William Mills.
    Upon the whole then, the Man of Candour, and of true Understanding, is never
hasty to condemn. He can censure an Imperfection, or even a Vice, without Rage
against the guilty Party. In a Word, they are the same Folly, the same
Childishness, the same Ill-breeding, and the same Ill-nature, which raise all
the Clamours and Uproars both in Life, and on the Stage. The worst of Men
generally have the Words Rogue and Villain most in their Mouths, as the lowest
of all Wretches are the aptest to cry out low in the Pit.
 

                                   Chapter II

          Containing a Conversation which Mr. Jones had with himself.
 
Jones received his Effects from Mr. Allworthy's early in the Morning, with the
following Answer to his Letter.
 
        Sir,
            »I am commanded by my Uncle to acquaint you, that as he did not
        proceed to those Measures he had taken with you, without the greatest
        Deliberation, and after the fullest Evidence of your Unworthiness, so
        will it be always out of your Power to cause the least Alteration in his
        Resolution. He expresses great Surprise 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, tho' 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;
farewell 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 with-drawn 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 a while to Mr.
Western's, and see what farther happened to the charming Sophia.
 

                                  Chapter III

                         Containing several Dialogues.
 
The Morning in which Mr. Jones departed, Mrs. Western summoned Sophia into her
Apartment, and having first acquainted her that she had obtained her Liberty of
her Father, she proceeded to read her a long Lecture on the Subject of
Matrimony; which she treated not as a romantic Scheme of Happiness arising from
Love, as it hath been described by the Poets; nor did she mention any of those
Purposes for which we are taught by Divines to regard it as instituted by sacred
Authority; she considered it rather as a Fund in which prudent Women deposite
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
ancient Philosophers, such as Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, did not use to
argue with their Scholars. You are to consider me, Child, as Socrates, not
asking your Opinion, but only informing you of mine.« From which last Words the
Reader may possibly imagine, that this Lady had read no more of the Philosophy
of Socrates, than she had of that of Alcibiades; and indeed we cannot resolve
his Curiosity as to this Point.
    »Madam,« cries Sophia, »I have never presumed to controvert any Opinion of
yours, and this Subject, as I said, I have never yet thought of, and perhaps
never may.«
    »Indeed, Sophy,« replied the Aunt, »this Dissimulation with me is very
foolish. The French shall as soon persuade me, that they take foreign Towns in
Defence only of their own Country, as you can impose on me to believe you have
never yet thought seriously of Matrimony. How can you, Child, affect to deny
that you have considered of contracting an Alliance, when you so well know I am
acquainted with the Party with whom you desire to contract it. An Alliance as
unnatural, and contrary to your Interest, as a separate League with the French
would be to the Interest of the Dutch! But however, if you have not hitherto
considered of this Matter, I promise you it is now high Time; for my Brother is
resolved immediately to conclude the Treaty with Mr. Blifil; and indeed I am a
sort of Guarantee in the Affair, and have promised your Concurrence.«
    »Indeed, Madam,« cries Sophia, »this is the only Instance in which I must
disobey both yourself and my Father. For this is a Match which requires very
little Consideration in me to refuse.«
    »If I was not as great a Philosopher as Socrates himself,« returned Mrs.
Western, »you would overcome my Patience. What Objection can you have to the
young Gentleman?«
    »A very solid Objection, in my Opinion,« says Sophia, - »I hate him.«
    »Will you never learn a proper Use of Words?« answered the Aunt. »Indeed
Child, you should consult Bailey's Dictionary. It is impossible you should hate
a Man from whom you have received no Injury. By Hatred, therefore, you mean no
more than Dislike, which is no sufficient Objection against your marrying of
him. I have known many Couples, who have entirely disliked each other, lead very
comfortable, genteel Lives. Believe me, Child, I know these Things better than
you. You will allow me, I think, to have seen the World, in which I have not an
Acquaintance who would not rather be thought to dislike her Husband, than to
like him. The contrary is such out-of-Fashion romantic Nonsense, that the very
Imagination of it is shocking.«
    »Indeed Madam,« replied Sophia, »I shall never marry a Man I dislike. If I
promise my Father never to consent to any Marriage contrary to his Inclinations,
I think I may hope he will never force me into that State contrary to my own.«
    »Inclinations!« cries the Aunt, with some Warmth. »Inclinations! I am
astonished at your Assurance. A young Woman of your Age, and unmarried, to talk
of Inclinations! But whatever your Inclinations may be, my Brother is resolved;
nay, since you talk of Inclinations, I shall advise him to hasten the Treaty.
Inclinations!«
    Sophia then flung herself upon her Knees, and Tears began to trickle from
her shining Eyes. She entreated her Aunt »to have Mercy upon her, and not to
resent so cruelly her Unwillingness to make herself miserable;« often urging,
»that she alone was concerned, and that her Happiness only was at Stake.«
    As a Bailiff, when well authorised 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 Goaler 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 Goaler 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 any Thing 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 every thing 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 not I overhear you telling her she must behave like a
Princess? You have made a Whig of the Girl; and how should her Father, or any
body 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 injotned 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, »tho' 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 Hannover 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 Word 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 expressed 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 Holla 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 synonimous
Term with simple: For she was indeed a most sensible Girl, and her Understanding
was of the first Rate; but she wanted all that useful Art which Females convert
to so many good Purposes in Life, and which, as it rather arises from the Heart,
than from the Head, is often the Property of the silliest of Women.
 

                                   Chapter IV

            A Picture of a Country Gentlewoman taken from the Life.
 
Mr. Western having finished his Holla, and taken a little Breath, began to
lament, in very pathetic Terms, the unfortunate Condition of Men, who are, says
he, always whipped in by the Humours of some d-nd 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 Hollowing, 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; tho' 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 upwards of 3000 l. a Year, and her Fortune
no more than a bare 8000 l. 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 any Thing 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 though the Medium of Jealousy. It is, indeed,
very possible for jealous Persons to kill the Objects of their Jealousy, but not
to hate them. Which Sentiment being a pretty hard Morsel, and bearing something
of the Air of a Paradox, we shall leave the Reader to chew the Cud upon it to
the End of the Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter V

               The generous Behaviour of Sophia towards her Aunt.
 
Sophia kept Silence during the foregoing Speech of her Father, nor did she once
answer otherwise than with a Sigh; but as he understood none of the Language, or
as he called it, Lingo of the Eyes, so he was not satisfied without some further
Approbation of his Sentiments; which he now demanded of his Daughter; telling
her, in the usual Way, »he expected she was ready to take the Part of every Body
against him, as she had always done that of the B- her Mother.« Sophia remaining
still silent, he cry'd 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'm in the wrong? And
perhaps I am in the wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian Hannoverian B- to come
into my House. She may 'dite me of a Plot for any Thing I know, and give my
Estate to the Government.«
    »So far, Sir, from injuring you or your Estate,« says Sophia, »if my Aunt
had died Yesterday, I am convinced she would have left you her whole Fortune.«
    Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to assert; but certain
it is, these last Words penetrated very deep into the Ears of her Father, and
produced a much more sensible Effect than all she had said before. He received
the Sound with much the same Action as a Man receives a Bullet in his Head. He
started, staggered and turned pale. After which he remained silent above a
Minute, and then began in the following hesitating Manner. »Yesterday! she would
have left me her Esteate Yesterday! would she? Why Yesterday of all the Days in
the Year? I suppose if she dies To-morrow she will leave it to somebody else,
and perhaps out of the Vamily!« »My Aunt, Sir,« cries Sophia, »hath very violent
Passions, and I can't answer what she may do under their Influence.«
    »You can't!« returned the Father, »and pray who hath been the Occasion of
putting her into those violent Passions? Nay, who hath actually put her into
them? Was not you and she hard at it before I came into the Room? Besides, was
not all our Quarrel about you? I have not quarreled 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 stopped, and Sophia throwing in more Entreaties, at length
prevailed upon him; so that after venting two or three bitter sarcastical
Expressions against his Daughter, he departed as fast as he could to recover his
Sister, before her Equipage could be gotten ready.
    Sophia then returned to her Chamber of Mourning, where she indulged herself
(if the Phrase may be allowed me) in all the Luxury of tender Grief. She read
over more than once the Letter which she had received from Jones; her Muff too
was used on this Occasion; and she bathed both these, as well as herself, with
her Tears. In this Situation, the friendly Mrs. Honour exerted her utmost
Abilities to comfort her afflicted Mistress. She ran over the Names of many
young Gentlemen; and having greatly commended their Parts and Persons, assured
Sophia that she might take her Choice of any. These Methods must have certainly
been used with some Success in Disorders of the like Kind, or so skilful a
Practitioner as Mrs. Honour would never have ventured to apply them; nay, I have
heard that the College of Chambermaids hold them to be as sovereign Remedies as
any in the female Dispensary; but whether it was that Sophia's Disease differed
inwardly, from those Cases with which it agreed in external Symptoms, I will not
assert; but, in Fact, the good Waiting-woman did more Harm than Good, and at
last so incensed her Mistress (which was no easy Matter) that with an angry
Voice she dismissed her from her Presence.
 

                                   Chapter VI

                      Containing great Variety of Matter.
 
The Squire overtook his Sister just as she was stepping into the Coach, and
partly by Force and partly by Solicitations, prevailed upon her to order her
Horses back into their Quarters. He succeeded in this Attempt without much
Difficulty: For the Lady was, as we have already hinted, of a most placable
Disposition, and greatly loved her Brother, tho' 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 Surprise, 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 stepped 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
judgement 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, tho' 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 tho' 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 cry'd 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 dispence 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 staid 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.
    Tho' 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 Objects,
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 accessory 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, tho' his
Behaviour to you, Sir, sufficiently justifies the Appellation, his own Vanity,
or perhaps some wicked Views, might make him boast of a falsehood; for if there
had been any Reality in Miss Western's Love to him, the Greatness of her Fortune
would never have suffered him to desert her, as you are well informed he hath.
Lastly, Sir, I promise you I would not myself, for any Consideration, no not for
the whole World, consent to marry this young Lady, if I was not persuaded she
had all the Passion for me which I desire she should have.«
    This excellent Method of conveying a falsehood with the Heart only, without
making the Tongue guilty of an Untruth, by the Means of Equivocation and
Imposture, hath quieted the Conscience of many a notable Deceiver; and yet when
we consider that it is Omniscience on which these endeavour to impose, it may
possibly seem capable of affording only a very superficial Comfort; and that
this artful and refined Distinction between communicating a Lie, and telling
one, is hardly worth the Pains it costs them.
    Allworthy was pretty well satisfied with what Mr. Western and Mr. Blifil
told him; and the Treaty was now, at the End of two Days, concluded. Nothing
then remained previous to the Office of the Priest, but the Office of the
Lawyers, which threatened to take up so much Time, that Western offered to bind
himself by all Manner of Covenants, rather than defer the Happiness of the young
Couple. Indeed he was so very earnest and pressing, that an indifferent Person
might have concluded he was more a Principal in this Match than he really was:
But this Eagerness was natural to him on all Occasions; and he conducted every
Scheme he undertook in such a Manner, as if the Success of that alone was
sufficient to constitute the whole Happiness of his Life.
    The joint Importunities of both Father and Son-in-law would probably have
prevailed on Mr. Allworthy, who brooked but ill any Delay of giving Happiness to
others, had not Sophia herself prevented it, and taken Measures to put a final
End to the whole Treaty, and to rob both Church and Law of those Taxes which
these wise Bodies have thought proper to receive from the Propagation of the
human Species, in a lawful Manner. Of which in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VII

  A strange Resolution of Sophia, and a more strange Stratagem of Mrs. Honour.
 
Tho' 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 this 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,
tho' perhaps it may make you angry, for we Servants don't always know what will
make our Ladies angry; for to be sure, every thing 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 surprise 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 surprise, 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, Madam«, replied the trusty
Waiting-woman, »I will take my Oath I heard my Master say so.« »Honour,« says
Sophia, »you have both surprised 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'm,«
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'm, 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 any body; 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 wrapped 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'm, 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, tho' this Lady would be very glad to see your La'ship, as to be sure
any body 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'm,« 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.« »O Heavens, Ma'm, 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 shall 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'm, 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'm, 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'm,« cries
Honour, »one's Virtue is a dear Thing, especially to us poor Servants; for it is
our Livelihood, as a Body may say, yet I mortally hate Fire-arms; for so many
Accidents happen by them.« »Well, well,« says Sophia, »I believe I may ensure
your Virtue at a very cheap Rate, without carrying any Arms with us; for I
intend to take Horses at the very first Town we come to, and we shall hardly be
attacked in our Way thither. Look'ee, Honour, I am resolved to go, and if you
will attend me, I promise you I will reward you to the very utmost of my Power.«
    This last Argument had a stronger Effect on Honour than all the preceding.
And since she saw her Mistress so determined, she desisted from any further
Dissuasions. They then entered into a Debate on Ways and Means of executing
their Project. Here a very stubborn Difficulty occurred, and this was the
Removal of their Effects, which was much more easily got over by the Mistress
than by the Maid: For when a Lady hath once taken a Resolution to run to a
Lover, or to run from him, all Obstacles are considered as Trifles. But Honour
was inspired by no such Motive; she had no Raptures to expect, nor any Terrors
to shun, and besides the real Value of her Clothes, in which consisted a great
Part of her Fortune, she had a capricious Fondness for several Gowns, and other
Things; either because they became her, or because they were given her by such a
particular Person; because she had bought them lately, or because she had had
them long; or for some other Reasons equally good; so that she could not endure
the Thoughts of leaving the poor Things behind her exposed to the Mercy of
Western, who, she doubted not, would in his Rage make them suffer Martyrdom.
    The ingenious Mrs. Honour having applied all her Oratory to dissuade her
Mistress from her Purpose, when she found her positively determined, at last
started the following Expedient to remove her Clothes, viz. to get herself
turned out of Doors that very Evening. Sophia highly approved this Method, but
doubted how it might be brought about. »Oh! Ma'm,« 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; tho' 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
Linnen, and a Night-gown for Sophia, with her own Things; and as for all her
other Clothes, the young Lady abandoned them with no more Remorse than the
Sailor feels when he throws over the Goods of others in order to save his own
Life.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

          Containing Scenes of Altercation, of no very uncommon Kind.
 
Mrs. Honour had scarce sooner parted from her young Lady, than something, (for I
would not, like the old Woman in Quivedo, 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
Ballance, 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 tho' she was entitled to her
Mother's Fortune, at the Death of her Father, and to the Sum of 3000 l. 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 Grand-mother 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, »who 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 tho' my Lady calls me Honour, I have a Sir-name as well as other Folks.
Ashamed to walk with me, quotha! Marry, as good as yourself I hope.« »Since you
make such a Return to my Civility,« said the other, »I must acquaint you, Mrs.
Honour, that you are not so good as me. In the Country indeed one is obliged to
take up with all kind of Trumpery, but in Town I visit none but the Women of
Women of Quality. Indeed, Mrs. Honour, there is some Difference, I hope, between
you and me.« »I hope so too,« answered Honour, »there is some Difference in our
Ages, and - I think in our Persons.« Upon speaking which last Words, she
strutted by Mrs. Western's Maid with the most provoking Air of Contempt; turning
up her Nose, tossing her Head, and violently brushing the Hoop of her Competitor
with her own. The other Lady put on one of her most malicious Sneers, and said,
»Creature! you are below my Anger; and it is beneath me to give ill Words to
such an audacious saucy Trollop; but, Hussy, I must tell you, your Breeding
shows the Meanness of your Birth as well as of your Education; and both very
properly qualify you to be the mean serving Woman of a Country Girl.« »Don't
abuse my Lady,« cries Honour, »I won't take that of you; she's as much better
than yours as she is younger, and ten thousand Times more handsomer.«
    Here ill Luck, or rather good Luck, sent Mrs. Western to see her Maid in
Tears, which began to flow plentifully at her Approach; and of which being asked
the Reason by her Mistress, she presently acquainted her, that her Tears were
occasioned by the rude Treatment of that Creature there, meaning Honour. »And,
Madam,« continued she, »I could have despised all she said to me; but she hath
had the Audacity to affront your Ladyship, and to call you ugly. - Yes, Madam,
she called you ugly old Cat to my Face. I could not bear to hear your Ladyship
called ugly.« - »Why do you repeat her Impudence so often?« said Mrs. Western.
And then turning to Mrs. Honour, she asked her »how she had the Assurance to
mention her Name with Disrespect?« »Disrespect Madam!« answered Honour, »I never
mentioned your Name at all. I said somebody was not as handsome as my Mistress,
and to be sure you know that as well as I.« »Hussy,« replied the Lady, »I will
make such a saucy Trollop as yourself, know that I am not a proper Subject of
your Discourse. And if my Brother doth not discharge you this Moment, I will
never sleep in his House again. I will find him out and have you discharged this
Moment.« »Discharged!« cries Honour, »and suppose I am, there are more Places in
the World than one. Thank Heaven, good Servants need not want Places; and if you
turn away all who do not think you handsome, you will want Servants very soon,
let me tell you that.«
    Mrs. Western spoke, or rather thundered in Answer; but as she was hardly
articulate, we cannot be very certain of the identical Words: We shall,
therefore, omit inserting a Speech, which, at best, would not greatly redound to
her Honour. She then departed in Search of her Brother, with a Countenance so
full of Rage, that she resembled one of the Furies rather than a human Creature.
    The two Chambermaids being again left alone, began a second Bout at
Altercation, which soon produced a Combat of a more active Kind. In this the
Victory belonged to the Lady of inferior Rank, but not without some Loss of
Blood, of Hair, and of Lawn and Muslin.
 

                                   Chapter IX

 The wise Demeanour of Mr. Western in the Character of a Magistrate. A Hint to
  Justices of Peace, concerning the necessary Qualifications of a Clerk; with
       extraordinary Instances of paternal Madness, and filial Affection.
 
Logicians sometimes prove too much by an Argument, and Politicians often
overreach themselves in a Scheme. Thus had it like to have happened to Mrs.
Honour, who instead of recovering the rest of her Clothes, had like to have
stopped even those she had on her Back from escaping: For the Squire no sooner
heard of her having abused his Sister, than he swore twenty Oaths he would send
her to Bridewell.
    Mrs. Western was a very good-natured Woman, and ordinarily of a forgiving
Temper. She had lately remitted the Trespass of a Stage-coach Man, who had
overturned her Post-chaise into a Ditch; nay, she had even broken the Law in
refusing to prosecute a High-way-man 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-nd to you.« But
now, so uncertain are our Tempers, and so much do we at different Times differ
from ourselves, she would hear of no Mitigation; nor could all the affected
Penitence of Honour, nor all the Entreaties of Sophia for her own Servant,
prevail with her to desist from earnestly desiring her Brother to execute
Justiceship (for it was indeed a Syllable more than Justice) on the Wench.
    But luckily the Clerk had a Qualification, which no Clerk to a Justice of
Peace ought ever to be without, namely, some Understanding in the Law of this
Realm. He therefore whispered in the Ear of the Justice, that he would exceed
his Authority by committing the Girl to Bridewell, as there had been no Attempt
to break the Peace; »for I am afraid, Sir,« says he, »you cannot legally commit
any one to Bridewell only for Ill-breeding.«
    In Matters of high Importance, particularly in Cases relating to the Game,
the Justice was not always attentive to these Admonitions of his Clerk: For,
indeed, in executing the Laws under that Head, many Justices of Peace suppose
they have a large discretionary Power. By Virtue of which, under the Notion of
searching for, and taking away Engines for the Destruction of the Game, they
often commit Trespasses, and sometimes Felony at their Pleasure.
    But this Offence was not of quite so high a Nature, nor so dangerous to the
Society. Here, therefore, the Justice behaved with some Attention to the Advice
of his Clerk: For, in Fact, he had already had two Informations exhibited
against him in the King's-Bench, and had no Curiosity to try a third.
    The Squire, therefore, putting on a most wise and significant Countenance,
after a Preface of several Hum's and Ha's, 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 Terrours 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 choose rather to say she
resigned - which hath, indeed, been always held a synonimous 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 every Thing was
ready early in the Evening; when having received her Wages, away packed she 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 outragious 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 wrapped 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, tho' 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 tho' it bears no immediate Affinity
either to Religion or Virtue, is often so kind as to lend great Assistance in
executing the Purposes of both.
    Sophia was charmed with the Contemplation of so heroic an Action, and began
to compliment herself with much premature Flattery, when Cupid, who lay hid in
her Muff, suddenly crept out, and, like Punchinello in a Puppet-show, kicked all
out before him. In Truth (for we scorn to deceive our Reader, or to vindicate
the Character of our Heroine, by ascribing her Actions to supernatural Impulse)
the Thoughts of her beloved Jones, and some Hopes (however distant) in which he
was very particularly concerned, immediately destroyed all which filial Love,
Piety and Pride had, with their joint Endeavours, been labouring to bring about.
    But before we proceed any farther with Sophia, we must now look back to Mr.
Jones.
 

                                   Chapter X

          Containing several Matters natural enough perhaps, but Low.
 
The Reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr. Jones in the Beginning
of this Book, on his Road to Bristol; being determined to seek his Fortune at
Sea, or rather, indeed, to fly away from his Fortune on Shore.
    It happened, (a Thing not very unusual) that the Guide who undertook to
conduct him on his Way, was unluckily unacquainted with the Road; so that having
missed his right Track, and being ashamed to ask Information, he rambled about
backwards and forwards, till Night came on, and it began to grow dark. Jones
suspecting what had happened, acquainted the Guide with his Apprehensions; but
he insisted on it, that they were in the right Road, and added, it would be very
strange if he should not know the Road to Bristol; tho', 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 enquired 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, Master, 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 first 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 half or zuch 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 every Thing, 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 stripped the poor Man of all his Goods, as well as Money; For tho' he
had several Children, this Daughter only, who was the Mother's Favourite, was
the Object of her Consideration; and to the Humour of this one Child, she would,
with Pleasure, have sacrificed all the rest, and her Husband into the Bargain.
    Tho' 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 should'st thou grieve, when thou knows 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. Tho' I have a clear Estate of a 100
l. 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,« replyed 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 choose 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
choosing, who lost no Time: For they were married and beded, and all within an
Hour.
    But it shall be the worst Hour's Work for them both that ever they did, for
they may starve, or beg, or steal together for me. I will never give either of
them a Farthing.« Here Jones starting up, cry'd, »I really must be excused, I
wish you would leave me.« »Come, come, Friend,« said the Quaker, »don't give Way
to Concern. You see there are other People miserable, besides yourself.« »I see
there are Madmen and Fools and Villains in the World,« cries Jones. - »But let
me give you a Piece of Advice; send for your Daughter and Son-in-law home, and
don't be yourself the only Cause of Misery to one you pretend to love.« »Send
for her and her Husband home!« cries the Quaker loudly, »I would sooner send for
the two greatest Enemies I have in the World!« »Well, go home yourself, or where
you please,« said Jones: »For I will sit no longer in such Company.« - »Nay,
Friend,« answered the Quaker, »I scorn to impose my Company on any one.« He then
offered to pull Money from his Pocket, but Jones pushed him with some Violence
out of the Room.
    The Subject of the Quaker's Discourse had so deeply affected Jones, that he
stared very wildly all the Time he was speaking. This the Quaker had observed,
and this, added to the rest of his Behaviour, inspired honest Broadbrim with a
Conceit, that his Companion was, in Reality, out of his Senses. Instead of
resenting the Affront, therefore, the Quaker was moved with Compassion for his
unhappy Circumstances; and having communicated his Opinion to the Landlord, he
desired him to take great Care of his Guest, and to treat him with the highest
Civility.
    »Indeed,« says the Landlord, »I shall use no such Civility towards him: For
it seems, for all his laced Waistcoat there, he is no more a Gentleman than
myself; but a poor Parish Bastard bred up at a great Squire's about 30 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 Kitchin-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 every thing which was not fixed
to the Freehold; but he was by Nature suspicious, and had been more particularly
so since the Loss of his Spoon. In short, the Dread of being robbed, totally
absorbed the comfortable Consideration that he had nothing to lose.
    Jones being assured that he could have no Bed, very contentedly betook
himself to a great Chair made with Rushes, when Sleep, which had lately shunned
his Company in much better Apartments, generously paid him a Visit in his humble
Cell.
    As for the Landlord, he was prevented by his Fears from retiring to Rest. He
returned therefore to the Kitchen-Fire, whence he could survey the only Door
which opened into the Parlour, or rather Hole, where Jones was seated; and as
for the Window to that Room, it was impossible for any Creature larger than a
Cat to have made his Escape through it.
 

                                   Chapter XI

                    The Adventure of a Company of Soldiers.
 
The Landlord having taken his Seat directly opposite to the Door of the Parlour,
determined to keep Guard there the whole Night. The Guide and another Fellow
remained long on Duty with him, tho' 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 steadfastly 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 any thing 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 Four-pence.
    This Declaration procured Jones the Thanks and Applause of the whole
Company. The Terms honourable, noble, and worthy Gentleman, resounded through
the Room; nay, my Landlord himself began to have a better Opinion of him, and
almost to disbelieve the Account which the Guide had given.
    The Serjeant had informed Mr. Jones, that they were marching against the
Rebels, and expected to be commanded by the glorious Duke of Cumberland. By
which the Reader may perceive (a Circumstance which we have not thought
necessary to communicate before) that this was the very Time when the late
Rebellion was at the highest; and indeed the Banditti were now marched into
England, intending, as it was thought, to fight the King's Forces, and to
attempt pushing forward to the Metropolis.
    Jones had some Heroic Ingredients in his Composition, and was a hearty
Well-wisher to the glorious Cause of Liberty, and of the Protestant Religion. It
is no wonder, therefore, that in Circumstances which would have warranted a much
more romantic and wild Undertaking, it should occur to him to serve as a
Volunteer in this Expedition.
    Our commanding Officer had said all in his Power to encourage and promote
this good Disposition, from the first Moment he had been acquainted with it. He
now proclaimed the noble Resolution aloud, which was received with great
Pleasure by the whole Company, who all cried out, »God bless King George, and
your Honour;« and then added, with many Oaths, »We will stand by you both to the
last Drops of our Blood.«
    The Gentleman, who had been all Night tippling at the Alehouse, was
prevailed on by some Arguments which a Corporal had put into his Hand, 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 surprised 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 Gauntlope; 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, tho' 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 Foot Man, he being first produced, came next to survey Jones; at the
first Sight of whom, the Lieutenant could not help showing some Surprise; 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 any thing of enlisting himself;
that he was most zealously attached to the glorious Cause for which they were
going to fight, and was very desirous of serving as a Volunteer;« concluding
with some Compliments to the Lieutenant, and expressing the great Satisfaction
he should have in being under his Command.
    The Lieutenant returned his Civility, commended his Resolution, shook him by
the Hand, and invited him to dine with himself and the rest of the Officers.
 

                                  Chapter XII

                    The Adventure of a Company of Officers.
 
The Lieutenant, whom we mentioned in the preceding Chapter, and who commanded
this Party, was now near sixty Years of Age. He had entered very young into the
Army, and had served in the Capacity of an Ensign at the Battle of Tannieres;
here he had received two Wounds, and had so well distinguished himself, that he
was by the Duke of Marlborough advanced to be a Lieutenant, immediately after
that Battle.
    In this Commission he had continued ever since, viz. near forty Years;
during which Time he had seen vast Numbers preferred over his Head, and had now
the Mortification to be commanded by Boys, whose Fathers were at Nurse when he
first entered into the Service.
    Nor was this ill Success in his Profession solely owing to his having no
Friends among the Men in Power. He had the Misfortune to incur the Displeasure
of his Colonel, who for many Years continued in the Command of this Regiment.
Nor did he owe the implacable Ill-will which this Man bore him to any Neglect or
Deficiency as an Officer, nor indeed to any Fault in himself; but solely to the
Indiscretion of his Wife, who was a very beautiful Woman, and who, tho' 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, tho',
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
dem 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 in
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 Jemmy 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. Adderley, 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,« says 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,
tho' 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 Adderley, and whispered to him slyly, »Smoke the
Prig, Adderley, 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, tho' 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, choose some other Subject
for your Wit: For I promise you I will bear no jesting with this Lady's
Character.« »Jesting,« cries the other, »d-n me if ever I was more in Earnest in
my Life. Tom French of our Regiment had both her and her Aunt at Bath.« »Then I
must tell you in Earnest,« cries Jones, »that you are one of the most impudent
Rascals upon Earth.«
    He had no sooner spoken these Words, than the Ensign, together with a Volley
of Curses, discharged a Bottle full at the Head of Jones, which hitting him a
little above the right Temple, brought him instantly to the Ground.
    The Conqueror perceiving the Enemy to lie motionless before him, and Blood
beginning to flow pretty plentifully from his Wound, began now to think of
quitting the Field of Battle, where no more Honour was to be gotten; but the
Lieutenant interposed, by stepping before the Door, and thus cut off his
Retreat.
    Northerton was very importunate with the Lieutenant for his Liberty; urging
the ill Consequences of his Stay, asking him, what he could have done less!
»Zounds!« says he, »I was but in Jest with the Fellow. I never heard any Harm of
Miss Western in my Life.« »Have not you?« said the Lieutenant, »then you richly
deserve to be hanged, as well for making such Jests, as for using such a Weapon.
You are my Prisoner, Sir; nor shall you stir from hence, till a proper Guard
comes to secure you.«
    Such an Ascendant had our Lieutenant over this Ensign, that all that
Fervency of Courage which had levelled our poor Heroe with the Floor, would
scarce have animated the said Ensign to have drawn his Sword against the
Lieutenant, had he then 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. Adderley, 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. Adderley
damning him for having blooded his Waistcoat; and the Frenchman declaring,
»Begar me no tush de Engliseman de mort, me ave 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, tho'
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 cry'd, »Call the Barber;« but none stirred a
Step. Several Cordials were 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 expressed great Contempt for her
Husband's Prescription of Beer, she dispatched one of her Maids to her own
Closet for a Bottle of Brandy, of which, as soon as it was brought, she
prevailed upon 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 every Thing which was done, ordered his Patient
instantly to Bed; in which Place, we think proper to leave him, some Time, to
his Repose, and shall here, therefore, put an End to this Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

 Containing the great Address of the Landlady; the great Learning of a Surgeon;
           and the solid Skill in Casuistry of the worthy Lieutenant.
 
When the wounded Man was carried to his Bed, and the House began again to clear
up from the Hurry which this Accident had occasioned; the Landlady thus
addressed the commanding Officer. »I am afraid, Sir,« said she, »this young Man
did not behave himself as well as he should do to your Honours; and if he had
been killed, I suppose he had 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 Blood-shed; 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 stopped 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
certain: 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
Phænomena, 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 pleuritic Complaints; but,
to my Surprise, 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 mean Time 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.« »May'nt 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 Soop or high Sauces, for the Doctor would have
complied, rather than have lost the Custom of the House.
    The Doctor was no sooner gone, than the Landlady began to trumpet forth his
Fame to the Lieutenant, who had not, from their short Acquaintance, conceived
quite so favourable an Opinion of his physical Abilities, as the good Woman, and
all the Neighbourhood entertained; (and perhaps very rightly) for tho' 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, tho' 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 a 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 tho' 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.«
    »O 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 tho' I have been a very wild young
Fellow, still in my most serious Moments, and at the Bottom, I am really a
Christian.«
    »So am I too, I assure you,« said the Officer: »And so zealous a one, that I
was pleased with you at Dinner for taking up the Cause of your Religion; and I
am a little offended with you now, young Gentleman, that you should express a
Fear of declaring your Faith before any one.«
    »But how terrible must it be,« cries Jones, »to any one who is really a
Christian, to cherish Malice in his Breast, in Opposition to the Command of him
who hath expressly forbid it? How can I bear to do this on a sick Bed? Or how
shall I make up my Account, with such an Article as this in my Bosom against
me?«
    »Why I believe there is such a Command,« cries the Lieutenant; »but a Man of
Honour can't keep it. And you must be a Man of Honour, if you will be in the
Army. I remember I once put the Case to our Chaplain over a Bowl of Punch, and
he confessed there was much Difficulty in it; but he said, he hoped there might
be a Latitude granted to Soldiers in this one Instance; and to be sure it is our
Duty to hope so: For who would bear to live without his Honour? No, no, my dear
Boy, be a good Christian as long as you live; but be a Man of Honour too, and
never put up an Affront; not all the Books, nor all the Parsons in the World,
shall ever persuade me to that. I love my Religion very well, but I love my
Honour more. There must be some Mistake in the wording the Text, or in the
Translation, or in the understanding it, or somewhere or other. But however that
be, a Man must run the Risque, for he must preserve his Honour. So compose
yourself To-night, and I promise you, you shall have an Opportunity of doing
yourself Justice.« Here he gave Jones a hearty Buss, shook him by the Hand, and
took his Leave.
    But tho' the Lieutenant's Reasoning was very satisfactory to himself, it was
not entirely so to his Friend. Jones therefore having revolved this Matter much
in his Thoughts, at last came to a Resolution, which the Reader will find in the
next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

 A most dreadful Chapter indeed; and which few Readers ought to venture upon in
                       an Evening, especially when alone.
 
Jones swallowed a large Mess of Chicken, or rather Cock, Broth, with a very good
Appetite, as indeed he would have done the Cock it was made of, with a Pound of
Bacon into the Bargain; and now, finding in himself no Deficiency of either
Health or Spirit, he resolved to get up and seek his Enemy.
    But first he sent for the Serjeant, who was his first Acquaintance among
these military Gentlemen. Unluckily that worthy Officer having, in a literal
Sense, taken his Fill of Liquor, had been some Time retired to his Bolster,
where he was snoring so loud, that it was not easy to convey a Noise in at his
Ears capable of drowning that which issued from his Nostrils.
    However, as Jones persisted in his Desire of seeing him, a vociferous Drawer
at length found Means to disturb his Slumbers, and to acquaint him with the
Message. Of which the Serjeant was no sooner made sensible, than he arose from
his Bed, and having his Clothes already on, immediately attended. Jones did not
think fit to acquaint the Serjeant with his Design, tho' 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 Surprise, »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 prædicto) 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 Surprise as the other had
shown, and said, »I am certain, Sir, I have not asked you so much out of the
way. Besides, you are to consider, it is the only Sword I have, and I must run
the Risque of my Officer's Displeasure, by going without one myself. And truly,
putting all this together, I don't think twenty Shillings was so much out of the
Way.«
    »Twenty Shillings!« cries Jones, »why you just now asked me twenty Guineas.«
»How!« cries the Serjeant. - »Sure your Honour must have mistaken me; or else I
mistook myself - and indeed I am but half awake. - Twenty Guineas indeed! no
wonder your Honour flew into such a Passion. I say twenty Guineas too. - No, no,
I meant twenty Shillings, I assure you. And when your Honour comes to consider
every thing, I hope you will not think that so extravagant a Price. It is indeed
true, you may buy a Weapon which looks as well for less Money. But -«
    Here Jones interrupted him, saying, »I will be so far from making any Words
with you, that I will give you a Shilling more than your Demand.« He then gave
him a Guinea, bid him return to his Bed, and wished him a good March; adding, he
hoped to overtake them before the Division reached Worcester.
    The Serjeant very civilly took his Leave, fully satisfied with his
Merchandize, and not a little pleased with his dexterous Recovery from that false
Step into which his Opinion of the Sick Man's Light-headedness had betrayed him.
    As soon as the Serjeant was departed, Jones rose from his Bed, and dressed
himself entirely, putting on even his Coat, which, as its Colour was white,
showed very visibly the Streams of Blood which had flowed down it; and now,
having grasped his newpurchased 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 Murtherer: 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 Stair-case, 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 dressed?, 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'm 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 Murther.
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, tho' 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, tho' 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, tho' 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 (tho' not very uncommon in a military Life) the Guard became
the guarded.
 

                                   Chapter XV

                   The Conclusion of the foregoing Adventure.
 
Besides the Suspicion of Sleep, the Lieutenant harboured another, and worse
Doubt, against the poor Centinel, and this was that of Treachery: For as he
believed not one Syllable of the Apparition, so he imagined the whole to be an
Invention, formed only to impose upon him, and that the Fellow had, in Reality,
been bribed by Northerton to let him escape. And this he imagined the rather, as
the Fright appeared to him, the more unnatural in one who had the Character of
as brave and bold a Man as any in the Regiment, having been in several Actions,
having received several Wounds, and, in a Word, having behaved himself always
like a good and valiant Soldier.
    That the Reader, therefore, may not conceive the least ill Opinion of such a
Person, we shall not delay a Moment in rescuing his Character from the
Imputation of this Guilt.
    Mr. Northerton then, as we have before observed, was fully satisfied with
the Glory which he had obtained from this Action. He had, perhaps, seen, or
heard, or guessed, that Envy is apt to attend Fame. Not that I would here
insinuate, that he was heathenishly inclined to believe in, or to worship, the
Goddess Nemesis; for, in fact, I am convinced he never heard of her Name. He
was, besides, of an active Disposition, and had a great Antipathy to those close
Winter 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, tho' somewhat crooked in his Morals, was perfectly
strait 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 quarreled with his Lieutenant, had entrusted the Payment of his
Company to the Ensign. This Money, however, he thought proper to deposite 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, tho' 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.
    Every thing 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. »Joo?« 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 Joo. Both insisted it was not their Business, and they would not
do it.
    The Lieutenant then fell a laughing, and said, »Come, I will put an End to
this Contention;« and then turning to the Servants, commended them for their
Resolution, in not giving up the Point; but added, he was sure, if one would
consent to go, the other would. To which Proposal they both agreed in an
Instant, and accordingly went up very lovingly and close together. When they
were gone, the Lieutenant appeased the Wrath of the Landlady, by satisfying her
why they were both so unwilling to go alone.
    They returned soon after, and acquainted their Mistress, that the sick
Gentleman was so far from being dead, that he spoke as heartily as if he was
well; and that he gave his Service to the Captain, and should be very glad of
the Favour of seeing him before he marched.
    The good Lieutenant immediately complied with his Desires, and sitting down
by his Bed-side, acquainted him with the Scene which had happened below,
concluding with his Intentions to make an Example of the Centinel.
    Upon this, Jones related to him the whole Truth, and earnestly begged him
not to punish the poor Soldier, »who, I am confident,« says he, »is as innocent
of the Ensign's Escape, as he is of forging any Lie, or of endeavouring to
impose on you.«
    The Lieutenant hesitated a few Moments, and then answered: »Why, as you have
cleared the Fellow of one Part of the Charge, so it will be impossible to prove
the other; because he was not the only Centinel. But I have a good mind to
punish the Rascal for being a Coward. Yet who knows what Effect the Terror of
such an Apprehension may have; and to say the Truth, he hath always behaved well
against an Enemy. Come, it is a good Thing to see any Sign of Religion in these
Fellows; so I promise you he shall be set at liberty when we march. But hark,
the General beats. My dear Boy, give me another Buss. Don't discompose nor hurry
yourself; but remember the Christian Doctrine of Patience, and I warrant you
will soon be able to do yourself Justice, and to take an honourable Revenge on
the Fellow who hath injured you.« The Lieutenant then departed, and Jones
endeavoured to compose himself to Rest.
 

                                   Book VIII

                           Containing above two Days.
 

                                   Chapter I

 A wonderful long Chapter concerning the Marvellous; being much the longest of
                         all our introductory Chapters.
 
As we are now entering upon a Book, in which the Course of our History will
oblige us to relate some Matters of a more strange and surprising 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 Criticks8 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,9 others have so little
Historic or Poetic Faith, that they believe nothing to be either possible or
probable, the like to which hath not occurred to their own Observation.
    First then, I think, it may very reasonably be required of every Writer,
that he keeps within the Bounds of Possibility; and still remembers that what it
is not possible for Man to perform, it is scarce possible for Man to believe he
did perform. This Conviction, perhaps, gave Birth to many Stories of the ancient
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 Phæacians, 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 is it horrid Puerility to search the
Heathen Theology for any of those Deities who have been long since dethroned
from their Immortality. Lord Shaftesbury observes, that nothing is more cold
than the Invocation of a Muse by a Modern; he might have added that nothing can
be more absurd. A modern may with much more Elegance invoke a Ballad, as some
have thought Homer did, or a Mug of Ale with the Author of Hudibras; which
latter may perhaps have inspired much more Poetry as well as Prose, than all the
Liquors of Hippocrene or Helicon.
    The only supernatural Agents which can in any Manner be allowed to us
Moderns are Ghosts; but of these I would advise an Author to be extremely
sparing. These are indeed like Arsenic, and other dangerous Drugs in Physic, to
be used with the utmost Caution; nor would I advise the Introduction of them at
all in those Works, or by those Authors to which, or to whom a Horse-Laugh in
the Reader, would be any great Prejudice or Mortification.
    As for Elves and Fairies, and other such Mummery, I purposely omit the
Mention of them, as I should be very unwilling to confine within any Bounds
those surprising 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 tho' ever so well attested, may
nevertheless be sacrificed to Oblivion in Complaisance to the Scepticism of a
Reader. Such is that memorable Story of the Ghost of George Villers, 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, tho' 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
Surprise 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 cheerful 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 any Thing like
him. Such Raræ 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 surprising in one Man, may become
improbable, or indeed impossible, when related of another.
    This last Requisite is what the dramatic Critics call Conservation of
Character, and it requires a very extraordinary Degree of judgement, 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 any Thing which can well be conceived. Should
the best Parts of the Story of Marcus Antoninus be ascribed to Nero, or should
the worst Incidents of Nero's Life be imputed to Antoninus, what would be more
shocking to Belief than either Instance; whereas both these being related of
their proper Agent, constitute the Truly Marvellous.
    Our modern Authors of Comedy have fallen almost universally into the Error
here hinted at: Their Heroes generally are notorious Rogues, and their Heroines
abandoned Jades, during the first four Acts; but in the fifth, the former become
very worthy Gentlemen, and the latter, Women of Virtue and Discretion: Nor is
the Writer often so kind as to give himself the least Trouble, to reconcile or
account for this monstrous Change and Incongruity. There is, indeed, no other
Reason to be assigned for it, than because the Play is drawing to a Conclusion;
as if it was no less natural in a Rogue to repent in the last Act of a Play,
than in the last of his Life; which we perceive to be generally the Case at
Tyburn, a Place which might, indeed, close the Scene of some Comedies with much
Propriety, as the Heroes in these are most commonly eminent for those very
Talents which not only bring Men to the Gallows, but enable them to make an
heroic Figure when they are there.
    Within these few Restrictions, I think, every Writer may be permitted to
deal as much in the Wonderful as he pleases; nay, if he thus keeps within the
Rules of Credibility, the more he can surprise 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 5th 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 News-paper. 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 abovementioned, he hath discharged his Part; and is
then entitled 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; tho' it had the previous Suffrages of many Ladies of the
first Rank; one of whom very eminent for her Understanding, declared it was the
Picture of half the young People of her Acquaintance.
 

                                   Chapter II

                In which the Landlady pays a Visit to Mr. Jones.
 
When Jones had taken Leave of his Friend the Lieutenant, he endeavoured to close
his Eyes, but all in vain; his Spirits were too lively and wakeful to be lulled
to Sleep. So having amused, or rather tormented himself with the Thoughts of his
Sophia, till it was open Day-light, 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 undervalue 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 'em 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 all those Officer Fellows, but looks upon
himself to be as good as arrow a Squire of 500 l. 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 tho' 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;
tho' 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 as 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 laid 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, »Oh Heavens!
 
Angels are painted fair to look like her.
There's in her all that we believe of Heaven,
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 lain 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 any thing 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 save'd,
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. O 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 Dæmon 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 any thing
of me; for I never was here before, nor do I remember ever to have seen you.«
»Nor is it possible you should,« answered she, »for you was a little Thing when
I had you in my Lap at the Squire's.« - »How, the Squire's,« says Jones, »what
do you know that great and good Mr. Allworthy then?« »Yes, marry do I,« says
she; »Who in the Country doth not?« - »The Fame of his Goodness indeed,«
answered Jones, »must have extended farther than this; but Heaven only can know
him, can know that Benevolence which it copied from itself, and sent upon Earth
as its own Pattern. Mankind are as ignorant of such divine Goodness, as they are
unworthy of it; but none so unworthy of it as myself. I who was raised by him to
such a Height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor base-born Child, adopted
by him, and treated as his own Son to dare by my Follies to disoblige him, to
draw his Vengeance upon me. Yes, I deserve it all: For I will never be so
ungrateful as ever to think he hath done an Act of Injustice by me. No, I
deserve to be turned out of Doors, as I am. And now, Madam,« says he, »I believe
you will not blame me for turning Soldier, especially with such a Fortune as
this in my Pocket.« At which Words he shook a Purse which had but very little in
it, and which still appeared to the Landlady to have less.
    My good Landlady was, (according to vulgar Phrase) struck all of a Heap by
this Relation. She answered coldly, »That to be sure People were the best Judges
what was most proper for their Circumstances. - But hark,« says she, »I think I
hear some body 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 tho' they
are contented to give this gratis to Persons of Quality, yet they never confer
it on those of their own Order, without taking Care to be well paid for their
Pains.
 

                                  Chapter III

               In which the Surgeon makes his second Appearance.
 
Before we proceed any farther, that the Reader may not be mistaken in imagining
the Landlady knew more than she did, nor surprised that she knew so much, it may
be necessary to inform him, that the Lieutenant had acquainted her that the Name
of Sophia had been the Occasion of the Quarrel; and as for the rest of her
Knowledge, the sagacious Reader will observe how she came by it in the preceding
Scene. Great Curiosity was indeed mixed with her Virtues; and she never
willingly suffered any one to depart from her House without enquiring as much as
possible into their Names, Families and Fortunes.
    She was no sooner gone, than Jones, instead of animadverting on her
Behaviour, reflected that he was in the same Bed, which he was informed had held
his dear Sophia. This occasioned a thousand fond and tender Thoughts, which we
would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that such kind of Lovers will make
a very inconsiderable Part of our Readers.
    In this Situation the Surgeon found him, when he came to dress his Wound.
The Doctor, perceiving, upon Examination, that his Pulse was disordered, and
hearing that he had not slept, declared that he was in great Danger: For he
apprehended a Fever was coming on; which he would have prevented by Bleeding,
but Jones would not submit, declaring he would lose no more Blood; and »Doctor,«
says he, »if you will be so kind only to dress my Head, I have no Doubt of being
well in a Day or two.«
    »I wish,« answered the Surgeon, »I could assure your being well in a Month
or two. Well, indeed! No, no, People are not so soon well of such Contusions;
but, Sir, I am not at this Time of Day to be instructed in my Operations by a
Patient, and I insist on making a Revulsion before I dress you.«
    Jones persisted obstinately in his Refusal, and the Doctor at last yielded;
telling him at the same Time, that he would not be answerable for the ill
Consequence, and hoped he would do him the Justice to acknowledge that he had
given him a contrary Advice; which the Patient promised he would.
    The Doctor retired into the Kitchen, where, addressing himself to the
Landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful Behaviour of his Patient, who
would not be blooded, though he was in a Fever.
    »It is an eating Fever then,« says the Landlady: »For he hath devoured two
swinging buttered Toasts this Morning for Breakfast.«
    »Very likely,« says the Doctor, »I have known People eat in a Fever; and it
is very easily accounted for; because the Acidity occasioned by the febrile
Matter, may stimulate the Nerves of the Diaphragm, and thereby occasion a
Craving, which will not be easily distinguishable from a natural Appetite; but
the Aliment will not be concreted, nor assimilated into Chyle, and so will
corrode the vascular Orifices, and thus will aggravate the febrific Symptoms.
Indeed I think the Gentleman in a very dangerous Way, and, if he is not blooded,
I am afraid will die.«
    »Every Man must die some Time or other,« answered the good Woman; »it is no
Business of mine. I hope, Doctor, you would not have me hold him while you bleed
him. - But, harkee, 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, every Thing is not what it looks to be. He is an arrant Scrub, I
assure you. However, take no Notice that I mentioned any thing 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 up Stairs, and flinging open the Door
of the Chamber with much Violence, awake 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 awake me out of the sweetest Sleep which I ever
had in my Life.«
    »Ay, ay,« cries the Doctor, »many a Man hath dosed 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 5 s. each, two
Dressings at 5 s. more, and half a Crown for Phlebotomy.« »I hope,« said Jones,
»you don't intend to leave me in this Condition.« »Indeed but I shall,« said the
other. »Then,« said Jones, »you have used me rascally, and I will not pay you a
Farthing.« »Very well,« cries the Doctor, »the first Loss is the best. What a
Pox did my Landlady mean by sending for me to such Vagabonds?« At which Words he
flung out of the Room, and his Patient turning himself about, soon recovered his
Sleep; but his Dream was unfortunately gone.
 

                                   Chapter IV

In which is introduced one of the pleasantest Barbers that was ever recorded in
       History, the Barber of Bagdad, or he in Don Quixotte not excepted.
 
The Clock had now struck Five, when Jones awake 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 Linnen, and a Suit of clothes; but first he splipped 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 dressed? in the House, and the Fire is almost
out.« »Well but,« says he, »I must have something to eat, and it is almost
indifferent to me what: For to tell you the Truth, I was never more hungry in my
Life.« »Then,« says she, »I believe there is a Piece of cold Buttock and Carrot,
which will fit you.« - »Nothing better,« answered Jones, »but I should be
obliged to you, if you would let it be fried.« To which the Landlady consented,
and said smiling, »she was glad to see him so well recovered:« For the Sweetness
of our Heroe's Temper was almost irresistible; besides, she was really no
ill-humoured Woman at the Bottom; but she loved Money so much, that she hated
every Thing 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 led him into small Inconveniencies, such
as Slaps in the Face, Kicks in the Breech, broken Bones, etc. 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 dressed?, for a Reason which may easily be
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
learnt long before I ever touched a Razor.« »I find, Friend, you are a Scholar,«
replied Jones. »A poor one,« said the Barber, »non omnia possumus omnes.«
»Again!« said Jones; »I fancy you are good at capping Verses.« »Excuse me, Sir,«
said the Barber, »non tanto me dignor honore.« And then proceeding to his
Operation, »Sir,« said he, »since I have dealt in Suds, I could never discover
more than two Reasons for shaving, the one is to get a Beard, and the other to
get rid of one. I conjecture, Sir, it may not be long since you shaved, from the
former of these Motives. Upon my Word you have had good Success, for one may say
of your Beard, that it is Tondenti gravior.« »I conjecture,« says Jones, »that
thou art a very comical Fellow.« »You mistake me widely, Sir,« said the Barber,
»I am too much addicted to the Study of Philosophy, Hinc illæ Lacrymæ, Sir,
that's my Misfortune. Too much Learning hath been my Ruin.« »Indeed,« says Jones
, »I confess, Friend, you have more Learning than generally belongs to your
Trade; but I can't see how it can have injured you.« »Alas, Sir,« answered the
Shaver, »my Father disinherited me for it. He was a Dancing-Master; and because
I could read, before I could dance, he took an Aversion to me, and left every
Farthing among his other Children. - Will you please to have your Temples - O
la! I ask your Pardon, I fancy there is Hiatus in manuscriptis. I heard you was
going to the Wars: but I find it was a Mistake.« »Why do you conclude so?« says
Jones. »Sure, Sir,« answered the Barber, »you are too wise a Man to carry a
broken Head thither; for that would be carrying Coals to Newcastle.«
    »Upon my Word,« cries Jones, »thou art a very odd Fellow, and I like thy
Humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou wilt come to me after Dinner, and
drink a Glass with me; I long to be better acquainted with thee.«
    »O dear Sir,« said the Barber, »I can do you twenty times as great a Favour,
if you will accept of it.« »What is that, my Friend,« cries Jones. »Why, I will
drink a Bottle with you, if you please; for I dearly love Good-nature, and as
you have found me out to be a comical Fellow, so I have no Skill in Physiognomy,
if you are not one of the best-natured Gentlemen in the Universe.« Jones now
walked down Stairs neatly dressed?, 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 Nancy 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 Nancy was
extremely pretty, and altogether as coy; for she had refused a Drawer, and one
or two young Farmers in the Neighbourhood, but the bright Eyes of our Heroe
thawed all her Ice in a Moment.
    When Jones returned to the Kitchen, his Cloth was not yet laid; nor indeed
was there any Occasion it should, his Dinner remaining in Statu quo, as did the
Fire which was to dress it. This Disappointment might have put many a
philosophical Temper into a Passion; but it had no such Effect on Jones. He only
gave the Landlady a gentle Rebuke, saying, »Since it was so difficult to get it
heated, he would eat the Beef cold.« But now the good Woman, whether moved by
Compassion, or by Shame, or by whatever other Motive, I cannot tell, first gave
her Servants a round Scold for disobeying the Orders which she had never given,
and then bidding the Drawer lay a Napkin in the Sun, she set about the Matter in
good earnest, and soon accomplished it.
    This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly named as Lucus a non
lucendo; for it was an Apartment into which the Sun had scarce ever looked. It
was indeed the worst Room in the House; and happy was it for Jones that it was
so. However, he was now too hungry to find any Fault; but having once satisfied
his Appetite, he ordered the Drawer to carry a Bottle of Wine into a better
Room, and expressed some Resentment at having been shown into a Dungeon.
    The Drawer having obeyed his Commands, he was, after some Time, attended by
the Barber; who would not indeed have suffered him to wait so long for his
Company, had he not been listening in the Kitchen to the Landlady, who was
entertaining a Circle that she had gathered round her with the History of poor
Jones, Part of which she had extracted from his own Lips, and the other Part was
her own ingenious Composition; »for,« she said, »he was a poor Parish Boy, taken
into the House of Squire Allworthy, where he was bred up as an Apprentice, and
now turned out of Doors for his Misdeeds, particularly for making Love to his
young Mistress, and probably for robbing the House; for how else should he come
by the little Money he hath. And this,« says she, »is your Gentleman, forsooth.«
»A Servant of Squire Allworthy!« says the Barber, »what's his Name?« - »Why he
told me his Name was Jones,« says she, »perhaps he goes by a wrong Name. Nay,
and he told me too, that the Squire had maintained him as his own Son, thof he
had quarrelled with him now.« »And if his Name be Jones, he told you the Truth,«
said the Barber; »for I have Relations who live in that Country, nay, and some
People say he is his Son.« »Why doth he not go by the Name of his Father?« »I
can't tell that,« said the Barber, »many People's Sons don't go by the Name of
their Father.« »Nay,« said the Landlady, »if I thought he was a Gentleman's Son,
thof he was a Bye Blow, I should behave to him in anotherguess Manner; for many
of these Bye Blows come to be great Men; and, as my poor first Husband used to
say, Never affront any Customer that's a Gentleman.«
 

                                   Chapter V

                  A Dialogue between Mr. Jones and the Barber.
 
This Conversation passed partly while Jones was at Dinner in his Dungeon, and
partly while he was expecting the Barber in the Parlour. And, as soon as it was
ended, Mr. Benjamin, as we have said, attended him, and was very kindly desired
to sit down. Jones then filling out a Glass of Wine, drank his Health by the
Appellation of Doctissime Tonsorum. »Ago tibi Gratias, Domine,« said the Barber,
and then looking very steadfastly at Jones, he said, with great Gravity, and with
a seeming Surprise, 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 surprised 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 tho' I say it, I
understand something of Gentility. And if you had thought me as worthy of your
Confidence as you have some other People, I should have shown you I could have
kept a Secret better. I should not have degraded your Name in a public Kitchen;
for indeed, Sir, some People have not used you well; for besides making a public
Proclamation of what you told them of a Quarrel between yourself and Squire
Allworthy, they added Lies of their own, Things which I knew to be Lies.« »You
surprise me greatly,« cries Jones. »Upon my Word, Sir,« answered Benjamin, »I
tell the Truth, and I need not tell you my Landlady was the Person. I am sure it
moved me to hear the Story, and I hope it is all false; for I have a great
Respect for you, I do assure you I have, and have had, ever since the
Good-nature you showed to Black George, which was talked of all over the
Country, and I received more than one Letter about it. Indeed it made you
beloved by every body. You will pardon me, therefore; for it was real Concern at
what I heard made me ask any Questions; for I have no impertinent Curiosity
about me; but I love Good-nature, and thence became Amoris abundantia ergo Te.«
    Every Profession of Friendship easily gains Credit with the Miserable; it is
no wonder, therefore, if Jones, who, besides his being miserable, was extremely
open-hearted, very readily believed all the Professions of Benjamin, and
received him into his Bosom. The Scraps of Latin, some of which Benjamin applied
properly enough, tho' 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, every thing 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 villainous
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, every thing 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 tho' 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 recognize the Facts to be one and the same.
    Tho' 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 Ha's, 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 public 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 any thing so beautiful; but that is her least Excellence. Such
Sense, such Goodness! O I could praise her for ever, and yet should omit half
her Virtues.« »Mr. Western a Daughter grown up!« cries the Barber, »I remember
the Father a Boy; well, Tempus edax Rerum.«
    The Wine being now at an End, the Barber pressed very eagerly to be his
Bottle; but Jones absolutely refused, saying, »He had already drank more than he
ought; and that he now chose to retire to his Room, where he wished he could
procure himself a Book.« »A Book!« cries Benjamin, »what Book would you have?
Latin or English? I have some curious Books in both Languages. Such as Erasmi
Colloquia, Ovid de Tristibus, Gradus ad Parnassum; and in English I have several
of the best Books, tho' 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 to lend
me one of those Volumes.« The Barber assured him he would be highly entertained;
for he looked upon the Author to have been one of the greatest Wits that ever
the Nation produced. He then stepped to his House, which was hard by, and
immediately returned, after which, the Barber having received very strict
Injunctions of Secrecy from Jones, and having sworn inviolably to maintain it,
they separated; the Barber went home, and Jones retired to his Chamber.
 

                                   Chapter VI

 In which more of the Talents of Mr. Benjamin will appear, as well as who this
                           extraordinary Person was.
 
In the Morning Jones grew a little uneasy at the Desertion of his Surgeon, as he
apprehended some Inconvenience, or even Danger, might attend the not Dressing
his Wound; he enquired 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 tho' 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 Bason was under his Arm, that he could scarce be known to be the same
Person.
    »So, Tonsor,« says Jones, »I find you have more Trades than one; how came
you not to inform me of this last Night?« »A Surgeon,« answered Benjamin, with
great Gravity, »is a Profession, not a Trade. The Reason why I did not acquaint
you last Night that I professed this Art, was that I then concluded you was
under the Hands of another Gentleman, and I never love to interfere with my
Brethren in their Business. Ars omnibus communis; but now, Sir, if you please, I
will inspect your Head, and when I see into your Skull, I will give my Opinion
of your Case.«
    Jones had no great Faith in this new Professor; however he suffered him to
open the Bandage, and to look at his Wound, which as soon as he had done,
Benjamin began to groan and shake his Head violently. Upon which Jones, in a
peevish Manner, bid him not play the Fool, but tell him in what Condition he
found him. »Shall I answer you as a Surgeon, or a Friend?« said Benjamin. »As a
Friend, and seriously,« said Jones. »Why then, upon my Soul,« cries Benjamin,
»it would require a great deal of Art to keep you from being well after a very
few Dressings; and if you will suffer me to apply some Salve of mine, I will
answer for the Success.« Jones gave his Consent, and the Plaister was applied
accordingly.
    »There, Sir,« cries Benjamin, »now I will, if you please, resume my former
Self; but a Man is obliged to keep up some Dignity in his Countenance whilst he
is performing these Operations, or the World will not submit to be handled by
him. You can't imagine, Sir, of how much Consequence a grave Aspect is to a
grave Character. A Barber may make you laugh, but a Surgeon ought rather to make
you cry.«
    »Mr. Barber, or Mr. Surgeon, or Mr. Barber-Surgeon,« said Jones - »O dear
Sir,« answered Benjamin, interrupting him, »Infandum Regina jubes renovare
Dolorem. You recall to my Mind that cruel Separation of the united Fraternities,
so much to the Prejudice of both Bodies, as all Separations must be, according
to the old Adage, Vis unita fortior; which to be sure there are not wanting some
of one or of the other Fraternity who are able to construe. What a Blow was this
to me who unite both in my own Person.« - »Well, by whatever Name you please to
be called,« continued Jones, »you certainly are one of the oddest, most comical
Fellows I ever met with, and must have something very surprising in your Story,
which you must confess I have a Right to hear.« »I do confess it,« answered
Benjamin, »and will very readily acquaint you with it, when you have sufficient
Leisure; for I promise you it will require a good deal of Time.« Jones told him,
He could never be more at Leisure than at present. »Well then,« said Benjamin,
»I will obey you; but first I will fasten the Door, that none may interrupt us.«
He did so, and then advancing with a solemn Air to Jones, said; »I must begin by
telling you, Sir, that you yourself have been the greatest Enemy I ever had.«
Jones was a little startled at this sudden Declaration. »I your Enemy, Sir!«
says he, with much Amazement, and some Sternness in his Look. »Nay, be not
angry,« said Benjamin, »for I promise you I am not. You are perfectly innocent
of having intended me any Wrong; for you was then an Infant; but I shall, I
believe, unriddle all this the Moment I mention my Name. Did you never hear,
Sir, of one Partridge, who had the Honour of being reputed your Father, and the
Misfortune of being ruined by that Honour?« »I have indeed heard of that
Partridge,« says Jones, »and have always believed myself to be his Son.« »Well,
Sir,« answered Benjamin, »I am that Partridge; but I here absolve you from all
filial Duty; for I do assure you you are no Son of mine.« »How,« replied Jones,
»and is it possible that a false Suspicion should have drawn all the ill
Consequences upon you, with which I am too well acquainted?« »It is possible,«
cries Benjamin, »for it is so; but tho' it is natural enough for Men to hate
even the innocent Causes of their Sufferings, yet I am of a different Temper. I
have loved you ever since I heard of your Behaviour to Black George, as I told
you; and I am convinced, from this extraordinary Meeting, that you are born to
make me Amends for all I have suffered on that Account. Besides, I dreamt, the
Night before I saw you, that I stumbled over a Stool without hurting myself;
which plainly showed me something good was towards me; and last Night I dreamt
again, that I rode behind you on a Milk white Mare, which is a very excellent
Dream, and betokens much good Fortune, which I am resolved to pursue, unless you
have the Cruelty to deny me.«
    »I should be very glad, Mr. Partridge,« answered Jones, »to have it in my
Power to make you Amends for your Sufferings on my Account; tho' at present I
see no Likelihood of it; however, I assure you I will deny you nothing which is
in my Power to grant.«
    »It is in your Power sure enough,« replied Benjamin, »for I desire nothing
more than Leave to attend you in this Expedition. Nay, I have so entirely set my
Heart upon it, that if you should refuse me, you will kill both a Barber and a
Surgeon in one Breath.«
    Jones answered smiling, That he should be very sorry to be the Occasion of
so much Mischief to the Public. He then advanced many prudential Reasons, in
order to dissuade Benjamin (whom we shall hereafter call Partridge) from his
Purpose; but all were in vain. Partridge relied strongly on his Dream of the
milk-white Mare. »Besides, Sir,« says he, »I promise you, I have as good an
Inclination to the Cause, as any Man can possibly have; and go I will, whether
you admit me to go in your Company or not.«
    Jones, who was as much pleased with Partridge, as Partridge could be with
him, and who had not consulted his own Inclination, but the Good of the other in
desiring him to stay behind; when he found his Friend so resolute, at last gave
his Consent; but then recollecting himself, he said, »Perhaps, Mr. Partridge,
you think I shall be able to support you, but I really am not;« and then taking
out his Purse, he told out nine Guineas, which he declared were his whole
Fortune.
    Partridge answered, »that his Dependance was only on his future Favour: For
he was thoroughly convinced he would shortly have enough in his Power. At
present, Sir,« said he, »I believe I am rather the richer Man of the two; but
all I have is at your Service, and at your Disposal. I insist upon your taking
the whole, and I beg only to attend you in the Quality of your Servant, Nil
desperandum est Teucro duce et auspice Teucro;« But to this generous Proposal
concerning the Money, Jones would by no means submit.
    It was resolved to set out the next Morning; when a Difficulty arose
concerning the Baggage, for the Portmanteau of Mr. Jones was too large to be
carried without a Horse.
    »If I may presume to give my Advice,« says Partridge, »this Portmanteau,
with every Thing 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 Clothes will remain
very safely locked up in my House.«
    This Method was no sooner proposed than agreed when the Barber departed, in
order to prepare every Thing for his intended Expedition.
 

                                  Chapter VII

 Containing better Reasons than any which have yet appeared for the Conduct of
  Partridge; an Apology for the Weakness of Jones; and some farther 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 Jointstool, 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 publicly taken from him; and which he looked upon as a kind of
Smart-money, or rather by way of Atonement for Injustice: For it is very
uncommon, I believe, for Men to ascribe the Benefactions they receive to pure
Charity, when they can possibly impute them to any other Motive. If he could by
any Means, therefore, persuade the young Gentleman to return home, he doubted
not but that he should again be received into the Favour of Allworthy, and well
rewarded for his Pains; nay, and should be again restored to his native Country;
a Restoration which Ulysses himself never wished more heartily than poor
Partridge.
    As for Jones, he was well satisfied with the Truth of what the other had
asserted, and believed that Partridge had no other Inducements but Love to him,
and Zeal for the Cause. A blameable Want of Caution, and Diffidence in the
Veracity of others, in which he was highly worthy of Censure. To say the Truth,
there are but two Ways by which Men become possessed of this excellent Quality.
The one is from long Experience, and the other is from Nature; which last, I
presume, is often meant by Genius, or great natural Parts; and it is infinitely
the better of the two, not only as we are Masters of it much earlier in Life,
but as it is much more infallible and conclusive: For a Man who hath been
imposed on by ever so many, may still hope to find others more honest; whereas
he who receives certain necessary Admonitions from within, that this is
impossible, must have very little Understanding indeed, if he ever renders
himself liable to be once deceived. As Jones had not this Gift from Nature, he
was too young to have gained it by Experience; for at the diffident Wisdom which
is to be acquired this Way, we seldom arrive till very late in Life; which is
perhaps the Reason why some old Men are apt to despise the Understandings of all
those who are a little younger than themselves.
    Jones spent most Part of the Day in the Company of a new Acquaintance. This
was no other than the Landlord of the House, or rather the Husband of the
Landlady. He had but lately made his Descent down Stairs, 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, smoked his
Pipe, and drank his Bottle with his Friends, without concerning himself in the
least with any Kind of Business. He had been bred, as they call it, a Gentleman,
that is, bred up to do nothing, and had spent a very small Fortune, which he
inherited from an industrious Farmer his Uncle, in Hunting, Horseracing, and
Cock-fighting, and had been married by my Landlady for certain Purposes which he
had long since desisted from answering: for which she hated him heartily. But as
he was a surly Kind of Fellow, so she contented herself with frequently
upbraiding him by disadvantageous Comparisons with her first Husband, whose
Praise she had eternally in her Mouth; and as she was for the most part Mistress
of the Profit, so she was satisfied to take upon herself the Care and Government
of the Family, and after a long successless Struggle, to suffer her Husband to
be Master of himself.
    In the Evening when Jones retired to his Room, a small Dispute arose between
this fond Couple concerning him. »What,« says the Wife, »you have been tipling
with the Gentleman! I see.« »Yes,« answered the Husband, »we have cracked a
Bottle together, and a very Gentleman-like Man he is, and hath a very pretty
Notion of Horse-flesh. Indeed he is young, and hath not seen much of the World:
For I believe he hath been at very few Horse-races.« »O ho! he is one of your
Order, is he?« replies the Landlady, »he must be a Gentleman to be sure, if he
is a Horseracer. The Devil fetch such Gentry, I am sure I wish I had never seen
any of them. I have Reason to love Horse-racers truly.« »That you have,« says
the Husband; »for I was one you know.« »Yes,« answered she, »You are a pure one
indeed. As my first Husband used to say, I may put all the Good I have ever got
by you in my Eyes, and see never the worse.« »D-n your first Husband,« cries he.
- »Don't d-n a better Man than yourself,« answered the Wife, »if he had been
alive, you durst not have done it.« »Then you think,« says he, »I have not so
much Courage as yourself: For you have d-n'd him often in my Hearing.« »If I
did,« says she, »I have repented of it many's the good Time and oft. And if he
was so good to forgive me a Word spoken in Haste, or so, it doth not become such
a one as you to twitter me. He was a Husband to me, he was; and if ever I did
make use of an ill Word or so in a Passion; I never called him Rascal, I should
have told a Lie, if I had called him Rascal.« Much more she said, but not in his
Hearing: For having lighted his Pipe, he staggered off as fast as he could. We
shall therefore transcribe no more of her Speech, as it approached still nearer
and nearer to a Subject too indelicate to find any Place in this History.
    Early in the Morning, Partridge appeared at the Bedside of Jones, ready
equipped for the Journey, with his Knapsack at his Back. This was his own
Workmanship; for besides his other Trades, he was no indifferent Taylor. He had
already put up his whole Stock of Linnen 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 stopped 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 any Thing good in their House (which indeed very seldom
happens) to produce it only to Persons who travel with great Equipages.
Secondly, 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 every Thing they have; so that the Amount by the Head may be
much the same.
    The Bill being made and discharged, Jones set forward with Partridge
carrying his Knapsack; nor did the Landlady condescend to wish him a good
Journey: for this was, it seems, an Inn frequented by People of Fashion; and I
know not whence it is, but all those who get their Livelihood by People of
Fashion, contract as much Insolence to the rest of Mankind, as if they really
belonged to that Rank themselves.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

Jones arrives at Gloucester, and goes to the Bell; the Character of that House,
               and of a Petty-fogger, which he there meets with.
 
Mr. Jones, and Partridge, or Little Benjamin, (which Epithet of Little was
perhaps given him ironically, he being in reality near six Feet high) having
left their last Quarters in the Manner before described, travelled on to
Gloucester without meeting any Adventure worth relating.
    Being arrived here, they chose for their House of Entertainment the Sign of
the Bell, an excellent House indeed, and which I do most seriously recommend to
every Reader who shall visit this ancient City. The Master of it is Brother to
the great Preacher Whitefield; but is absolutely untainted with the pernicious
Principles of Methodism, or of any other heretical Sect. He is indeed a very
honest plain Man, and in my Opinion, not likely to create any Disturbance either
in Church or State. His Wife hath, I believe, had much Pretension to Beauty, and
is still a very fine Woman. Her Person and Deportment might have made a shining
Figure in the politest Assemblies; but though she must be conscious of this, and
many other Perfections, she seems perfectly contented with, and resigned to that
State of Life to which she is called; and this Resignation is entirely owing to
the Prudence and Wisdom of her Temper: For she is at present as free from any
methodistical Notions as her Husband. I say at present: For she freely confesses
that her Brother's Documents made at first some Impression upon her, and that
she had put herself to the Expense of a long Hood, in order to attend the
extraordinary Emotions of the Spirit; but having found during an Experiment of
three Weeks, no Emotions, she says, worth a Farthing, she very wisely laid by
her Hood, and abandoned the Sect. To be concise, she is a very friendly,
good-natured Woman, and so industrious to oblige, that the Guests must be of a
very morose Disposition who are not extremely well satisfied in her House.
    Mrs. Whitefield happened to be in the Yard when Jones and his Attendant
marched in. Her Sagacity soon discovered in the Air of our Heroe something which
distinguished him from the Vulgar. She ordered her Servants, therefore,
immediately to show him into a Room, and presently afterwards invited him to
Dinner with herself; which Invitation he very thankfully accepted: For indeed
much less agreeable Company than that of Mrs. Whitefield, and a much worse
Entertainment than she had provided, would have been welcome, after so long
fasting, and so long a Walk.
    Besides Mr. Jones and the good Governess of the Mansion, there sat down at
Table an Attorney of Salisbury, indeed the very same who had brought the News of
Mrs. Blifil's Death to Mr. Allworthy, and whose Name, which, I think, we did not
before mention, was Dowling; there was likewise present another Person, who
stiled himself a Lawyer, and who lived somewhere near Lidlinch 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 Attornies, and will ride more Miles for half a Crown,
than a Post-boy.
    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 Pettyfogger 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
entitled.
    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 Pennance,
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 Pettyfogger, »a pretty Gentleman truly! Why, he's the Bastard of a
Fellow who was hanged for Horse-stealing. He was dropped at Squire Allworthy's
Door, where one of the Servants found him in a Box so full of Rain-water, that
he would certainly have been drowned, had he not been reserved for another
Fate.« »Ay, ay, you need not mention it, I protest, we understand what that Fate
is very well,« cries Dowling, with a most facetious Grin. »Well,« continued the
other, »the Squire ordered him to be taken in: For he is a timborsome Man every
Body 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
strip'd 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 a 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 Lady's Ears were shocked, and she put a Stop to his
swearing, by assuring him of her Belief. Upon which he said, »I hope, Madam, you
imagine I would scorn to tell such Things of any Man, unless I knew them to be
true. What Interest have I in taking away the Reputation of a Man who never
injured me? I promise you every Syllable of what I have said is Fact, and the
whole Country knows it.«
    As Mrs. Whitefield had no Reason to suspect that the Petty-fogger had any
Motive or Temptation to abuse Jones, the Reader cannot blame her for believing
what he so confidently affirmed with many Oaths. She accordingly gave up her
Skill in Physiognomy, and 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 tho' 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 surprised 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, tho' he walked on Foot: In Reality, she looked on our Heroe as a
sorry Scoundrel, and therefore treated him as such, for which not even Jones
himself, had he known as much as the Reader, could have blamed her; nay, on the
contrary, he must have approved her Conduct, and have esteemed her the more for
the Disrespect shown towards himself. This is indeed a most aggravating
Circumstance which attends depriving Men unjustly of their Reputation; for a Man
who is conscious of having an ill Character, cannot justly be angry with those
who neglect and slight him; but ought rather to despise such as affect his
Conversation, unless where a perfect Intimacy must have convinced them that
their Friend's Character hath been falsely and injuriously aspersed.
    This was not, however, the Case of Jones; for as he was a perfect Stranger
to the Truth, so he was with good Reason offended at the Treatment he received.
He therefore paid his Reckoning and departed, highly against the Will of Mr.
Partridge, who having remonstrated much against it to no Purpose, at last
condescended to take up his Knapsack, and to attend his Friend.
 

                                   Chapter IX

Containing several Dialogues between Jones and Partridge, concerning Love, Cold,
Hunger, and other Matters; with the lucky and narrow Escape of Partridge, as he
        was on the very Brink of making a fatal Discovery to his Friend.
 
The Shadows began now to descend larger from the high Mountains: The feather'd
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 Midwinter) the dirty Fingers of Night would have
drawn her sable Curtain over the Universe, had not the Moon forbid her, who now
with a Face as broad and as red as those of some jolly Mortals, who, like her,
turn Night into Day, began to rise from her Bed, where she had slumbred 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 judgement should happen to us for our Folly in running away so by
Night from one of the most excellent Inns I ever set my Foot into. I am sure I
never saw more good Things in my Life, and the greatest Lord in the Land cannot
live better in his own House than he may there. And to forsake such a House, and
go a rambling about the Country, the Lord knows whither, per devia rura viarum,
I say nothing, for my Part; but some People might not have Charity enough to
conclude we were in our sober Senses.« »Fie upon it, Mr. Partridge,« says Jones,
»have a better Heart; consider you are going to face an Enemy, and are you
afraid of facing a little Cold? I wish, indeed, we had a Guide to advise which
of these Roads we should take.« »May I be so bold,« says Partridge, »to offer my
Advice: Interdum Stultus opportuna loquitur.« »Why, which of them,« cries Jones,
»would you recommend?« »Truly neither of them,« answered Partridge. »The only
Road we can be certain of finding, is the Road we came. A good hearty Pace will
bring us back to Gloucester in an Hour; but if we go forward, the Lord Harry
knows when we shall arrive at any Place; for I see at least fifty Miles before
me, and no House in all the Way.« »You see, indeed, a very fair Prospect,« says
Jones, »which receives great additional Beauty from the extreme Lustre of the
Moon. However, I will keep the Left-hand Track, as that seems to lead directly
to those Hills, which we were informed lie not far from Worcester. And here, if
you are inclined to quit me, you may, and return back again; but for my Part, I
am resolved to go forward.«
    »It is unkind in you, Sir,« says Partridge, »to suspect me of any such
Intention. What I have advised hath been as much on your Account as on my own;
but since you are determined to go on, I am as much determined to follow. I præ,
sequar te.«
    They now travelled some Miles without speaking to each other, during which
Suspence of Discourse Jones often sighed, and Partridge groaned as bitterly,
tho' 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 never 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, tho' late; whereas if we proceed, we
are likely, for ought 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, tho' Briareus 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 we 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 her 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 to 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, tho' they travelled together in
great Friendship, had embraced opposite Parties. I am led into this Conjecture,
by having remarked, that tho' Love, Friendship, Esteem, and such like, have very
powerful Operations in the human Mind; Interest, however, is an Ingredient
seldom omitted by wise Men, when they would work others to their own Purposes.
This is indeed a most excellent Medicine, and like Ward's Pill, flies at once to
the particular Part of the Body on which you desire to operate, whether it be
the Tongue, the Hand, or any other Member, where it scarce ever fails of
immediately producing the desired Effect.
 

                                   Chapter X

       In which our Travellers meet with a very extraordinary Adventure.
 
Just as Jones and his Friend came to the End of their Dialogue in the preceding
Chapter, they arrived at the Bottom of a very steep Hill. Here Jones stopped
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 any thing, 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
where-ever you go.« Indeed he was now afraid to stay behind; for tho' he was
Coward enough in all Respects, yet his chief Fear was that of Ghosts, with which
the present Time of Night, and the Wildness of the Place, extremely well suited.
    At this Instant Partridge espied a glimmering Light through some Trees,
which seemed very near to them. He immediately cried out in a Rapture, »Oh, Sir!
Heaven hath at last heard my Prayers, and hath brought us to a House; perhaps it
may be an Inn. Let me beseech you, Sir, if you have any Compassion either for me
or yourself, do not despise the Goodness of Providence, but let us go directly
to yon Light. Whether it be a Public-house or no, I am sure if they be
Christians that dwell there, they will not refuse a little House-room to Persons
in our miserable Condition.« Jones at length yielded to the earnest
Supplications of Partridge, and both together made directly towards the Place
whence the Light issued.
    They soon arrived at the Door of this House or Cottage: For it might be
called either, without much Impropriety. Here Jones knocked several Times
without receiving any Answer from within; at which Partridge, whose Head was
full of nothing but of Ghosts, Devils, Witches, and such like, began to tremble,
crying, »Lord have Mercy upon us, sure the People must be all dead. I can see no
Light neither now, and yet I am certain I saw a Candle burning but a Moment
before. - Well! I have heard of such Things.« - »What hast thou heard of,« said
Jones. »The People are either fast asleep, or probably as this is a lonely
Place, are afraid to open their Door.« He then began to vociferate pretty
loudly, and at last an old Woman opening an upper Casement, asked »who they
were, and what they wanted?« Jones answered, »they were Travellers who had lost
their Way, and having seen a Light in the Window, had been led thither in Hopes
of finding some Fire to warm themselves.« »Whoever you are,« cries the Woman,
»you have no Business here; nor shall I open the Door to any body at this Time
of Night.« Partridge, whom the Sound of a human Voice had recovered from his
Fright, fell to the most earnest Supplications to be admitted for a few Minutes
to the Fire, saying, »he was almost dead with the Cold,« to which Fear had
indeed contributed equally with the Frost. He assured her, that the Gentleman
who spoke to her, was one of the greatest Squires in the Country, and made use
of every Argument save one, which Jones afterwards effectually added, and this
was the Promise of Half a Crown. A Bribe too great to be resisted by such a
Person, especially as the genteel Appearance of Jones, which the Light of the
Moon plainly discovered to her, together with his affable Behaviour, had
entirely subdued those Apprehensions of Thieves which she had at first
conceived. She agreed, therefore, at last to let them in, where Partridge, to
his infinite Joy, found a good Fire ready for his Reception.
    The poor Fellow, however, had no sooner warmed himself, than those Thoughts
which were always uppermost in his Mind, began a little to disturb his Brain.
There was no Article of his Creed in which he had a stronger Faith, than he had
in Witchcraft, nor can the Reader conceive a Figure more adapted to inspire this
Idea, than the old Woman who now stood before him. She answered exactly to that
Picture drawn by Otway in his Orphan. Indeed if this Woman had lived in the
Reign of James the First, her Appearance alone would have hanged her, almost
without any Evidence.
    Many Circumstances likewise conspired to confirm Partridge in his Opinion.
Her living, as he then imagined, by herself in so lonely a Place; and in a
House, the Outside of which seemed much too good for her; but its Inside was
furnished in the most neat and elegant Manner. To say the Truth, Jones himself
was not a little surprised 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,« cries Jones; »indeed you will excuse me, good Woman, but I was
surprised to see all those fine Things in your House.« »Ah, Sir!« said she, »if
the twentieth Part of these Things were mine, I should think myself a rich
Woman; but pray, Sir, do not stay much longer: For I look for him in every
Minute.« - »Why sure he would not be angry with you,« said Jones, »for doing a
common Act of Charity.« »Alack-a-day, Sir,« said she, »he is a strange Man, not
at all like other People. He keeps no Company with any Body, 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. Tho' 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
own Hand.« The old Man having received the Sword, which was stained with the
Blood of his Enemies, looked steadfastly 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 clothed 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 Moonlight, 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 surprised 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 like
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
every Thing 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 confessed 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 any thing, after what hath
happened,« replied the old Man, »If you desire therefore to hear the Story of an
unhappy Man, I will relate it to you. Indeed you judge rightly, in thinking
there is commonly something extraordinary in the Fortunes of those who fly from
Society: For however it may seem a Paradox, or even a Contradiction, certain it
is that great Philanthropy chiefly inclines us to avoid and detest Mankind; not
on Account so much of their private and selfish Vices, but for those of a
relative Kind; such as Envy, Malice, Treachery, Cruelty, with every other
Species of Malevolence. These are the Vices which true Philanthropy abhors, and
which rather than see and converse with, she avoids Society itself. However,
without a Compliment to you, you do not appear to me one of those whom I should
shun or detest; nay, I must say, in what little hath dropped from you, there
appears some Parity in our Fortunes; I hope however yours will conclude more
successfully.«
    Here some Compliments passed between our Heroe and his Host, and then the
latter was going to begin his History, when Partridge interrupted him. His
Apprehensions had now pretty well left him; but some Effects of his Terrors
remained; he therefore reminded the Gentleman of that excellent Brandy which he
had mentioned. This was presently brought, and Partridge swallowed a large
Bumper.
    The Gentleman then, without any farther Preface, began as you may read in
the next Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter XI

           In which the Man of the Hill begins to relate his History.
 
»I was born in a Village of Somersetshire, called Mark, in the Year 1657; my
Father was one of those whom they call Gentlemen Farmers. He had a little Estate
of about 300 l. 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 tho' 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 Xantippe (so was the Wife of Socrates called, said Partridge) - By
this Xantippe he had two Sons, of which I was the younger. He designed to give
us both good Educations; 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 chide the Pedagogue for this Interruption, and then the Stranger
proceeded. »My Brother now at the Age of fifteen, bid adieu to all Learning, and
to every Thing 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
Schoolboys 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 entitled to a very considerable Fortune; which he was not, by the
Will of his Father, to come into full Possession of till he arrived at the Age
of Twenty-five. However, the Liberality of his Guardians gave him little Cause
to regret the abundant Caution of his Father: for they allowed him Five hundred
Pound 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 tho' 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 tho' he was the
Ring-leader 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 eccho
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, tho' 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 any thing that
might give him Pain in the Relation; but Partridge eagerly cried out, »O 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, tho' 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, tho' 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 Whitney, 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 any thing 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 numbred 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 of 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 doted, that tho' I
knew she had been the Mistress of half my Acquaintance, I firmly intended to
marry her. But the good Creature was unwilling to consent to an Action which the
World might think so much to my Disadvantage. And as, possibly, she
compassionated the daily Anxieties which she must have perceived me suffer on
her Account, she resolved to put an End to my Distress. She soon, indeed, found
Means to relieve me from my troublesome and perplexed Situation: For while I was
distracted with various Inventions to supply her with Pleasures, she very kindly
- betrayed me to one of her former Lovers at Oxford, by whose Care and Diligence
I was immediately apprehended and committed to Goal.
    Here I first began seriously to reflect on the Miscarriages of my former
Life; on the Errors I had been guilty of; on the Misfortunes which I had brought
on myself; and on the Grief which I must have occasioned to one of the best of
Fathers. When I added to all these the Perfidy of my Mistress, such was the
Horror of my Mind, that Life, instead of being longer desirable, grew the Object
of my Abhorrence, and I could have gladly embraced Death, as my dearest Friend,
if it had offered itself to my Choice unattended by Shame.
    The Time of the Assizes soon came, and I was removed by Habeas Corpus to
Oxford, where I expected certain Conviction and Condemnation; but, to my great
Surprise, none appeared against me, and I was, at the End of the Sessions,
discharged for Want of Prosecution. In short, my Chum had left Oxford, and
whether from Indolence, or from what other Motive, I am ignorant, had declined
concerning himself any farther in the Affair.«
    »Perhaps,« cries Partridge, »he did not care to have your Blood upon his
Hands, and he was in the right on't. If any Person was to be hanged upon my
Evidence, I should never be able to lie alone afterwards, for Fear of seeing his
Ghost.«
    »I shall shortly doubt, Partridge,« says Jones, »whether thou art more brave
or wise.« »You may laugh at me, Sir, if you please,« answered Partridge, »but if
you will hear a very short Story which I can tell, and which is most certainly
true, perhaps you may change your Opinion. In the Parish where I was born -«
Here Jones would have silenced him, but the Stranger interceded that he might be
permitted to tell his Story, and in the mean time promised to recollect the
Remainder of his own.
    Partridge then proceeded thus. »In the Parish where I was born, there lived
a Farmer whose Name was Bridle, and he had a Son named Francis, a good hopeful
young Fellow; I was at the Grammar School with him, where I remember he was got
into Ovid's Epistles, and he could construe you three Lines together sometimes
without looking into a Dictionary. Besides all this, he was a very good Lad,
never missed Church o' Sundays, and was reckoned one of the best Psalm-Singers
in the whole Parish. He would indeed now and then take a Cup too much, and that
was the only Fault he had.« - »Well, but come to the Ghost,« cries Jones. »Never
fear, Sir, I shall come to him soon enough,« answered Partridge. »You must know
then, that Farmer Bridle lost a Mare, a sorrel one to the best of my
Remembrance, and so it fell out, that this young Francis shortly afterwards 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 Recognizance, I think they call it, a hard Word
compounded of re and cognosco, but it differs in its Meaning from the Use of the
Simple, as many other Compounds do. Well, at last, down came my Lord Justice
Page to hold the Assizes, and so the Fellow was had up, and Frank was had up for
a Witness. To be sure I shall never forget the Face of the Judge, when he began
to ask him what he had to say against the Prisoner. He made poor Frank tremble
and shake in his Shoes. Well, you Fellow, says my Lord, what have you to say?
Don't stand humming and hawing, but speak out; but however he soon turned
altogether as civil to Frank, and began to thunder at the Fellow; and when he
asked him, if he had any Thing 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 every Body fell a laughing, as how could they
help it. Nay, and twenty other Jests he made which I can't remember now. There
was something about his Skill in Horse-Flesh, which made all the Folks laugh. To
be certain the Judge must have been a very brave Man, as well as a Man of much
Learning. It is indeed charming Sport to hear Trials upon Life and Death. One
Thing I own I thought a little hard, that the Prisoner's Counsel was not
suffered to speak for him, though he desired only to be heard one very short
Word; but my Lord would not hearken to him, though he suffered a Counsellor to
talk against him for above half an Hour. I thought it hard, I own, that there
should be so many of them; my Lord, and the Court, and the Jury, and the
Counsellors, and the Witnesses all upon one poor Man, and he too in Chains.
Well, the Fellow was hanged, as to be sure it could be no otherwise, and poor
Frank could never be easy about it. He never was in the dark alone, but he
fancied he saw the Fellow's Spirit.« »Well, and is this thy Story?« cries Jones.
»No, no,« answer'd Partridge, »O Lord have Mercy upon me, - I am just now coming
to the Matter; for one Night, coming from the Alehouse in a long narrow dark
Lane, there he ran directly up against him, and the Spirit was all in white and
fell upon Frank, and Frank who is a sturdy Lad, fell upon the Spirit again, and
there they had a Tussel together, and poor Frank was dreadfully beat; indeed he
made a shift at last to crawl Home, but what with the beating, and what with the
Fright, he lay ill above a Fortnight; and all this is most certainly true, and
the whole Parish will bear Witness to it.«
    The Stranger smiled at this Story, and Jones burst into a loud Fit of
Laughter, upon which Partridge cried, »Ay, you may laugh, Sir, and so did some
others, particularly a Squire, who is thought to be no better than an Atheist;
who forsooth, because there was a Calf with a white Face found dead in the same
Lane the next Morning, would fain have it, that the Battle was between Frank and
that, as if a Calf would set upon a Man. Besides, Frank told me he knew it to be
a Spirit, and could swear to him in any Court in Christendom, and he had not
drank above a Quart or two, or such a Matter of Liquor at the time. Lud have
Mercy upon us, and keep us all from dipping our Hands in Blood, I say.«
    »Well, Sir,« said Jones to the Stranger, »Mr. Partridge hath finished his
Story, and I hope will give you no future Interruption, if you will be so kind
to proceed.« He then resumed his Narration; but as he hath taken Breath for a
while, we think proper to give it to our Reader, and shall therefore put an End
to this Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter XII

              In which the Man of the Hill continues his History.
 
»I had now regained my Liberty,« said the Stranger, »but I had lost my
Reputation; for there is a wide Difference between the Case of a Man who is
barely acquitted of a Crime in a Court of Justice, and of him who is acquitted
in his own Heart, and in the Opinion of the People. I was conscious of my Guilt,
and ashamed to look any one in the Face, so resolved to leave Oxford the next
Morning, before the Daylight discovered me to the Eyes of any Beholders.
    When I had got clear of the City, it first entered into my Head to return
Home to my Father, and endeavour to obtain his Forgiveness; but as I had no
Reason to doubt his Knowledge of all which had past, and as I was well assured
of his great Aversion to all Acts of Dishonesty, I could entertain no Hopes of
being received by him, especially since I was too certain of all the good
Offices in the Power of my Mother: Nay, had my Father's Pardon been as sure, as
I conceived his Resentment to be, I yet question whether I could have had the
Assurance to behold him, or whether I could, upon any Terms, have submitted to
live and converse with those, who, I was convinced, knew me to have been guilty
of so base an Action.
    I hastened therefore back to London, the best Retirement of either Grief or
Shame, unless for Persons of a very public Character; for here you have the
Advantage of Solitude without its Disadvantage, since you may be alone and in
Company at the same Time; and while you walk or sit unobserved, Noise, Hurry,
and a constant Succession of Objects, entertain the Mind, and prevent the
Spirits from preying on themselves, or rather on Grief or Shame, which are the
most unwholesome Diet in the World; and on which (though there are many who
never taste either but in public) there are some who can feed very plentifully,
and very fatally when alone.
    But as there is scarce any human Good without its concomitant Evil, so there
are People who find an Inconvenience in this unobserving Temper of Mankind; I
mean Persons who have no Money; for as you are not put out of Countenance, so
neither are you clothed or fed by those who do not know you. And a Man may be
as easily starved in Leadenhall Market as in the Desarts of Arabia.
    It was at present my Fortune to be destitute of that great Evil, as it is
apprehended to be by several Writers, who I suppose were overburthened with it,
namely, Money.« »With Submission, Sir,« said Partridge, »I do not remember any
Writers who have called it Malorum; but Irritamenta Malorum. Essodiuntur 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 haling 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.
    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. Tho' 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 Pockets 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 enquire the Meaning of
that Word; but Jones stopped his Mouth) but be circumspect as to the Man. I will
tip you the proper Person, which may be necessary, as you do not know the Town,
nor can distinguish a Rum Cull from a Queer one.
    The Bill was now brought, when Watson paid his Share, and was departing. I
reminded him, not without blushing, of my having no Money. He answered, That
signifies nothing, score it behind the Door, or make a bold Brush, and take no
Notice. - Or - stay, says he, I will go down Stairs first, and then do you take
up my Money, and score the whole Reckoning at the Bar, and I will wait for you
at the Corner. I expressed some Dislike at this, and hinted my Expectations that
he would have deposited the whole; but he swore he had not another Sixpence in
his Pocket.
    He then went down, and I was prevailed on to take up the Money and follow
him, which I did close enough to hear him tell the Drawer the Reckoning was upon
the Table. The Drawer passed 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 Surprise,
pulled out a large Sum of Money, and placed it before him, as did many others;
all of them, no doubt, considering their own Heaps as so many decoy Birds, which
were to entice 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 no where have so well instructed his Pupils in the
Contempt of Riches, at least he could no where have better inculcated the
Incertainty of their Duration.
    For my own Part, after having considerably improved my small Estate, I at
last entirely demolished it. Mr. Watson too, after much Variety of Luck, rose
from the Table in some Heat, and declared he had lost a cool hundred, and would
play no longer. Then coming up to me, he asked me to return with him to the
Tavern; but I positively refused, saying, I would not bring myself a second Time
into such a Dilemma, and especially as he had lost all his Money, and was now in
my own Condition. Pooh, says he, I have just borrowed a couple of Guineas of a
Friend; and one of them is at your Service. He immediately put one of them into
my Hand, and I no longer resisted his Inclination.
    I was at first a little shocked at returning to the same House whence we had
departed in so unhandsome a Manner; but when the Drawer, with very civil
Address, told us, he believed we had forgot to pay our Reckoning, I became
perfectly easy, and very readily gave him a Guinea, bid him pay himself, and
acquiesced in the unjust Charge which had been laid on my Memory.
    Mr. Watson now bespoke the most extravagant Supper he could well think of,
and tho' he had contented himself with simple Claret before, nothing now but the
most precious Burgundy would serve his Purpose.
    Our Company was soon increased 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, tho' 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 tho' 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
any thing without being seen, tho' there were never so many Folk in the Room;
and I should not have been surprised 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 Key-hole of the Door. I've seen the very
House where it was done, and no Body hath lived in it these thirty Years.«
    Tho' Jones was a little offended by the Impertinence of Partridge, he could
not however avoid smiling at his Simplicity. The Stranger did the same, and then
proceeded with his Story, as will be seen in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

               In which the foregoing Story is farther continued.
 
»My Fellow Collegiate had now entered me in a new Scene of Life. I soon became
acquainted with the whole Fraternity of Sharpers, and was let into their
Secrets. I mean into the Knowledge of those gross Cheats which are proper to
impose upon the raw and unexperienced: For there are some Tricks of a finer
Kind, which are known only to a few of the Gang, who are at the Head of their
Profession; a Degree of Honour beyond my Expectation; for Drink, to which I was
immoderately addicted, and the natural Warmth of my Passions, prevented me from
arriving at any great Success in an Art, which requires as much Coolness as the
most austere School of Philosophy.
    Mr. Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest Amity, had unluckily the
former Failing to a very great Excess; so that instead of making a Fortune by
his Profession, as some others did, he was alternately rich and poor, and was
often obliged to surrender to his cooler Friends over a Bottle which they never
tasted, that Plunder that he had taken from Culls at the public Table.
    However, we both made a Shift to pick up an uncomfortable Livelihood, and
for two Years I continued of the Calling, during which Time I tasted all the
Varieties of Fortune; sometimes flourishing in Affluence, and at others being
obliged to struggle with almost incredible Difficulties. To-day wallowing in
Luxury, and To-morrow reduced to the coarsest and most homely Fare. My fine
Clothes being often on my Back in the Evening, and at the Pawnshop the next
Morning.
    One Night as I was returning Pennyless from the Gamingtable, 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 crowd, 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, tho' 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, tho' 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 steadfastly on me, he threw himself
back in his Chair, crying, O, 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
Surprise, that I am a Stranger to what past 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, tho' 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 Solicitations, however, had no Effect, and I once more saw my own Home. My
Father now greatly solicited 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 that I had ever done
formerly. The Books which now employed my Time solely, were those, as well
ancient 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
ancient 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 every where surrounds and invests us.
    To this I added another Study, compared to which all the Philosophy taught
by the wisest Heathens is little better than a Dream, and is indeed as full of
Vanity as the silliest Jester ever pleased to represent it. This is that divine
Wisdom which is alone to be found in the Holy Scriptures: for they impart to us
the Knowledge and Assurance of Things much more worthy our Attention, than all
which this World can offer to our Acceptance. Of Things which Heaven itself hath
condescended to reveal to us, and to the smallest Knowledge of which the highest
human Wit unassisted could never ascend. I began now to think all the Time I had
spent with the best Heathen Writers, was little more than Labour lost: For
however pleasant and delightful their Lessons may be, or however adequate to the
right Regulation of our Conduct with Respect to this World only, yet when
compared with the Glory revealed in Scripture, their highest Documents will
appear as trifling, and of as little Consequence as the Rules by which Children
regulate their childish little Games and Pastime. True it is, that Philosophy
makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us better Men. Philosophy elevates and
steels the Mind, Christianity softens and sweetens it. The Former makes us the
Objects of human Admiration, the Latter of Divine Love. That insures us a
temporal, but this an eternal Happiness. - But I am afraid I tire you with my
Rhapsody.«
    »Not at all,« cries Partridge, »Lud forbid we should be tired with good
Things.«
    »I had spent,« continued the Stranger, »about four Years in the most
delightful Manner to myself, totally given up to Contemplation, and entirely
unembarrassed with the Affairs of the World, when I lost the best of Fathers,
and one whom I so entirely loved, that my Grief at his Loss exceeds all
Description. I now abandoned my Books, and gave myself up for a whole Month to
the Efforts 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 læve morari:
In quem manca ruit semper Fortuna. -10
 
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 Affronts and Contempt. This was so much the Case, that neither
I myself, nor my Friends, could ever sit down to a Meal with them, where we were
not 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 (tho' 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 the Willows, sighing and bemoaning himself bitterly. On a sudden, having
uttered a most impious Oath, he cried, I am resolved to bear it no longer, and
directly threw himself into the Water. I immediately started, and ran towards
the Place, calling at the same Time as loudly as I could for Assistance. An
Angler happened luckily to be a fishing a little below me, tho' 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 every Thing material,« answered the Stranger; and then
proceeded to relate what we shall proceed to write, after we have given a short
breathing Time to both ourselves and the Reader.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

              In which the Man of the Hill concludes his History.
 
»Mr. Watson,« continued the Stranger, »very freely acquainted me, that the
unhappy Situation of his Circumstances, occasioned by a Tide of Ill-Luck, had in
a Manner forced him to a Resolution of destroying himself.
    I now began to argue very seriously with him, in Opposition to this
Heathenish, or indeed Diabolical Practice; and said every Thing 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 steadfastly 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 any Thing of the Matter, and yet, I believe, I am as
good a Hand at every Game as any of you all; and I heartily wish I was to play
with you only for your whole Fortune; I should desire no better Sport, and I
would let you name your Game into the Bargain; but come, my dear Boy, have you
the Hundred in your Pocket?
    I answered, I had only a Bill for 50 l. which I delivered him, and promised
to bring him the rest next Morning; and after giving him a little more Advice,
took my Leave.
    I was indeed better than my Word: For I returned to him that very Afternoon.
When I entered the Room, I found Mr. Watson 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 Mr. Watson 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, and which
Note 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 paltry Packet, than with the best Patient; and the
highest Joy he was capable of, he received from having a Piece of News in his
Possession an Hour or two sooner than any other Person in the Town. His Advices,
however, were seldom authentic; for he would swallow almost any thing as a
Truth, a Humour which many made use of to impose upon him.
    Thus it happened with what he at present communicated; for it was known
within a short Time afterwards, that the Duke was really landed; but that his
Army consisted only of a few Attendants; and as to the Diversion in Norfolk, it
was entirely false.
    The Apothecary staid no longer in the Room, than while he acquainted us with
his News; and then, without saying a Syllable to his Patient on any other
Subject, departed to spread his Advices all over the Town.
    Events of this Nature in the Public are generally apt to eclipse all private
Concerns. Our Discourse, therefore, now became entirely political. For my own
Part, I had been for some Time very seriously affected with the Danger to which
the Protestant Religion was so visibly exposed, under a Popish Prince; and
thought the Apprehension of it alone sufficient to justify that Insurrection:
For no real Security can ever be found against the persecuting Spirit of Popery,
when armed with Power, except the depriving it of that Power, as woeful
Experience presently showed. You know how King James behaved after getting the
better of this Attempt; how little he valued either his Royal Word, or
Coronation-Oath, or the Liberties and Rights of his People. But all had not the
Sense to foresee this at first; and therefore the Duke of Monmouth was weakly
supported; yet all could feel when the Evil came upon them; and therefore all
united, at last, to drive out that King, against whose Exclusion a great Party
among us had so warmly contended, during the Reign of his Brother, and for whom
they now fought with such Zeal and Affection.«
    »What you say,« interrupted Jones, »is very true; and it has often struck
me, as the most wonderful thing I ever read of in History, that so soon after
this convincing Experience, which brought our whole Nation to join so
unanimously in expelling King James, for the Preservation of our Religion and
Liberties, there should be a Party among us mad enough to desire the placing his
Family again on the Throne.« »You are not in Earnest!« answered the old Man;
»there can be no such Party. As bad an Opinion as I have of Mankind, I cannot
believe them infatuated to such a Degree! There may be some hot-headed Papists
led by their Priests to engage in this desperate Cause, and think it a Holy War;
but that Protestants, that 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 this 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 to 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 Bridgwater.
    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 Cullumpton; 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 Goal; 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,
tho' 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 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 in 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 every thing to
him, for which he paid me the Sum of a thousand Pound, and settled on me an
Annuity for Life.
    His Behaviour in this last Instance, as in all others, was selfish and
ungenerous. I could not look on him as my Friend, nor indeed did he desire that
I should; so I presently took my Leave of him, as well as of my other
Acquaintance; and from that Day to this my History is little better than a
Blank.«
    »And is it possible, Sir,« said Jones, »that you can have resided here, from
that Day to this?« »O no, Sir,« answered the Gentleman, »I have been a great
Traveller, and there are few Parts of Europe with which I am not acquainted.« »I
have not, Sir,« cried Jones, »the Assurance to ask it of you now. Indeed it
would be cruel, after so much Breath as you have already spent. But you will
give me Leave to wish for some further Opportunity of hearing the excellent
Observations, which a Man of your Sense and Knowledge of the World must have
made in so long a Course of Travels.« »Indeed, young Gentleman,« answered the
Stranger, »I will endeavour to satisfy your Curiosity on this Head likewise, as
far as I am able.« Jones attempted fresh Apologies, but was prevented; and while
he and Partridge sat with greedy and impatient Ears, the Stranger proceeded as
in the next Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter XV

A brief History of Europe. And a curious Discourse between Mr. Jones and the Man
                                  of the Hill.
 
»In Italy the Landlords are very silent. In France they are more talkative, but
yet civil. In Germany and Holland they are generally very impertinent. And as
for their Honesty, I believe it is pretty equal in all those Countries. The
Valets a Louage are sure to lose no Opportunity of cheating you: And as for the
Postilions, I think they are pretty much alike all the World over. These, Sir,
are the Observations on Men which I made in my Travels. My Design, when I went
abroad, was to divert myself by seeing the great Variety with which God hath
been pleased to enrich the several Parts of this Globe. A Variety, which as it
must give great Pleasure to a contemplative Beholder, so doth it greatly display
the vast Powers of its omnipotent Author. Indeed, to say the Truth, there is but
one Work in his whole Creation that doth him any Dishonour, and with that I have
long since avoided holding any Conversation.«
    »You will pardon me,« cries Jones, »but I have always imagined, that there
is in this very Work you mention, as great Variety as in all the rest; for
besides the Difference of Inclination, Customs and Climates have, I am told,
introduced the utmost Diversity into Human Nature.« »Very little indeed,«
answered the other; »those who travel in order to acquaint themselves with the
different Manners of Men, might spare themselves much Pains, by going to a
Carnival at Venice; for here 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 every where the same, every where the Object of Detestation and
Avoidance.«
    »As for my own Part, I past through all these Nations, as you perhaps may
have done through a crowd at a Shew, jostling to get by them, holding my Nose
with one Hand, and defending my Pockets with the other, without speaking a Word
to any of them, while I was pressing on to see what I wanted to see, which,
however entertaining it might be in itself, scarce made me Amends for the
Trouble the Company gave me.«
    »Did not you find some of the Nations among which you travelled, less
troublesome to you than others?« said Jones. »O yes,« replied the old Man, »the
Turks were much more tolerable to me than the Christians. For they are Men of
profound Taciturnity, and never disturb a Stranger with Questions. Now and then
indeed they bestow a short Curse upon him, or spit in his Face as he walks the
Streets, but then they have done with him, and a Man may live an Age in their
Country without hearing a Dozen Words from them. But of all the People I ever
saw, Heaven defend me from the French. With their damned Prate and Civilities,
and doing the Honour of their Nation to Strangers, (as they are pleased to call
it) but indeed setting forth their own Vanity; they are so troublesome, that I
had infinitely rather pass my Life with the Hottentots, than set my Foot in
Paris again. They are a nasty People, but their Nastiness is mostly without,
whereas in France, and some other Nations that I won't name, it is all within,
and makes them stink much more to my Reason than that of Hottentots does to my
Nose.
    Thus, Sir, I have ended the History of my Life; for as to all that Series of
Years, in which I have retired here, they afford no Variety to entertain you,
and may almost be considered as one Day. The Retirement has been so complete,
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 surprised,« answered the other, »that to one whose
Affections and Thoughts are fixed on the World, my Hours shall appear to have
wanted Employment in this Place; but there is one single Act, for which the
whole Life of Man is infinitely 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 vast Globe, but even those
numberless Luminaries which we may here behold spangling all the Sky, tho' 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! And as no Time
is sufficient, so neither is any Place improper for this great Concern. On what
Object can we cast our Eyes, which may not inspire us with Ideas of his Power,
of his Wisdom, and of his Goodness? It is not necessary, that the rising Sun
should dart his fiery Glories over the Eastern Horizon; nor that the boisterous
Winds should rush from their Caverns, and shake the lofty Forest; nor that the
opening Clouds should pour their Deluges on the Plains: It is not necessary, I
say, that any of these should proclaim his Majesty; there is not an Insect, not
a Vegetable, of so low an Order in the Creation, but it is 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
accursed Treachery, hath called his Maker's Goodness in Question, by puzzling us
to account how a benevolent Being should form so imperfect, 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 the Human
Race.«
    »I think I had Experience enough of them,« 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 this
Mistress, and who that Friend was. 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.«
    »It is possible,« answered the Stranger; »but you have lived, you confess, a
very short Time only 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 tho' Knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse
particular Persons; yet they never cast any Reflection on Human Nature in
general.« The old Gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones despaired of
making a Convert, and was unwilling to offend, he returned no Answer.
    The Day now began to send forth its first Streams of Light, when Jones made
an Apology to the Stranger for having staid so long, and perhaps detained him
from his Rest. The Stranger answered, »He never wanted Rest less than at
present; for that Day and Night were indifferent Seasons to him, and that he
commonly made use of the former for the Time of his Repose, and of the latter
for his Walks and Lucubrations. However,« said he, »it is now a most lovely
Morning, and if you can bear any longer to be without your own Rest or Food, I
will gladly entertain you with the Sight of some very fine Prospects, which I
believe you have not yet seen.«
    Jones very readily embraced this Offer, and they immediately set forward
together from the Cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen into a profound
Repose, just as the Stranger had finished his Story; for his Curiosity was
satisfied, and the subsequent Discourse was not forcible enough in its Operation
to conjure down the Charms of Sleep. Jones therefore left him to enjoy his Nap;
and as the Reader may perhaps be, at this Season, glad of the same Favour, we
will here put an End to the Eighth Book of our History.
 

                                    Book IX

                            Containing twelve Hours.
 

                                   Chapter I

  Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not write such Histories as
                                     this.
 
Among other good Uses for which I have thought proper to institute these several
introductory Chapters, I have considered them as a Kind of Mark or Stamp, which
may hereafter enable a very indifferent Reader to distinguish, what is true and
genuine in this historic Kind of Writing, from what is false and counterfeit.
Indeed it seems likely that some such Mark may shortly become necessary, since
the favourable Reception which two or three Authors have lately procured for
their Works of this Nature from the Public, will probably serve as an
Encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a Swarm of foolish
Novels, and monstrous Romances will be produced, either to the great
impoverishing of Booksellers, or to the great Loss of Time, and Depravation of
Morals in the Reader; nay, often to the spreading of Scandal and Calumny, and to
the Prejudice of the Characters of many worthy and honest People.
    I question not but the ingenious Author of the Spectator was principally
induced to prefix Greek and Latin Mottos to every Paper from the same
Consideration of guarding against the Pursuit of those Scribblers, who, having
no Talents of a Writer but what is taught by the Writing-master, are yet nowise
afraid nor ashamed to assume the same Titles with the greatest Genius, than
their good Brother in the Fable was of braying in the Lion's Skin.
    By the Device therefore of his Motto, it became impracticable for any Man to
presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at least one Sentence
in the learned Languages. In the same Manner I have now secured myself from the
Imitation of those who are utterly incapable of any Degree of Reflection, and
whose Learning is not equal to an Essay.
    I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest Merit of such
historical Productions can ever lie in these introductory Chapters; but, in
Fact, those Parts which contain mere Narrative only, afford much more
Encouragement to the Pen of an Imitator, than those which are composed of
Observation and Reflection. Here I mean such Imitators as Rowe was of Shakespeare
, 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,11 may be more truly said of
the Historian and Biographer, than of any other Species of Writing: For all the
Arts and Sciences (even Criticism itself) require some little Degree of Learning
and Knowledge. Poetry indeed may perhaps be thought an Exception; but then it
demands Numbers, or something like Numbers; whereas to the Composition of Novels
and Romances, nothing is necessary but Paper, Pens and Ink, with the manual
Capacity of using them. This, I conceive, their Productions show to be the
Opinion of the Authors themselves; and this must be the Opinion of their
Readers, if indeed there be any such.
    Hence we are to derive that universal Contempt, which the World, who always
denominate the Whole from the Majority, have cast on all historical Writers, who
do not draw their Materials from Records. And it is the Apprehension of this
Contempt, that hath made us so cautiously avoid the Term Romance, a Name with
which we might otherwise have been well enough contented. Though as we have good
Authority for all our Characters, no less indeed than the vast authentic
Doomsday-Book of Nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our Labours have sufficient
Title to the Name of History. Certainly they deserve some Distinction from those
Works, which one of the wittiest of Men regarded only as proceeding from a
Pruritus, or indeed rather from a Looseness of the Brain.
    But besides the Dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful as
well as entertaining of all Kinds of Writing, there is just Reason to apprehend,
that by encouraging such Authors, we shall propagate much Dishonour of another
Kind; I mean to the Characters of many good and valuable Members of Society: For
the dullest Writers, no more than the dullest Companions, are always
inoffensive. They have both enough of Language to be indecent and abusive. And
surely if the Opinion just above cited be true, we cannot wonder, that Works so
nastily derived should be nasty themselves, or have a Tendency to make others
so.
    To prevent therefore for the future, such intemperate Abuses of Leisure, of
Letters, and of the Liberty of the Press, especially as the World seems at
present to be more than usually threatened with them, I shall here venture to
mention some Qualifications, every one of which are in a pretty high Degree
necessary to this Order of Historians.
    The first is Genius, without a full Vein of which, no Study, says Horace,
can avail us. By Genius I would understand that Power, or rather those Powers of
the Mind, which are capable of penetrating into all Things within our Reach and
Knowledge, and of distinguishing their essential Differences. These are no other
than Invention and judgement; and they are both called by the collective Name of
Genius, as they are of those Gifts of Nature which we bring with us into the
World. Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great Errors:
For by Invention, I believe, is generally understood a creative Faculty; which
would indeed prove most Romance-Writers to have the highest Pretensions to it;
whereas by Invention is really meant no more, (and so the Word signifies) than
Discovery, or finding out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious
Penetration into the true Essence of all the Objects of our Contemplation. This,
I think, can rarely exist without the Concomitancy of judgement: 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 judgement, 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 tho' they should be so, they are not sufficient for our Purpose without
a good Share of Learning; for which I could again cite the Authority of Horace,
and of many others, if any was necessary to prove that Tools are of no Service
to a Workman, when they are not sharpened by Art, or when he wants Rules to
direct him in his Work, or hath no Matter to work upon. All these Uses are
supplied by Learning: For Nature can only furnish us with Capacity, or, as I
have chose to illustrate it, with the Tools of our Profession; Learning must fit
them for Use, must direct them in it; and lastly, must contribute, Part at
least, of the Materials. A competent Knowledge of History and of the Belles
Lettres, is here absolutely necessary; and without this Share of Knowledge at
least, to affect the Character of an Historian, is as vain as to endeavour at
building a House without Timber or Mortar, or Brick or Stone. Homer and Milton,
who, though they added the Ornament of Numbers to their Works, were both
Historians of our Order, were Masters of all the Learning of their Times.
    Again, there is another Sort of Knowledge beyond the Power of Learning to
bestow, and this is to be had by Conversation. So necessary is this to the
understanding the Characters of Men, that none are more ignorant of them than
those learned Pedants, whose Lives have been entirely consumed in Colleges, and
among Books: For however exquisitely Human Nature may have been described by
Writers, the true practical System can be learnt only in the World. Indeed the
like happens in every other Kind of Knowledge. Neither Physic, nor Law, are to
be practically known from Books. Nay, the Farmer, the Planter, the Gardener,
must perfect by Experience what he hath acquired the Rudiments of by Reading.
How accurately soever the ingenious Mr. Miller may have described the Plant, he
himself would advise his Disciple to see it in the Garden. As we must perceive,
that after the nicest Strokes of a Shakespeare, or a Johnson, 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,12 can convey to him; so on the
real Stage, the Character shows himself in a stronger and bolder Light, than he
can be described. And if this be the Case in those fine and nervous
Descriptions, which great Authors themselves have taken from Life, how much more
strongly will it hold when the Writer himself takes his Lines not from Nature,
but from Books! Such Characters are only the faint Copy of a Copy, and can have
neither the Justness nor Spirit of an Original.
    Now this Conversation in our Historian must be universal, that is, with all
Ranks and Degrees of Men: For the Knowledge of what is called High-Life, will
not instruct him in low, nor e converso, will his being acquainted with the
inferior Part of Mankind, teach him the Manners of the superior. And though it
may be thought that the Knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to
describe at least that in which he hath been conversant; yet he will even here
fall greatly short of Perfection: for the Follies of either Rank do in reality
illustrate each other. For Instance, the Affectation of High-life appears more
glaring and ridiculous from the Simplicity of the Low; and again the Rudeness
and Barbarity of this latter, strikes with much stronger Ideas of Absurdity,
when contrasted with, and opposed to the Politeness which controuls the former.
Besides, to say the Truth, the Manners of our Historian will be improved by both
these Conversations: For in the one he will easily find Examples of Plainness,
Honesty, and Sincerity; in the other of Refinement, Elegance, and a Liberality
of Spirit; which last Quality I myself have scarce ever seen in Men of low Birth
and Education.
    Nor will all the Qualities I have hitherto given my Historian avail him,
unless he have what is generally meant by a good Heart, and be capable of
feeling. The Author who will make me weep, says Horace, must first weep himself.
In reality, no Man can paint a Distress well, which he doth not feel while he is
painting it; nor do I doubt, but that the most pathetic and affecting Scenes
have been writ with Tears. In the same Manner it is with the Ridiculous. I am
convinced I never make my Reader laugh heartily, but where I have laughed before
him, unless it should happen at any Time, that instead of laughing with me, he
should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the Case at some
Passages in this Chapter, from which Apprehension I will here put an End to it.
 

                                   Chapter II

 Containing a very surprising Adventure indeed, which Mr. Jones met with in his
                         Walk with the Man of the Hill.
 
Aurora now first opened her Casement, anglicè, the Day began to break, when
Jones walked forth in Company with the Stranger, and mounted Mazard-Hill; of
which they had no sooner gained the Summit, than one of the most noble Prospects
in the World presented itself to their View, and which we would likewise present
to the Reader; but for two Reasons. First, We despair of making those who have
seen this Prospect, admire our Description. Secondly, We very much doubt whether
those, who have not seen it, would understand it.
    Jones stood for some Minutes fixed in one Posture, and directing his Eyes
towards the South; upon which the old Gentleman asked, What he was looking at
with so much Attention? »Alas, Sir,« answered he, with a Sigh, »I was
endeavouring to trace out my own Journey hither. Good Heavens! what a Distance
is Gloucester from us! What a vast Tract of Land must be between me and my own
Home.« »Ay, ay, young Gentleman,« cries the other, »and, by your Sighing, from
what you love better than your own Home, or I am mistaken. I perceive now the
Object of your Contemplation is not within your Sight, and yet I fancy you have
a Pleasure in looking that Way.« Jones answered with a Smile, »I find, old
Friend, you have not yet forgot the Sensations of your Youth. - I own my
Thoughts were employed as you have guessed.«
    They now walked to that Part of the Hill which looks to the North West, and
which hangs over a vast and extensive Wood. Here they were no sooner arrived,
than they heard at a Distance the most violent Skreams 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 stripped 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 clothes 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
Surprise, 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 Surprise 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 steadfastly 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 clothes, 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, tho' 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
surprising Expedition ascended the Hill.
    The old Man advised him to carry the Woman to Upton, which, he said, was the
nearest Town, and there he would be sure of furnishing her with all manner of
Conveniencies. Jones having received his Direction to the Place, took his Leave
of the Man of the Hill, and desiring him to direct Partridge the same Way,
returned hastily to the Wood.
    Our Heroe, at his Departure to make this Enquiry of his Friend, had
considered, that as the Ruffian's Hands were tied behind him, he was incapable
of executing any wicked Purposes on the poor Woman. Besides, he knew he should
not be beyond the Reach of her Voice, and could return soon enough to prevent
any Mischief. He had moreover declared to the Villain, that if he attempted the
least Insult, he would be himself immediately the Executioner of Vengeance on
him. But Jones unluckily forgot that tho' 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
thro' the Wood, which favoured his Retreat; nor did the Woman, whose Eyes were
perhaps rather turned towards 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 tho' I cannot believe that Jones was
designedly tempted by his Fair One to look behind him, yet as she frequently
wanted his Assistance to help her over Stiles, and had besides many Trips and
other Accidents, he was often obliged to turn about. However, he had better
Fortune than what attended poor Orpheus; for he brought his Companion, or rather
Follower, safe into the famous Town of Upton.
 

                                  Chapter III

     The Arrival of Mr. Jones, with his Lady, at the Inn, with a very full
                      Description of the Battle of Upton.
 
Tho' 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, »Hey day, where is that Beggar Wench going?
stay below Stairs, I desire you;« but Jones at that Instant thundered from
above, »Let the Lady come up,« in so authoritative a Voice, that the good Man
instantly withdrew his Hands, and the Lady made the best of her Way to the
Chamber.
    Here Jones wished her Joy of her safe Arrival, and then departed, in order,
as he promised, to send the Landlady up with some clothes. The poor Woman
thanked him heartily for all his Kindness, and said, She hoped she should see
him again soon, to thank him a thousand Times more. During this short
Conversation, she covered her white Bosom as well as she could possibly with her
Arms: For Jones could not avoid stealing a sly Peep or two, tho' he took all
imaginable Care to avoid giving any Offence.
    Our Travellers had happened to take up their Residence at a House of
exceeding good Repute, whither Irish Ladies of strict Virtue, and many Northern
Lasses of the same Predicament, were accustomed to resort in their Way to Bath.
The Landlady therefore would by no Means have admitted any Conversation of a
disreputable Kind to pass under her Roof. Indeed so foul and contagious are all
such Proceedings, that they contaminate the very innocent Scenes where they are
committed, and give the Name of a bad House, or of a House of ill Repute, to all
those where they are suffered to be carried on.
    Not that I would intimate, that such strict Chastity as was preserved in the
Temple of Vesta can possibly be maintained at a public Inn. My good Landlady did
not hope for such a Blessing, nor would any of the Ladies I have spoken of, or
indeed any others of the most rigid Note, have expected or insisted on any such
Thing. But to exclude all vulgar Concubinage, and to drive all Whores in Rags
from within the Walls, is within the Power of every one. This my Landlady very
stiffly adhered to, and this her virtuous Guests, who did not travel in Rags,
would very reasonably have expected of her.
    Now it required no very blameable Degree of Suspicion, to imagine that Mr.
Jones and his ragged Companion had certain Purposes in their Intention, which,
tho' 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 abovesaid
Persons, than she began to meditate the most expeditious Means for their
Expulsion. In order to do 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
above Stairs.
    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 Shakespeare hath artfully introduced his Desdemona soliciting Favours
for Cassio of her Husband, as the Means of enflaming 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, tho' 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 tho' 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
choosing or avoiding a Conflict by the Character and Behaviour of the Person whom
they are to engage. These are said to know their Man, and Jones, I believe, knew
his Woman; for tho' he had been so submissive to her, he was no sooner attacked
by her Husband, than he demonstrated an immediate Spirit of Resentment, and
enjoined him Silence under a very severe Penalty; no less than that, I think, of
being converted into Fuel for his own Fire.
    The Husband, with great Indignation, but with a Mixture of Pity, answered,
»You must pray first to be made able; I believe I am a better Man than yourself;
ay, every Way, that I am;« and presently proceeded to discharge half a dozen
Whores at the Lady above Stairs, the last of which had scarce issued from his
Lips, when a swinging Blow from the Cudgel that Jones carried in his Hand
assaulted him over the Shoulders.
    It is a Question whether the Landlord or the Landlady was the most
expeditious in returning this Blow. My Landlord, whose Hands were empty, fell to
with his Fist, and the good Wife, uplifting her Broom, and aiming at the Head of
Jones, had probably put an immediate End to the Fray, and to Jones likewise, had
not the Descent of this Broom been prevented, - not by the miraculous
Intervention of any Heathen Deity, but by a very natural, tho' 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 choose 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
manlike, and every way made for such Encounters. As her Hands and Arms were
formed to give Blows with great Mischief to an Enemy, so was her Face as well
contrived to receive Blows without any great Injury to herself: Her Nose being
already flat to her Face; her Lips were so large, that no Swelling could be
perceived in them, and moreover they were so hard, that a Fist could hardly make
any Impression on them. Lastly, her Cheek-Bones stood out, as if Nature had
intended them for two Bastions to defend her Eyes in those Encounters for which
she seemed so well calculated, and to which she was most wonderfully well
inclined.
    This fair Creature entering the Field of Battle, immediately filed to that
Wing where her Mistress maintained so unequal a Fight with one of either Sex.
Here she presently challenged Partridge to single Combat. He accepted the
Challenge, and a most desperate Fight began between them.
    Now the Dogs of War being let loose, began to lick their bloody Lips; now
Victory with Golden Wings hung hovering in the Air. Now Fortune taking her
Scales from her Shelf, began to weigh the Fates of Tom Jones, his Female
Companion, and Partridge, against the Landlord, his Wife, and Maid; all which
hung in exact Ballance before her; when a good-natured Accident put suddenly an
End to the bloody Fray, with which half of the Combatants had already
sufficiently feasted. This Accident was the Arrival of a Coach and four; upon
which my Landlord and Landlady immediately desisted from fighting, and at their
Entreaty obtained the same Favour of their Antagonists; but Susan was not so
kind to Partridge, for that Amazonian Fair having overthrown and bestrid her
Enemy, was now cuffing him lustily with both her Hands, without any Regard to
his Request of a Cessation of Arms, or to those loud Exclamations of Murder
which he roared forth.
    No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the Landlord, than he flew to the
Rescue of his defeated Companion, from whom he with much Difficulty drew off the
enraged Chambermaid; but Partridge was not immediately sensible of his
Deliverance; for he still lay flat on the Floor, guarding his Face with his
Hands, nor did he cease roaring till Jones had forced him to look up, and to
perceive that the Battle was at an End.
    The Landlord who had no visible Hurt, and the Landlady hiding her well
scratched Face with her Handkerchief, ran both hastily to the Door to attend the
Coach, from which a young Lady and her Maid now alighted. These the Landlady
presently ushered into that Room where Mr. Jones had at first deposited his fair
Prize, as it was the best Apartment in the House. Hither they were obliged to
pass through the Field of Battle, which they did with the utmost Haste, covering
their Faces with their Handkerchiefs, as desirous to avoid the Notice of any
one. Indeed their Caution was quite unnecessary: For the poor unfortunate Helen,
the fatal Cause of all the Bloodshed, was entirely taken up in endeavouring to
conceal her own Face, and Jones was no less occupied in rescuing Partridge from
the Fury of Susan; which being happily effected, the poor Fellow immediately
departed to the Pump to wash his Face, and to stop that bloody Torrent which
Susan had plentifully set a flowing from his Nostrils.
 

                                   Chapter IV

In which the Arrival of a Man of War puts a final End to Hostilities, and causes
        the Conclusion of a firm and lasting Peace between all Parties.
 
A Serjeant and a File of Musqueteers, with a Deserter in their Custody, arrived
about this Time. The Serjeant presently enquired for the principal Magistrate of
the Town, and was informed by my Landlord, that he himself was vested in that
Office. He then demanded his Billets, together with a Mug of Beer, and
complaining it was cold, spread himself before the Kitchen Fire.
    Mr. Jones was at this Time comforting the poor distressed Lady, who sat down
at a Table in the Kitchen, and leaning her Head upon her Arm, was bemoaning her
Misfortunes; but lest my fair Readers should be in Pain concerning a particular
Circumstance, I think proper here to acquaint them, that before she had quitted
the Room above Stairs, she had so well covered herself with a Pillowbere 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 steadfastly 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 surprised
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 clothes.«
    »Prithee Woman,« says Mrs. Waters, »cease your Impertinence: How can you
imagine I should concern myself about any thing which comes from the Lips of
such low Creatures as yourself. But I am surprised 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 begg'd 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 tho' I say it,
is frequented by Gentry of the best Quality, both Irish and English. I defy any
Body 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 whipped 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 clothes 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 tho' 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, tho' 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, tho' 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 ancient History; but this, tho' highly probable, as he cited no
Authority to support the Custom, I will not affirm with any Confidence. Most
likely indeed it is, that he founded his Opinion on very good Authority, since
he confirmed it with many violent Oaths.
    Jones no sooner heard the Proposal, than immediately agreeing with the
learned Serjeant, he ordered a Bowl, or rather a large Mug, filled with the
Liquor used on these Occasions to be brought in, and then began the Ceremony
himself. He placed his Right Hand in that of the Landlord, and seizing the Bowl
with his Left, uttered the usual Words, and then made his Libation. After which
the same was observed by all present. Indeed there is very little Need of being
particular in describing the whole Form, as it differed so little from those
Libations of which so much is recorded in ancient 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 ancient 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 Kitchin 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 now
bespoke was on the Table. Indeed it took no long Time in preparing, having been
all dressed? three Days before, and required nothing more from the Cook than to
warm it over again.
 

                                   Chapter V

An Apology for all Heroes who have good Stomachs, with a Description of a Battle
                              of the amorous Kind.
 
Heroes, notwithstanding the high Ideas, which by the Means of Flatterers they
may entertain of themselves, or the World may conceive of them, have certainly
more of mortal than divine about them. However elevated their Minds may be,
their Bodies at least (which is much the major Part of most) are liable to the
worst Infirmities and subject to the vilest Offices of human Nature. Among these
latter the Act of Eating, which hath by several wise Men been considered as
extremely mean and derogatory from the Philosophic Dignity, must be in some
Measure performed by the greatest Prince, Heroe, or Philosopher upon Earth; nay,
sometimes Nature hath been so frolicksome 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, they then surely become
very low and despicable.
    Now after this short Preface, we think it no Disparagement to our Heroe to
mention the immoderate Ardour with which he laid about him at this Season.
Indeed it may be doubted, whether Ulysses, who by the Way seems to have had the
best Stomach of all the Heroes in that eating Poem of the Odyssey, ever made a
better Meal. Three Pounds at least of that Flesh which formerly had contributed
to the Composition of an Ox, was now honoured with becoming Part of the
individual Mr. Jones.
    This Particular we thought ourselves obliged to mention, as it may account
for our Heroe's temporary Neglect of his fair Companion; who eat but very
little, and was indeed employed in Considerations of a very different Nature,
which passed unobserved by Jones, till he had entirely satisfied that Appetite
which a Fast of twenty-four Hours had procured him; but his Dinner was no sooner
ended, than his Attention to other Matters revived; with these Matters therefore
we shall now proceed to acquaint the Reader.
    Mr. Jones, of whose personal Accomplishments we have hitherto said very
little, was in reality, one of the handsomest young Fellows in the World. His
Face, besides being the Picture of Health, had in it the most apparent Marks of
Sweetness and Good-Nature. These Qualities were indeed so characteristical in
his Countenance, that while the Spirit and Sensibility in his Eyes, tho' 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 Complection, 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 Mein; 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 centred
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 tho' the Love to these several Objects may possibly be one and the same
in all Cases, its Operations however must be allowed to be different; for how
much soever we may be in Love with an excellent Surloin of Beef, or Bottle of
Burgundy; with a Damask Rose, or Cremona Fiddle; yet do we never smile, nor
ogle, nor dress, nor flatter, nor endeavour by any other Arts or Tricks to gain
the Affection of the said Beef, etc. Sigh indeed we sometimes may; but it is
generally in the Absence, not in the Presence of the beloved Object. For
otherwise we might possibly complain of their Ingratitude and Deafness, with the
same Reason as Pasiphae doth of her Bull, whom she endeavoured to engage by all
the Coquetry practised with good Success in the Drawing Room, on the much more
sensible, as well as tender, Hearts of the fine Gentlemen there.
    The contrary happens, in that Love which operates between Persons of the
same Species, but of different Sexes. Here we are no sooner in Love, than it
becomes our principal Care to engage the Affection of the Object beloved. For
what other Purpose indeed are our Youth instructed in all the Arts of rendering
themselves agreeable? If it was not with a View to this Love, I question whether
any of those Trades which deal in setting off and adorning the Human Person
would procure a Livelihood. Nay, those great Polishers of our Manners, who are
by some thought to teach what principally distinguishes us from the Brute
Creation, even Dancing-Masters themselves, might possibly find no Place in
Society. In short, all the Graces which young Ladies and young Gentlemen too
learn from others; and the many Improvements which, by the Help of a
Looking-glass, they add of their own, are in Reality those very Spicula et Faces
Amoris, so often mentioned by Ovid; or, as they are sometimes called in our own
Language, The whole Artillery of Love.
    Now Mrs. Waters and our Heroe had no sooner sat down together, than the
former began to play this Artillery upon the latter. But here, as we are about
to attempt a Description hitherto unessayed 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 side-ways against Mr. Jones, she shot from
its Corner a most penetrating Glance; which, tho' 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 leveled
them downwards as if she was concerned for what she had done: Tho' 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 slyly and imperceptibly carried on her Attack,
that she had almost subdued the Heart of our Heroe, before she again repaired to
Acts of Hostility. To confess the Truth, I am afraid Mr. Jones maintained a Kind
of Dutch Defence, and treacherously delivered up the Garrison without duly
weighing his Allegiance to the fair Sophia. In short, no sooner had the amorous
Parley ended, and the Lady had unmasked the Royal Battery, by carelessly letting
her Handkerchief drop from her Neck, than the Heart of Mr. Jones was entirely
taken, and the fair Conqueror enjoyed the usual Fruits of her Victory.«
    Here the Graces think proper to end their Description, and here we think
proper to end the Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter VI

 A friendly Conversation in the Kitchen, which had a very common, tho' not very
                              friendly Conclusion.
 
While our Lovers were entertaining themselves in the Manner which is partly
described in the foregoing Chapter; they were likewise furnishing out an
Entertainment for their good Friends in the Kitchen. And this in a double Sense,
by affording them Matter for their Conversation, and, at the same Time, Drink to
enliven their Spirits.
    There were now assembled round the Kitchen Fire, besides my Landlord and
Landlady, who occasionally went backward and forward, Mr. Partridge, the
Serjeant, and the Coachman who drove the young Lady and her Maid.
    Partridge having acquainted the Company with what he had learnt from the Man
of the Hill, concerning the Situation in which Mrs. Waters had been found by
Jones, the Serjeant proceeded to that Part of her History which was known to
him. He said, she was the Wife of Mr. Waters, who was a Captain in their
Regiment, and had often been with him at Quarters. »Some Folks,« says he, »used
indeed to doubt whether they were lawfully married in a Church or no. But, for
my Part, that's no Business of mine; I must own, if I was put to my Corporal
Oath, I believe she is little better than one of us, and I fancy the Captain may
go to Heaven when the Sun shines upon a rainy Day. But if he does, that is
neither here nor there, for he won't want Company. And the Lady, to give the
Devil his Due, is a very good Sort of Lady, and loves the Cloth, and is always
desirous to do strict Justice to it; for she hath begged off many a poor
Soldier, and, by her Good-will, would never have any of them punished. But yet,
to be sure, Ensign Northerton and she were very well acquainted together, at our
last Quarters, that is the very Right and Truth of the Matter. But the Captain
he knows nothing about it; and as long as there is enough for him too, what does
it signify! He loves her not a bit the worse, and I am certain would run any Man
through the Body that was to abuse her, therefore I won't abuse her, for my
Part. I only repeat what other Folks say; and to be certain, what every body
says, there must be some Truth in.« »Ay, ay, a great deal of Truth, I warrant
you,« cries Partridge, »Veritas odium parit.« »All a Parcel of scandalous
Stuff,« answered the Mistress of the House. »I am sure now she is dressed?, she
looks like a very good Sort of Lady, and she behaves herself like one; for she
gave me a Guinea for the Use of my clothes.« »A very good Lady indeed,« cries my
Landlord, »and if you had not been a little too hasty, you would not have
quarrelled with her as you did at first.« »You need mention that with my truly,«
answered she, »if it had not been for your Nonsense, nothing had happened. You
must be meddling with what did not belong to you, and throw in your Fool's
Discourse.« »Well, well,« answered he, »what's past cannot be mended, so there's
an End of the Matter.« »Yes,« cries she, »for this once, but will it be mended
ever the more hereafter? This is not the first Time I have suffered for your
Numscull's Pate. I wish you would always hold your Tongue in the House, and
meddle only in Matters without Doors which concern you. Don't you remember what
happened about seven Years ago?« - »Nay, my Dear,« returned he, »don't rip up
old Stories. Come, come, all's well, and I am sorry for what I have done.« The
Landlady was going to reply, but was prevented by the Peace-making Serjeant,
sorely to the Displeasure of Partridge, who was a great Lover of what is called
Fun, and a great Promoter of those harmless Quarrels which tend rather to the
Production of comical than tragical Incidents.
    The Serjeant asked Partridge whither he and his Master were travelling.
»None of your Magisters,« answered Partridge, »I am no Man's Servant, I assure
you; for tho' I have had Misfortunes in the World, I write Gentleman after my
Name; and as poor and simple as I may appear now, I have taught Grammar School
in my Time. Sed hei mihi non sum quod fui.« »No Offence, I hope, Sir,« said the
Serjeant, »where then, if I may venture to be so bold, may you and your Friend
be travelling?« - »You have now denominated us right,« says Partridge. »Amici
Sumus. And I promise you my Friend is one of the greatest Gentlemen in the
Kingdom,« (at which Words both Landlord and Landlady pricked up their Ears). »He
is the Heir of Squire Allworthy.« »What, the Squire who doth so much Good all
over the Country?« cries my Landlady. »Even he,« answered Partridge. »Then I
warrant,« says she, »he'll have a swinging great Estate hereafter.« »Most
certainly,« answered Partridge. »Well,« replied the Landlady, »I thought the
first Moment I saw him he looked like a good Sort of Gentleman; but my Husband
here, to be sure, is wiser than any body.« »I own, my Dear,« cries he, »it was a
Mistake.« »A Mistake indeed!« answered she; »but when did you ever know me to
make such Mistakes?« - »But how comes it, Sir,« cries the Landlord, »that such a
great Gentleman walks about the Country afoot?« »I don't know,« returned
Partridge, »great Gentlemen have Humours sometimes. He hath now a dozen Horses
and Servants at Gloucester, and nothing would serve him, but last Night, it
being very hot Weather, he must cool himself with a Walk to yon high Hill,
whither I likewise walked with him to bear him Company; but if ever you catch me
there again: For I was never so frightened in all my Life. We met with the
strangest Man there.« »I'll be hanged,« cries the Landlord, »if it was not the
Man of the Hill, as they call him; if indeed he be a Man; but I know several
People who believe it is the Devil that lives there.« »Nay, nay, like enough,«
says Partridge, »and now you put me in the Head of it, I verily and sincerely
believe it was the Devil; tho' I could not perceive his cloven Foot; but perhaps
he might have the Power given him to hide that, since evil Spirits can appear in
what Shapes they please.« »And pray, Sir,« says the Serjeant, »no Offence I
hope; but pray what Sort of a Gentleman is the Devil? For I have heard some of
our Officers say, There is no such Person, and that it is only a Trick of the
Parsons, to prevent their being broke; for if it was publicly 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, tho' 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, tho' he hardly spent a Shilling a Day in the House, and suffered his Men
to roast Cabbages at the Kitchen Fire, because I would not give them a Dinner on
a Sunday. Every good Christian must desire there should be a Devil for the
Punishment of such Wretches.« »Harkee, Landlord,« said the Serjeant, »don't
abuse the Cloth, for I won't take it.« »D-n the Cloth,« answered the Landlord,
»I have suffered enough by them.« »Bear Witness, Gentlemen,« says the Serjeant,
»he curses the King, and that's High Treason.« »I curse the King! you Villain,«
said the Landlord. »Yes you did,« cries the Serjeant, »you cursed the Cloth, and
that's cursing the King. It's all one and the same; for every Man who curses the
Cloth, would curse the King if he durst; so for Matter o' that, it's all one and
the same Thing.« »Excuse me there, Mr. Serjeant,« quoth Partridge, »that's a Non
Sequitur.« »None of your outlandish Linguo,« answered the Serjeant, leaping from
his Seat, »I will not sit still and hear the Cloth abused.« - »You mistake me,
Friend,« cries Partridge, »I did not mean to abuse the Cloth; I only said your
Conclusion was a Non Sequitur.«13 »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 stripped and engaged,
till the Driver of Horses was so well mauled by the Leader of Men, that he was
obliged to exhaust his small Remainder of Breath in begging for Quarter.
    The young Lady was now desirous to depart, and had given Orders for her
Coach to be prepared; but all in vain; for the Coachman was disabled from
performing his Office for that Evening. An ancient 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 hearty Sigh at those Words; of which, tho' 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 of her suspecting some very dangerous Rival in his Affections. The
awkward Behaviour of Mr. Jones on this Occasion convinced her of the Truth,
without his giving her a direct Answer to any of her Questions; but she was not
nice enough in her Amours to be greatly concerned at the Discovery. The Beauty
of Jones highly charmed her Eye; but, as she could not see his Heart, she gave
herself no concern about it. She could feast heartily at the Table of Love,
without reflecting that some other already had been, or hereafter might be,
feasted with the same Repast. A Sentiment which, if it deals but little in
Refinement, deals however much in Substance; and is less capricious, and perhaps
less ill-natured and selfish than the Desires of those Females who can be
contented enough to abstain from the Possession of their Lovers, provided they
are sufficiently satisfied that no one else possesses them.
 

                                  Chapter VII

Containing a fuller Account of Mrs. Waters, and by what Means she came into that
           distressful Situation from which she was rescued by Jones.
 
Though Nature hath by no Means mixed up an equal Share either of Curiosity or
Vanity in every human Composition, there is perhaps no Individual to whom she
hath not allotted such a Proportion of both, as requires much Art, 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
Rencounter between Jones and Northerton, which we have before recorded.
    Now it had been agreed between Mrs. Waters and the Captain, that she should
accompany him in his March as far as Worcester, where they were to take their
Leave of each other, and she was thence to return to Bath, where she was to stay
till the End of the Winter's Campaign against the Rebels.
    With this Agreement Mr. Northerton was made acquainted. To say the Truth,
the Lady had made him an Assignation at this very Place, and promised to stay at
Worcester till his Division came thither; with what View, and for what Purpose
must be left to the Reader's Divination: For though we are obliged to relate
Facts, we are not obliged to do a Violence to our Nature by any Comments to the
Disadvantage of the loveliest Part of the Creation.
    Northerton no sooner obtained a Release from his Captivity, as we have seen,
than he hasted away to overtake Mrs. Waters; which, as he was a very active
nimble Fellow, he did at the last mentioned City, some few Hours after Captain
Waters had left her: At his first Arrival he made no Scruple of acquainting her
with the unfortunate Accident, which he made appear very unfortunate indeed: For
he totally extracted every Particle of what could be called Fault, at least in a
Court of Honour, though he left some Circumstances which might be questionable
in a Court of Law.
    Women, to their Glory be it spoken, are more generally capable of that
violent and apparently disinterested Passion of Love, which seeks only the Good
of its Object, than Men. Mrs. Waters, therefore, was no sooner apprised 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 a-cross the Country to Hereford, whence he might find some
Conveyance to one of the Sea-Ports in Wales, and thence might make his Escape
abroad. In all which Expedition Mrs. Waters declared she would bear him Company;
and for which she was able to furnish him with Money, a very material Article to
Mr. Northerton, she having then in her Pocket three Bank Notes to the Amount of
90 l. 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 Rout, 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 Linnen, 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 clothes, 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 Villainy, 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
Murther, and had forfeited his Life to the Law. As he concluded therefore that
his only Safety lay in Flight, he thought the possessing himself of this poor
Woman's Money and Ring, would make him Amends for the additional Burthen he was
to lay on his Conscience.
    And here, Reader, we must strictly caution thee, that thou dost not take any
Occasion from the Misbehaviour of such a Wretch as this, to reflect on so worthy
and honourable a Body of Men, as are the Officers of our Army in general. Thou
wilt be pleased to consider, that this Fellow, as we have already informed thee,
had neither the Birth nor Education of a Gentleman, nor was a proper Person to
be enrolled among the Number of such. If therefore his Baseness can justly
reflect on any besides himself, it must be only on those who gave him his
Commission.
 

                                     Book X

             In which the History goes forward about Twelve Hours.

                                   Chapter I

    Containing Instructions very necessary to be perused by modern Critics.
 
Reader, it is impossible we should know what Sort of Person thou wilt be: For,
perhaps, thou may'st be as learned in Human Nature as Shakespeare 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 grosly
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 judgement: 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 enough 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 -14
 
in Juvenal: Nor do I, indeed, conceive the good Purposes served by inserting
Characters of such angelic Perfection, or such diabolical Depravity, in any Work
of Invention: Since from contemplating either, the Mind of Man is more likely to
be overwhelmed with Sorrow and Shame, than to draw any good Uses from such
Patterns; for in the former Instance he may be both concerned and ashamed to see
a Pattern of Excellence, in his Nature, which he may reasonably despair of ever
arriving at; and in contemplating the latter, he may be no less affected with
those uneasy Sensations, at seeing the Nature, of which he is a Partaker,
degraded into so odious and detestable a Creature.
    In Fact, if there be enough of Goodness in a Character to engage the
Admiration and Affection of a well-disposed Mind, though there should appear
some of those little Blemishes, quas humana parum cavit natura, they will raise
our Compassion rather than our Abhorrence. Indeed, nothing can be of more moral
Use than the Imperfections which are seen in Examples of this Kind; since such
form a Kind of Surprise, 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 show their Deformity; and when we find such Vices
attended with their evil Consequence to our favourite Characters, we are not
only taught to shun them for our own Sake, but to hate them for the Mischiefs
they have already brought on those we love.
    And now, my Friend, having given you these few Admonitions, we will, if you
please, once more set forward with our History.
 

                                   Chapter II

Containing the Arrival of an Irish Gentleman, with very extraordinary Adventures
                            which ensued at the Inn.
 
Now the little trembling Hare, which the Dread of all her numerous Enemies, and
chiefly of that cunning, cruel, carnivorous Animal Man, had confined all the Day
to her Lurkingplace, 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 Conoisseurs in Music: Now in the Imagination of the half-drunk
Clown, as he staggers through the Church-yard, or rather Charnel-yard, 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 Kitchin, before she
retired to the Arms of the fond, expecting Ostler.
    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 surprised
Susan, so that she hesitated before she made any Answer: Upon which the
Gentleman, with redoubled Eagerness, begg'd 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 Bed-chamber of Mrs.
Waters.
    It hath been a Custom long established in the polite World, and that upon
very solid and substantial Reasons, that a Husband shall never enter his Wife's
Apartment without first knocking at the Door. The many excellent Uses of this
Custom need scarce be hinted to a Reader who hath any Knowledge of the World:
For by this Means the Lady hath Time to adjust herself, or to remove any
disagreeable Object out of the Way; for there are some Situations, in which nice
and delicate Women would not be discovered by their Husbands.
    To say the Truth, there are several Ceremonies instituted among the polished
Part of Mankind, which, tho' 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 abovementioned 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, etc. 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 Bed-chamber, 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, etc. are in
Music, only as the Vehicles of Sound, and without any fixed Ideas.
    Next to the Lady's Chamber was deposited the Body of an Irish Gentleman, who
arrived too late at the Inn to have been mentioned before. This Gentleman was
one of those whom the Irish call a Calabalaro, or Cavalier. He was a younger
Brother of a good Family, and having no Fortune at Home, was obliged to look
abroad in order to get one: For which Purpose he was proceeding to the Bath to
try his Luck with Cards and the Women.
    This young Fellow lay in Bed reading one of Mrs. Behn's Novels; for he had
been instructed by a Friend, that he would find no more effectual Method of
recommending himself to the Ladies than the improving his Understanding, and
filling his Mind with good Literature. He no sooner, therefore, heard the
violent Uproar in the next Room, than he leapt from his Bolster, and taking his
Sword in one Hand, and the Candle which burnt by him in the other, he went
directly to Mrs. Waters's Chamber.
    If the Sight of another Man in his Shirt at first added some Shock to the
Decency of the Lady, it made her presently Amends by considerably abating her
Fears; for no sooner had the Calabalaro enter'd the Room, than he cry'd 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 ownself, 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, tho' 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 cry'd, »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 cry'd, »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 wou'd 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 enough 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 tho' 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 stopped 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
Curt'sies, took her Leave.
 

                                  Chapter III

A Dialogue between the Landlady, and Susan the Chambermaid, proper to be read by
all Innkeepers, and their Servants; with the Arrival, and affable Behaviour of a
beautiful young Lady; which may teach Persons of Condition how they may acquire
                          the Love of the whole World.
 
The Landlady remembering that Susan had been the only Person out of Bed when the
Door was burst open, resorted presently to her, to enquire into the first
Occasion of the Disturbance, as well as who the strange Gentleman was, and when
and how he arrived.
    Susan related the whole Story which the Reader knows already, varying the
Truth only in some Circumstances, as she saw convenient, and totally concealing
the Money which she had received. But whereas her Mistress had in the Preface to
her Enquiry spoken much in Compassion for the Fright which the Lady had been in
concerning any intended Depredations on her Virtue, Susan could not help
endeavouring to quiet the Concern which her Mistress seemed to be under on that
Account, by swearing heartily she saw Jones leap out from her Bed.
    The Landlady fell into a violent Rage at these Words. »A likely Story
truly,« cried she, »that a Woman should cry out, and endeavour to expose
herself, if that was the Case! I desire to know what better Proof any Lady can
give of her Virtue than her crying out, which, I believe, twenty People can
witness for her she did? I beg, Madam, you would spread no such Scandal of any
of my Guests: For it will not only reflect on them, but upon the House; and I am
sure no Vagabonds, nor wicked beggarly People come here.«
    »Well,« says Susan, »then I must not believe my own Eyes.« »No, indeed must
you not always,« answered her Mistress, »I would not have believed my own Eyes
against such good Gentlefolks. I have not had a better Supper ordered this half
Year than they ordered last Night, and so easy and good-humoured were they, that
they found no Fault with my Worcestershire Perry, which I sold them for
Champagne; and to be sure it is as well tasted, and as wholesome as the best
Champagne in the Kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it 'em, and they drank
me two Bottles. No, no, I will never believe any Harm of such sober good Sort of
People.«
    Susan being thus silenced, her Mistress proceeded to other Matters. »And so
you tell me,« continued she, »That the strange Gentleman came Post, and there is
a Footman without with the Horses; why then, he is certainly some of your great
Gentlefolks too. Why did not you ask him whether he'd have any Supper? I think
he is in the other Gentleman's Room, go up and ask whether he called. Perhaps
he'll order something when he finds any Body 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 any Thing.«
    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 errant 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 tho', 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 if, 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
Kitchin. He had been first awake 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
Kitchin.
    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 Curt'sies, 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 my self a few Minutes at your Kitchin
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 any Thing, 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 a many other great
Gentlefolks of Quality.«
    Susan answered, »That the Irish Gentlemen were got into the Wild-goose.«
    »Was ever any Thing 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 Kitchin 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 ecchoed
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.
Hussy.15 It is equally sure to set off every Female Perfection to the highest
Advantage, and to palliate and conceal every Defect. A short Reflection which we
could not forbear making in this Place, where my Reader hath seen the Loveliness
of an affable Deportment; and Truth will now oblige us to contrast it, by
showing the Reverse.
 

                                   Chapter IV

  Containing infallible Nostrums for procuring universal Disesteem and Hatred.
 
The Lady had no sooner laid herself on her Pillow, than the Waiting-woman
returned to the Kitchin to regale with some of those Dainties which her Mistress
had refused.
    The Company at her Entrance, showed 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 tho'
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
Grid-iron, my Landlady would nevertheless have undertaken to do all within the
Time; but the Guest being unfortunately admitted behind the Scenes, must have
been Witness to the Fourberie, the poor Woman was therefore obliged to confess
that she had none in the House; »but, Madam,« said she, »I can get any kind of
Mutton in an Instant from the Butcher's.«
    »Do you think then,« answered the Waiting-Gentlewoman, »that I have the
Stomach of a Horse to eat Mutton at this Time of Night? Sure you People that
keep Inns imagine your Betters are like yourselves. Indeed I expected to get
nothing at this wretched Place. I wonder my Lady would stop at it. I suppose
none but Tradesmen and Grasiers ever call here.« The Landlady fired at this
Indignity offered to her House; however she suppressed her Temper, and contented
herself with saying, »Very good Quality frequented it, she thanked Heaven!«
»Don't tell me,« cries the other, »of Quality! I believe I know more of People
of Quality than such as you. - But, prithee, without troubling me with any of
your Impertinence, do tell me what I can have for Supper; for tho' 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 any Thing 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 stopped 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 every thing 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 tho' 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 Kitchin, 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 Kitchin 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 any body 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 causalis 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, every body doth not know him to be Squire Allworthy's Son; for he was
never married to his Mother; but his Son he certainly is, and will be his Heir
too as certainly as his Name is Jones.« At that Word, Abigail let drop the
Bacon, which she was conveying to her Mouth, and cried out, »You surprise me,
Sir. Is it possible Mr. Jones should be now in the House?« »Quare non?« answered
Partridge, »it is possible, and it is certain.«
    Abigail now made Haste to finish the Remainder of her Meal, and then
repaired back to her Mistress, when the Conversation passed, which may be read
in the next Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter V

          Shewing who the amiable Lady, and her unamiable Maid, were.
 
As in the Month of June, the Damask Rose, which Chance hath planted among the
Lillies 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 Kitchin 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
surprise the Reader) not only bespattered the Maid, but attempted to sully the
Lilly-white Character of Sophia herself. »Never a Barrel the better Herring,«
cries he. »Noscitur a socio, is a true Saying. It must be confessed indeed that
the Lady in the fine Garments is the civiller of the two; but I warrant neither
of them are a Bit better than they should be. A Couple of Bath Trulls, I'll
answer for them; your Quality don't ride about at this Time o' Night without
Servants.« »Sbodlikins, and that's true,« cries the Landlady, »you have
certainly hit upon the very Matter; for Quality don't come into a House without
bespeaking a Supper, whether they eat or no.«
    While they were thus discoursing, Mrs. Honour returned, and discharged her
Commission, by bidding the Landlady immediately wake Mr. Jones, and tell him a
Lady wanted to speak with him. The Landlady referred her to Partridge, saying,
»he was the Squire's Friend; but, for her Part, she never called Men Folks,
especially Gentlemen,« and then walked sullenly out of the Kitchin. 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 saucy 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, every thing within his Knowledge.
    While Sophia tormented with Anxiety, knew not what to believe, nor what
Resolution to take, Susan arrived with the Sack-Whey. Mrs. Honour immediately
advised her Mistress, in a Whisper, to pump this Wench, who probably could
inform her of the Truth. Sophia approved it, and began as follows: »Come hither,
Child, now answer me truly what I am going to ask you, and I promise you I will
very well reward you. Is there a young Gentleman in this House, a handsome young
Gentleman that -« Here Sophia blushed and was confounded. - »A young Gentleman,«
cries Honour, »that came hither in Company with that saucy Rascal who is now in
the Kitchin?« Susan answered, »There was.« - »Do you know any Thing 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. Harkee,
Child,« says she, »Is not that very young Gentleman now in Bed with some nasty
Trull or other?« Here Susan smiled, and was silent. »Answer the Question,
Child,« says Sophia, »and here's a Guinea for you.« »A Guinea! Madam,« cries
Susan; »La, what's a Guinea? If my Mistress should know it, I shall certainly
lose my Place that very Instant.« »Here's another for you,« says Sophia, »and I
promise you faithfully your Mistress shall never know it.« Susan, after a very
short Hesitation, took the Money, and told the whole Story, concluding with
saying, »If you have any great Curiosity, Madam, I can steal softly into his
Room, and see whether he be in his own Bed or no.« She accordingly did this by
Sophia's Desire, and returned with an Answer in the Negative.
    Sophia now trembled and turned pale. Mrs. Honour begged her to be comforted,
and not to think any more of so worthless a Fellow. »Why there,« says Susan, »I
hope, Madam, your Ladyship won't be offended; but pray, Madam, is not your
Ladyship's Name Madam Sophia Western?« »How is it possible you should know me?«
answered Sophia. »Why that Man that the Gentlewoman spoke of, who is in the
Kitchin, 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
Kitchin, that Madam Sophia Western - Indeed I don't know how to bring it out.« -
Here she stopped, till having received Encouragement from Sophia, and being
vehemently pressed by Mrs. Honour, she proceeded thus: - »He told us, Madam,
tho' to be sure it is all a Lie, that your Ladyship was dying for Love of the
young Squire, and that he was going to the Wars to get rid of you. I thought to
myself then he was a false-hearted Wretch; but now to see such a fine, rich,
beautiful Lady as you be forsaken for such an ordinary Woman; for to be sure so
she is, and another Man's Wife into the Bargain. It is such a strange unnatural
thing, in a Manner.«
    Sophia gave her a third Guinea, and telling her she would certainly be her
Friend, if she mentioned nothing of what had passed, nor informed any one who
she was, dismissed the Girl with Orders to the Post-Boy to get the Horses ready
immediately.
    Being now left alone with her Maid, she told her trusty Waiting-woman, »That
she never was more easy than at present. I am now convinced,« said she, »he is
not only a Villain, but a low despicable Wretch. I can forgive all rather than
his exposing my Name in so barbarous a Manner. That renders him the Object of my
Contempt. Yes, Honour, I am now easy. I am indeed. I am very easy,« and then she
burst into a violent Flood of Tears.
    After a short Interval, spent by Sophia, chiefly in crying and assuring her
Maid that she was perfectly easy, Susan arrived with an Account that the Horses
were ready, when a very extraordinary Thought suggested itself to our young
Heroine, by which Mr. Jones would be acquainted with her having been at the Inn,
in a Way, which, if any Sparks of Affection for her remained in him, would be at
least some Punishment for his Faults.
    The Reader will be pleased to remember a little Muff, which hath had the
Honour of being more than once remembered already in this History. This Muff,
ever since the Departure of Mr. Jones, had been the constant Companion of Sophia
by Day, and her Bedfellow by Night, and this Muff she had at this very Instant
upon her Arm; whence she took it off with great Indignation, and having writ her
Name with her Pencil upon a Piece of Paper which she pinned to it, she bribed
the Maid to convey it into the empty Bed of Mr. Jones, in which, if he did not
find it, she charged her to take some Method of conveying it before his Eyes in
the Morning.
    Then having paid for what Mrs. Honour had eaten, in which Bill was included
an Account for what she herself might have eaten, she mounted her Horse, and
once more assuring her Companion that she was perfectly easy, continued her
Journey.
 

                                   Chapter VI

   Containing, among other Things, the Ingenuity of Partridge, the Madness of
                      Jones, and the Folly of Fitzpatrick.
 
It was now past Five in the Morning, and other Company began to rise and come to
the Kitchin, 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 tho' 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 every body knows your Honour wants for nothing at
home; when that's the Case, why should any Man travel abroad?«
    »Partridge,« cries Jones, »thou art certainly a Coward, I wish therefore
thou would'st 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 Clothes. »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 Kitchin, 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 down Stairs; both complaining, that they had been so
often waked by the Noises in the Inn, that they had never once been able to
close their Eyes all Night.
    The Coach, which had brought the young Lady and her Maid, and which,
perhaps, the Reader may have hitherto concluded was her own, was indeed a
returned Coach belonging to Mr. King of Bath, one of the worthiest and honestest
Men that ever dealt in Horse-flesh, and whose Coaches we heartily recommend to
all our Readers who travel that Road. By which Means they may, perhaps, have the
Pleasure of riding in the very Coach, and being driven by the very Coachman,
that is recorded in this History.
    The Coachman having but two Passengers, and hearing Mr. Maclachlan was bound
to Bath, offered to carry him thither at a very moderate Price. He was induced
to this by the Report of the Ostler, 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 Ostler, than it came into his Head that she might possibly be his Friend's
Wife; and presently acquainted him with this Suspicion, which had never once
occurred to Fitzpatrick himself. To say the Truth, he was one of those
Compositions which Nature makes up in too great a Hurry, and forgets to put any
Brains into their Head.
    Now it happens to this Sort of Men, as to bad Hounds, who never hit off a
Fault themselves; but no sooner doth a Dog of Sagacity open his Mouth, than they
immediately do the same, and without the Guidance of any Scent, run directly
forwards as fast as they are able. In the same Manner, the very Moment Mr.
Maclachlan had mentioned his Apprehension, Mr. Fitzpatrick instantly concurred,
and flew directly up Stairs to surprise 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 Kitchin, where, as if this had been a real
Chace, entered a Gentleman hallowing as Hunters do when the Hounds are at a
Fault. He was just alighted from his Horse, and had many Attendants at his
Heels.
    Here, Reader, it may be necessary to acquaint thee with some Matters, which,
if thou dost know already, thou art wiser than I take thee to be. And this
Information thou shalt receive in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VII

    In which are concluded the Adventures that happened at the Inn at Upton.
 
In the first Place then, this Gentleman just arrived was no other Person than
Squire Western himself, who was come hither in Pursuit of his Daughter; and had
he fortunately been two Hours earlier, he had not only found her, but his Niece
into the Bargain; for such was the Wife of Mr. Fitzpatrick, who had run away
with her five Years before, out of the Custody of that sage Lady Madam Western.
    Now this Lady had departed from the Inn much about at 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 apprised 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 tho' 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 Kitchin 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
any thing 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, stepped
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 Bed-side 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, showing 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 tho' the latter seemed now in more Danger than before, yet as the former
was secure, the Lady screamed not with such Violence as she had done on the
other Occasion. However, she no sooner found herself alone, than she abandoned
all Thoughts of further Repose, and as she had sufficient Reason to be
dissatisfied with her present Lodging, she dressed herself with all possible
Expedition.
    Mr. Western now proceeded to search the whole House, but to as little
Purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs. Waters. He then returned disconsolate into
the Kitchin, where he found Jones in the Custody of his Servants.
    This violent Uproar had raised all the People in the House; tho' it was yet
scarcely Day-light. 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 choosing 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, tho' 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 Clothes; in Return for which she was contented
only to receive about double their Value, as a Recompence for the Loan. Upon the
Road she was perfectly reconciled to Mr. Fitzpatrick, who was a very handsome
Fellow, and indeed did all she could to console him in the Absence of his Wife.
    Thus ended the many odd Adventures which Mr. Jones encountered at his Inn at
Upton, where they talk, to this Day, of the Beauty and lovely Behaviour of the
charming Sophia, by the Name of the Somersetshire Angel.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                      In which the History goes backward.
 
Before we proceed any farther in our History, it may be proper to look a little
back, in order to account for the extraordinary Appearance of Sophia and her
Father at the Inn at Upton.
    The Reader may be pleased to remember, that in the Ninth Chapter of the
Seventh Book of our History, we left Sophia, after a long Debate between Love
and Duty, deciding the Cause, as it usually, I believe, happens, in Favour of
the Former.
    This Debate had arisen, as we have there shown, from a Visit which her
Father had just before made her, in order to force her Consent to a Marriage
with Blifil; and which he had understood to be fully implied in her
Acknowledgment, that she neither must, nor could refuse any absolute Command of
his.
    Now from this Visit the Squire retired to his Evening Potation, overjoyed at
the Success he had gained with his Daughter; and as he was of a social
Disposition, and willing to have Partakers in his Happiness, the Beer was
ordered to flow very liberally into the Kitchin; 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 dispatched to summon Mr. Blifil: For
tho' 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, Shakespeare, 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, faltering Tongue, and trembling Limbs,
 
(E'en such a Man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in Look, so woe-be-gone,
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 any Thing at a Distance, but was most sagacious in immediately seeing
every Thing 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 whileom did Hercules that of
Hylas: And as the Poet tells us, that the whole Shore ecchoed 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 no Body to thank but yourself. You know she hath been
educated always in a Manner directly contrary to my Advice, and now you see the
Consequence. Have I not a thousand Times argued with you about giving my Niece
her own Will? But you know I never could prevail upon you: And when I had taken
so much Pains to eradicate her headstrong Opinions, and to rectify your Errors
in Policy, you know she was taken out of my Hands; so that I have nothing to
answer for. Had I been trusted entirely with the Care of her Education, no such
Accident as this had ever befallen you: So that you must comfort yourself by
thinking it was all your own Doing; and, indeed, what else could be expected
from such Indulgence?« -
    »Zounds! Sister,« answered he, »you are enough to make one mad. Have I
indulged her? Have I given her her Will? - It was no longer ago than last Night
that I threatened, if she disobeyed me, to confine her to her Chamber upon Bread
and Water, as long as she lived. - You would provoke the Patience of Job.«
    »Did ever Mortal hear the like?« replied she. »Brother, if I had not the
Patience of fifty Jobs, you would make me forget all Decency and Decorum. Why
would you interfere? Did I not beg you, did I not entreat 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
Ciracessian16 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
remembering that it is all your own Fault. How often have I advised -« Here
Western rose hastily from his Chair, and, venting two or three horrid
Imprecations, ran out of the Room.
    When he was departed, his Sister expressed more Bitterness (if possible)
against him, than she had done while he was present; for the Truth of which she
appealed to Mr. Blifil, who, with great Complacence, acquiesced entirely in all
she said; but excused all the Faults of Mr. Western, »as they must be
considered,« he said, »to have proceeded from the too inordinate Fondness of a
Father, which must be allowed the Name of an amiable Weakness.« »So much the
more inexcusable,« answer'd 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 inexcusable to have proceeded so far without better Assurances of his
Daughter's Consent: »But he was (says she) always of a violent, headstrong
Temper; and I can scarce forgive myself for all the Advice I have thrown away
upon him.«
    After much of this Kind of Conversation, which, perhaps, would not greatly
entertain the Reader, was it here particularly related, Mr. Blifil took his
Leave, and returned home, not highly pleased with his Disappointment; which,
however, the Philosophy which he had acquired from Square, and the Religion
infused into him by Thwackum, together with somewhat else, taught him to bear
rather better than more passionate Lovers bear these Kinds of Evils.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                             The Escape of Sophia.
 
It is now Time to look after Sophia; whom the Reader, if he loves her half so
well as I do, will rejoice to find escaped from the Clutches of her passionate
Father, and from those of her dispassionate Lover.
    Twelve Times did the iron Register of Time beat on the sonorous Bell-metal,
summoning the Ghosts to rise, and walk their nightly Round. - In plainer
Language, it was Twelve o'Clock, and all the Family, as we have said, lay buried
in Drink and Sleep, except only Mrs. Western, who was deeply engaged in reading
a political Pamphlet, and except our Heroine, who now softly stole down Stairs,
and having unbarred and unlocked one of the House Doors, sallied forth, and
hastened to the Place of Appointment.
    Notwithstanding the many pretty Arts, which Ladies sometimes practise, to
display their Fears on every little Occasion, (almost as many as the other Sex
uses to conceal theirs) certainly there is a Degree of Courage, which not only
becomes a Woman, but is often necessary to enable her to discharge her Duty. It
is, indeed, the Idea of Fierceness, and not of Bravery, which destroys the
Female Character: For who can read the Story of the justly celebrated Arria,
without conceiving as high an Opinion of her Gentleness and Tenderness, as of
her Fortitude? At the same Time, perhaps, many a Woman who shrieks at a Mouse,
or a Rat, may be capable of poisoning a Husband; or, what is worse, of driving
him to poison himself.
    Sophia, with all the Gentleness which a Woman can have, had all the Spirit
which she ought to have. When, therefore, she came to the Place of Appointment,
and, instead of meeting her Maid, as was agreed, saw a Man ride directly up to
her, she neither screamed out, nor fainted away: Not that her Pulse then beat
with its usual Regularity; for she was, at first, under some Surprise 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 through they knew
which Way she had gone. But Sophia had too much at Stake to venture any Thing 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 Burthen; 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 Ancients 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 tho' 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 Master'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 Hambrook17 at the Break of Day, where Honour was
against her Will charged to enquire the Rout which Mr. Jones had taken. Of this,
indeed, the Guide himself could have informed them; but Sophia, I know not for
what Reason, never asked him the Question.
    When Mrs. Honour had made her Report from the Landlord, Sophia, with much
Difficulty, procured some indifferent Horses, which brought her to the Inn,
where Jones had been confined rather by the Misfortune of meeting with a
Surgeon, than by having met with a broken Head.
    Here Honour being again charged with a Commission of Enquiry, had no sooner
applied herself to the Landlady, and had described the Person of Mr. Jones, than
that sagacious Woman began, in the vulgar Phrase, to smell a Rat. When Sophia
therefore entered the Room, instead of answering the Maid, the Landlady
addressing herself to the Mistress, began the following Speech.
»Good-lack-a-day! why there now, who would have thought it! I protest the
loveliest Couple that ever Eye beheld. I-fackins, Madam, it is no Wonder the
Squire run on so about your Ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest Lady
in the World, and to be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor Heart, I bepitied
him, so I did, when he used to hug his Pillow, and call it his dear Madam Sophia
. - I did all I could to dissuade him from going to the Wars; I told him there
were Men enough 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 any Thing 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 dropped, 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 Alehouse.«
    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 beforementioned, had dined there with Mr. Jones. This
Fellow being well known to Mrs. Honour, stopped 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) press'd her very heartily to stay that Evening at
Gloucester.
    Having refreshed herself only with some Tea, and with lying about two Hours
on the Bed, while her Horses were getting ready, she resolutely left Mrs.
Whitefield's about eleven at Night, and striking directly into the Worcester
Road, within less than four Hours arrived at that very Inn where we last saw
her.
    Having thus traced our Heroine very particularly back from her Departure,
till her Arrival at Upton, we shall in a very few Words, bring her Father to the
same Place; who having received the first Scent from the Post-boy, who conducted
his Daughter to Hambrook, very easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester;
whence he pursued her to Upton, as he had learned Mr. Jones had taken that Rout
(for Partridge, to use the Squire's Expression, left every where 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 would understand it, will
easily suggest it to themselves.
 

                                    Book XI

                          Containing about three Days.
 

                                   Chapter I

                            A Crust for the Critics.
 
In our last initial Chapter, we may be supposed to have treated that formidable
Set of Men, who are called Critics, with more Freedom than becomes us; since
they exact, and indeed generally receive, great Condescension from Authors. We
shall in this, therefore, give the Reasons of our Conduct to this august Body;
and here we shall perhaps place them in a Light, in which they have not hitherto
been seen.
    This Word Critic is of Greek Derivation, and signifies Judgement. 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 judgement in
the legal Sense, in which it is frequently used as equivalent to Condemnation.
    I am the rather inclined to be of that Opinion, as the greatest Number of
Critics hath of late Years been found amongst the Lawyers. Many of these
Gentlemen, from Despair, perhaps, of ever rising to the Bench in
Westminster-hall, have placed themselves on the Benches at the Playhouse, where
they have exerted their judicial Capacity, and have given judgement, i.e.
condemned without Mercy.
    The Gentlemen would perhaps be well enough pleased, if we were to leave them
thus compared to one of the most important and honourable Offices in the
Commonwealth, and if we intended to apply to their Favour we would do so; but as
we design to deal very sincerely and plainly too with them, we must remind them
of another Officer of Justice of a much lower Rank; to whom, as they not only
pronounce, but execute their own judgement, they bear likewise some remote
Resemblance.
    But in reality there is another Light in which these modern Critics may with
great Justice and Propriety be seen; and this is that of a common Slanderer. If
a Person who prys into the Characters of others, with no other Design but to
discover their Faults, and to publish them to the World, deserves the Title of a
Slanderer of the Reputations of Men; why should not a Critic, who reads with the
same malevolent View, be as properly stiled the Slanderer of the Reputation of
Books?
    Vice hath not, I believe, a more abject Slave; Society produces not a more
odious Vermin; nor can the Devil receive a Guest more worthy of him, nor
possibly more welcome to him, than a Slanderer. The World, I am afraid, regards
not this Monster with half the Abhorrence which he deserves, and I am more
afraid to assign the Reason of this criminal Lenity shown towards him; yet it is
certain that the Thief looks innocent in the Comparison; nay, the Murderer
himself can seldom stand in Competition with his Guilt: For Slander is a more
cruel Weapon than a Sword, as the Wounds which the former gives are always
incurable. One Method, indeed, there is of killing, and that the basest and most
execrable of all, which bears an exact Analogy to the Vice here disclaimed
against, and that is Poison. A Means of Revenge so base, and yet so horrible,
that it was once wisely distinguished by our Laws from all other Murders, in the
peculiar Severity of the Punishment.
    Besides the dreadful Mischiefs done by Slander, and the Baseness of the
Means by which they are effected, there are other Circumstances that highly
aggravate its atrocious Quality: For it often proceeds from no Provocation, and
seldom promises itself any Reward, unless some black and infernal Mind may
propose a Reward in the Thoughts of having procured the Ruin and Misery of
another.
    Shakespeare 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, etc. to a
Book, without calling the Author a Blockhead; which tho' 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 Ancients, 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, da-d Stuff, etc. and particularly by the Use of the
Monosyllable LOW; a Word which becomes the Mouth of no Critic who is not RIGHT
HONOURABLE.
    Again, tho' 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
judgement 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
every Thing human, is to be tried in this Manner. Cruel indeed would it be if
such a Work as this History, which hath employed some Thousands of Hours in the
composing, should be liable to be condemned, because some particular Chapter, or
perhaps Chapters, may be obnoxious to very just and sensible Objections. And yet
nothing is more common than the most rigorous Sentence upon Books supported by
such Objections, which if they were rightly taken (and that they are not always)
do by no Means go to the Merit of the whole. In the Theatre especially, a single
Expression which doth not coincide with the Taste of the Audience, or with any
individual Critic of that Audience, is sure to be hissed; and one Scene which
should be disapproved, would hazard the whole Piece. To write within such severe
Rules as these, is as impossible, as to live up to some splenetic Opinions; and
if we judge according to the Sentiments of some Critics, and of some Christians,
no Author will be saved in this World, and no Man in the next.
 

                                   Chapter II

         The Adventures which Sophia met with, after her leaving Upton.
 
Our History, just before it was obliged to turn about, and travel backwards, had
mentioned the Departure of Sophia and her Maid from the Inn; we shall now
therefore pursue the Steps of that lovely Creature, and leave her unworthy Lover
a little longer to bemoan his Ill-Luck, or rather his ill Conduct.
    Sophia having directed her Guide to travel through Bye-Roads across the
Country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce got a Mile from the Inn,
when the young Lady, looking behind her, saw several Horses coming after on full
Speed. This greatly alarmed her Fears, and she called to the Guide to put on as
fast as possible.
    He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full Gallop. But the faster
they went, the faster were they followed; and as the Horses behind were somewhat
swifter than those before, so the former were at length overtaken. A happy
Circumstance for poor Sophia; whose Fears, joined to her Fatigue, had almost
overpowered her Spirits; but she was now instantly relieved by a female Voice,
that greeted her in the softest Manner, and with the utmost Civility. This
Greeting, Sophia, as soon as she could recover her Breath, with like Civility,
and with the highest Satisfaction to herself, returned.
    The Travellers who joined Sophia, and who had given her such Terror,
consisted, like her own Company, of two Females and a Guide. The two Parties
proceeded three full Miles together before any one offered again to open their
Mouths; when our Heroine having pretty well got the better of her Fear; but yet
being somewhat surprised 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 tho' Sophia had great
Curiosity to know why the other Lady continued to travel on through the same
Bye-Roads with herself, nay, tho' 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 tye 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.
    Tho' 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 over-grown 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.
    Day-light at length appeared in its full Lustre; and now the two Ladies, who
were riding over a Common Side by Side, looking steadfastly at each other, at the
same Moment both their Eyes became fixed; both their Horses stopped, and both
speaking together, with equal Joy pronounced, the one the Name of Sophia, the
other that of Harriet.
    This unexpected Encounter surprised 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 Surprise 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 Burthen, 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 Complaisance, 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 stopped 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 Curt'sies 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 Kitchin, he began to examine who the Ladies
were, and whence they came; but the Guides, tho' they faithfully related all
they knew, gave him very little Satisfaction. On the contrary, they rather
enflamed his Curiosity than extinguished it.
    This Landlord had the Character, among all his Neighbours, of being a very
sagacious Fellow. He was thought to see farther and deeper into Things than any
Man in the Parish, the Parson himself not excepted. Perhaps his Look had
contributed not a little to procure him this Reputation; for there was in this
something wonderfully wise and significant, especially when he had a Pipe in his
Mouth; which, indeed, he seldom was without. His Behaviour, likewise, greatly
assisted in promoting the Opinion of his Wisdom. In his Deportment he was
solemn, if not sullen; and when he spoke, which was seldom, he always delivered
himself in a slow Voice; and though his Sentences were short, they were still
interrupted with many Hums and Ha's, Ay, Ays, and other Expletives: So that
though he accompanied his Words with certain explanatory Gestures, such as
shaking, or nodding the Head, or pointing with his Forefinger, 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 politic Person now taking his Wife aside, asked her, »What she thought
of the Ladies lately arrived?« »Think of them!« said the Wife, »why what should
I think of them?« »I know,« answered he, »what I think. The Guides tell strange
Stories. One pretends to be come from Gloucester, and the other from Upton; and
neither of them, for what I can find, can tell whither they are going. But what
People ever travel across the Country from Upton hither, especially to London?
And one of the Maid-Servants, before she alighted from her Horse, asked, if this
was not the London Road? Now I have put all these Circumstances together, and
whom do you think I have found them out to be?« »Nay,« answered she, »you know I
never pretend to guess at your Discoveries.« - »It is a good Girl,« replied he,
chucking her under the Chin; »I must own you have always submitted to my
Knowledge of these Matters. Why then, depend upon it; mind what I say, - depend
upon it, they are certainly some of the Rebel Ladies, who, they say, travel with
the young Chevalier; and have taken a 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 tender-hearted. Why you would
not harbour Rebels, would you?« »No, certainly,« answered the Wife; »and as for
betraying her, come what will on't, Nobody can blame us. It is what any body
would do in our Case.«
    While our politic Landlord, who had not, we see, undeservedly the Reputation
of great Wisdom among his Neighbours, was engaged in debating this Matter with
himself, (for he paid little Attention to the Opinion of his Wife) News arrived
that the Rebels had given the Duke the Slip, and had got a Day's March towards
London; and soon after arrived a famous Jacobite Squire, who, with great Joy in
his Countenance, shook the Landlord by the Hand, saying, »All's our own, Boy,
ten thousand honest Frenchmen are landed in Suffolk. Old England for ever! Ten
thousand French, my brave Lad! I am going to tap away directly.«
    This News determined the Opinion of the wise Man, and he resolved to make
his Court to the young Lady, when she arose; for he had now (he said) discovered
that she was no other than Madam Jenny Cameron herself.
 

                                  Chapter III

 A very short Chapter, in which however is a Sun, a Moon, a Star, and an Angel.
 
The Sun (for he keeps very good Hours at this Time of the Year) had been some
Time retired to Rest, when Sophia arose greatly refreshed by her Sleep; which,
short as it was, nothing but her extreme Fatigue could have occasioned; for tho'
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 any thing) by the
Fever on the Spirits.
    Mrs. Fitzpatrick likewise left her Bed at the same Time; and having summoned
her Maid, immediately dressed herself. She was really a very pretty Woman, and
had she been in any other Company but that of Sophia, might have been thought
beautiful; but when Mrs. Honour of her own Accord attended (for her Mistress
would not suffer her to be waked) and had equipped our Heroine, the Charms of
Mrs. Fitzpatrick who had performed the Office of the Morning Star, and had
preceded greater Glories, shared the Fate of that Star, and were totally
eclipsed the Moment those Glories shone forth.
    Perhaps Sophia never looked more beautiful than she did at this Instant. We
ought not therefore to condemn the Maid of the Inn for her Hyperbole; who when
she descended, after having lighted the Fire, declared, and ratified it with an
Oath, that if ever there was an Angel upon Earth, she was now above Stairs.
    Sophia had acquainted her Cousin with her Design to go to London; and Mrs.
Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her; for the Arrival of her Husband at Upton
had put an End to her Design of going to Bath, or to her Aunt Western. They had
therefore no sooner finished their Tea, than Sophia proposed to set out, the
Moon then shining extremely bright, and as for the Frost she defied it; nor had
she any of those Apprehensions which many young Ladies would have felt at
travelling by Night; for she had, as we have before observed, some little Degree
of natural Courage; and this her present Sensations, which bordered somewhat on
Despair, greatly increased. 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 tho' the greater
Terrors had conquered the less, and the Presence of her Husband had driven her
away at so unseasonable an Hour from Upton, yet being now arrived at a Place
where she thought herself safe from his Pursuit, these lesser Terrors of I know
not what, operated so strongly, that she earnestly entreated her Cousin to stay
till the next Morning, and not expose herself to the Dangers of travelling by
Night.
    Sophia, who was yielding to an Excess, when she could neither laugh nor
reason her Cousin out of these Apprehensions, at last gave Way to them. Perhaps
indeed, had she known of her Father's Arrival at Upton, it might have been more
difficult to have persuaded her; for as to Jones, she had, I am afraid, no great
Horror at the Thoughts of being overtaken by him; nay, to confess the Truth, I
believe she rather wished than feared it; though I might honestly enough have
concealed this Wish from the Reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous
Emotions of the Soul, to which the Reason is often a Stranger.
    When our young Ladies had determined to remain all that Evening in their
Inn, they were attended by the Landlady, who desired to know what their
Ladyships would be pleased to eat. Such Charms were there in the Voice, in the
Manner, and in the affable Deportment of Sophia, that she ravished the Landlady
to the highest Degree; and that good Woman, concluding that she had attended
Jenny Cameron, became in a Moment a staunch Jacobite, and wished heartily well
to the young Pretender's Cause, from the great Sweetness and Affability with
which she had been treated by his supposed Mistress.
    The two Cousins began now to impart to each other their reciprocal
Curiosity, to know what extraordinary Accidents on both Sides occasioned this so
strange and unexpected Meeting. At last Mrs. Fitzpatrick, having obtained of
Sophia a Promise of communicating likewise in her Turn, began to relate what the
Reader, if he is desirous to know her History, may read in the ensuing Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter IV

                        The History of Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
 
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, after a Silence of a few Moments, fetching a deep Sigh, thus
began:
    »It is natural to the Unhappy to feel a secret Concern in recollecting those
Periods of their Lives which have been most delightful to them. The Remembrance
of past Pleasures affects us with a kind of tender Grief, like what we suffer
for departed Friends; and the Ideas of both may be said to haunt our
Imaginations.
    For this Reason, I never reflect without Sorrow on those Days (the happiest
far of my Life) which we spent together, when both were under the Care of my
Aunt Western. Alas! why are Miss Graveairs, and Miss Giddy no more. You
remember, I am sure, when we knew each other by no other Names. Indeed you gave
me the latter Appellation with too just Cause. I have since experienced how much
I deserved it. You, my Sophia, was always my Superior in every thing, 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 blessed 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 stopped, 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, degagé, 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 every Thing 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 publicly to affront him. Had it not been for some
such Reason, I believe he would have been soon expelled by his own Sex; for
surely he had no strict Title to be preferred to the English Gentry; nor did
they seem inclined to show him any extraordinary Favour. They all abused him
behind his Back, which might probably proceed from Envy; for by the Women he was
well received, and very particularly distinguished by them.
    My Aunt, tho' no Person of Quality herself, as she had always lived about
the Court, was enrolled in that Party: For by whatever Means you get into the
Polite Circle, when you are once there, it is sufficient Merit for you that you
are there. This Observation, young as you was, you could scarce avoid making
from my Aunt, who was free, or reserved, with all People, just as they had more
or less of this Merit.
    And this Merit, I believe, it was, which principally recommended Mr.
Fitzpatrick to her Favour. In which he so well succeeded, that he was always one
of her private Parties. Nor was he backward in returning such Distinction; for
he soon grew so very particular in his Behaviour to her, that the Scandal Club
first began to take Notice of it, and the better disposed Persons made a Match
between them. For my own Part, I confess, I made no Doubt but that his Designs
were strictly honourable, as the Phrase is; that is, to rob a Lady of her
Fortune by Way of Marriage. My Aunt was, I conceived, neither young enough nor
handsome enough, to attract much wicked Inclination; but she had matrimonial
Charms in great Abundance.
    I was the more confirmed in this Opinion from the extraordinary Respect
which he showed to myself, from the first Moment of our Acquaintance. This I
understood as an Attempt to lessen, if possible, that Disinclination which my
Interest might be supposed to give me towards the Match; and I know not but in
some Measure it had that Effect: for as I was well contented with my own
Fortune, and of all People the least a Slave to interested Views, so I could not
be violently the Enemy of a Man with whose Behaviour to me I was greatly
pleased; and the more so, as I was the only Object of such Respect; for he
behaved at the same Time to many Women of Quality without any Respect at all.
    Agreeable as this was to me, he soon changed it into another Kind of
Behaviour, which was perhaps more so. He now put on much Softness and
Tenderness, and languished and sighed abundantly. At Times indeed, whether from
Art or Nature I will not determine, he gave his usual Loose to Gayety and Mirth;
but this was always in general Company, and with other Women; for even in a
Country Dance, when he was not my Partner, he became grave and put on the
softest Look imaginable, the Moment he approached me. Indeed he was in all
Things so very particular towards me, that I must have been blind not to have
discovered it. And, and, and -« »And you was more pleased still, my dear Harriet
,« cries Sophia; »you need not be ashamed,« added she sighing, »for sure there
are irresistible Charms in Tenderness, which too many Men are able to affect.«
»True,« answered her Cousin, »Men, who in all other Instances want common Sense,
are very Machiavels in the Art of Loving. I wish I did not know an Instance. -
Well, Scandal now began to be as busy with me as it had before been with my
Aunt, and some good Ladies did not scruple to affirm that Mr. Fitzpatrick had an
Intrigue with us both.
    But what may seem astonishing; my Aunt never saw, nor in the least seemed to
suspect that which was visible enough, I believe, from both our Behaviours. One
would indeed think, that Love quite puts out the Eyes of an old Woman. In Fact,
they so greedily swallow the Addresses which are made to them, that like an
outragious 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 tho' she often found us together
at her Return from the Pump, the least canting Word of his, pretending
Impatience at her Absence, effectually smothered all Suspicion. One Artifice
succeeded with her to Admiration. This was his treating me like a little Child,
and never calling me by any other Name in her Presence, but that of pretty Miss.
This indeed did him some Disservice with your humble Servant; but I soon saw
through it, especially as in her Absence he behaved to me, as I have said, in a
different Manner. However, if I was not greatly disobliged by a Conduct of which
I had discovered the Design, I smarted very severely for it: For my Aunt really
conceived me to be what her Lover (as she thought him) called me, and treated
me, in all Respects, as a perfect Infant. To say the Truth, I wonder she had not
insisted on my again wearing Leading-strings.
    At last, my Lover (for so he was) thought proper, in a most solemn Manner,
to disclose a Secret which I had known long before. He now placed all the Love
which he had pretended to my Aunt to my Account. He lamented, in very pathetic
Terms, the Encouragement she had given him, and made a high Merit of the tedious
Hours, in which he had undergone her Conversation. - What shall I tell you, my
dear Sophia? - Then I will confess the Truth. I was pleased with my Man. I was
pleased with my Conquest. To rival my Aunt delighted me; to rival so many other
Women charmed me. In short, I am afraid, I did not behave as I should do, even
upon the very first Declaration. - I wish I did not almost give him positive
Encouragement before we parted.
    The Bath now talked loudly, I might almost say, roared against me. Several
young Women affected to shun my Acquaintance, not so much, perhaps, from any
real Suspicion, as from a Desire of banishing me from a Company, in which I too
much engrossed their favourite Man. And here I cannot omit expressing my
Gratitude to the Kindness intended me by Mr. Nash; who took me one Day aside,
and gave me Advice, which if I had followed, I had been a happy Woman. Child,
says he, I am sorry to see the Familiarity which subsists between you and a
Fellow who is altogether unworthy of you, and I am afraid will prove your Ruin.
As for your old stinking Aunt, if it was to be no Injury to you, and my pretty
Sophy Western (I assure you I repeat his Words) I should be heartily glad, that
the Fellow was in Possession of all that belongs to her. I never advise old
Women: For if they take it into their Heads to go to the Devil, it is no more
possible, than worth while, to keep them from him. Innocence and Youth and
Beauty are worthy a better Fate, and I would save them from his Clutches. Let me
advise you therefore, dear Child; never suffer this Fellow to be particular with
you again. - Many more Things he said to me, which I have now forgotten, and
indeed I attended very little to them at 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 my self, and as much perhaps to avoid seeing any one else; for,
tho' I am told she hath since denied every thing 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, tho' 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 grosly in my Choice, if I had relied on my own judgement; but I
trusted totally to the Opinion of others, and very foolishly took the Merit of a
Man for granted, whom I saw so universally well received by the Women. What is
the Reason, my Dear, that we who have Understandings equal to the wisest and
greatest of the other Sex so often make Choice of the silliest Fellows for
Companions and Favourites? It raises my Indignation to the highest Pitch, to
reflect on the Numbers of Women of Sense who have been undone by Fools.« Here
she paused a Moment; but Sophia making no Answer, she proceeded as in the next
Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter V

             In which the History of Mrs. Fitzpatrick is continued.
 
»We remained at Bath no longer than a Fortnight after our Wedding: For as to any
Reconciliation with my Aunt, there were no Hopes; and of my Fortune, not one
Farthing could be touched till I was at 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 any Body, 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 carelesly 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 surprised you should use me in this Manner,
        as have never seen any of your Cash, unless for one Linsey Woolsey Coat,
        and your Bill now is upwards of 150 l. 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 tho'
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, tho' he did not appeal to it, had much
Weight with me in his Favour, and that was the Word Jointure in the Taylor's
Letter, whereas my Aunt never had been married, and this Mr. Fitzpatrick well
knew. - As I imagined therefore that the Fellow must have inserted this of his
own Head, or from Hearsay, I persuaded myself he might have ventured likewise on
that odious Line on no better Authority. What Reasoning was this, my Dear? Was I
not an Advocate rather than a Judge? - But why do I mention such a Circumstance
as this, or appeal to it for the Justification of my Forgiveness! - In short,
had he been guilty of twenty Times as much, half the Tenderness and Fondness
which he used, would have prevailed on me to have forgiven him. I now made no
farther Objections to our setting out, which we did the next Morning, and in a
little more than a Week arrived at the Seat of Mr. Fitzpatrick.
    Your Curiosity will excuse me from relating any Occurrences which past
during our Journey: For it would indeed be highly disagreeable to travel it over
again, and no less so to you to travel it over with me.
    This Seat then, is an ancient Mansion-House; if I was in one of those merry
Humours, in which you have so often seen me, I could describe it to you
ridiculously enough. It looked as if it had been formerly inhabited by a
Gentleman. Here was Room enough, and not the less Room on account of the
Furniture: For indeed there was very little in it. An old Woman who seemed
coeval with the Building, and greatly resembled her whom Chamont mentions in the
Orphan, received us at the Gate, and in a Howl scarce human, and to me
unintelligible, welcomed her Master home. In short, the whole Scene was so
gloomy and melancholy, that it threw my Spirits into the lowest Dejection; which
my Husband discerning, instead of relieving, increased, 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 you have perhaps never seen: For indeed no Woman ever sees it
exemplified, but in a Father, a Brother, or a Husband; and tho' 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 showing disagreeable Truth only at home?
Here, my Dear, they make themselves Amends for the uneasy Restraint which they
put on their Tempers in the World; for I have observed the more merry and gay,
and good-humoured my Husband hath at any Time been in Company, the more sullen
and morose he was sure to become at our next private Meeting. How shall I
describe his Barbarity? To my Fondness he was cold and insensible. My little
comical Ways, which you, my Sophy, and which others have called so agreeable, he
treated with Contempt. In my most serious Moments he sung and whistled; and
whenever I was thoroughly dejected and miserable, he was angry, and abused me:
for though he was never pleased with my good Humour, nor ascribed it to my
Satisfaction in him; yet my low Spirits always offended him, and those he
imputed to my Repentance of having (as he said) married an Irishman.
    You will easily conceive, my dear Graveairs; (I ask your Pardon, I really
forgot myself) that when a Woman makes an imprudent Match in the Sense of the
World; that is, when she is not an arrant Prostitute to pecuniary Interest, she
must necessarily have some Inclination and Affection for her Man. You will as
easily believe that this Affection may possibly be lessened; nay, I do assure
you, Contempt will wholly eradicate it. This Contempt I now began to entertain
for my Husband, whom I now discovered to be - I must use the Expression - an
arrant Blockhead. Perhaps you will wonder I did not make this Discovery long
before; but Women will suggest a thousand Excuses to themselves for the Folly of
those they like: Besides, give me Leave to tell you it requires a most
penetrating Eye to discern a Fool through the Disguises of Gayety and
Good-breeding.
    It will be easily imagined, that when I once despised my Husband, as I
confess to you I soon did, I must consequently dislike his Company; and indeed I
had the Happiness of being very little troubled with it; for our House was now
most elegantly furnished, our Cellars well stocked, and Dogs and Horses provided
in great Abundance. As my Gentleman therefore entertained his Neighbours with
great Hospitality, so his Neighbours resorted to him with great Alacrity; and
Sports and Drinking consumed so much of his Time, that a small Part of his
Conversation, that is to say, of his Ill-humours, fell to my Share.
    Happy would it have been for me, if I could as easily have avoided all other
disagreeable Company; but alas! I was confined to some which constantly
tormented me; and the more, as I saw no Prospect of being relieved from them.
These Companions were my own racking Thoughts, which plagued, and in a Manner
haunted me Night and Day. In this Situation I past through a Scene, the Horrors
of which can neither be painted nor imagined. Think, my Dear, figure, if you
can, to yourself what I must have undergone. I became a Mother by the Man I
scorned, hated, and detested. I went through all the Agonies and Miseries of a
Lying-in, (ten Times more painful in such a Circumstance, than the worst Labour
can be, when one endures it for a Man one loves) in a desert, or rather indeed a
Scene of Riot and Revel, without a Friend, without a Companion, or without any
of those agreeable Circumstances which often alleviate, and perhaps sometimes
more than compensate the Sufferings of our Sex at that Season.«
 

                                   Chapter VI

       In which the Mistake of the Landlord throws Sophia into a dreadful
                                 Consternation.
 
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was proceeding in her Narrative, when she was interrupted by
the Entrance of Dinner, greatly to the Concern of Sophia: For the Misfortunes of
her Friend had raised her Anxiety, and left her no Appetite, but what Mrs.
Fitzpatrick was to satisfy by her Relation.
    The Landlord now attended with a Plate under his Arm, and with the same
Respect in his Countenance and Address, which he would have put on, had the
Ladies arrived in a Coach and Six.
    The married Lady seemed less affected with her own Misfortunes than was her
Cousin: For the former eat very heartily, whereas the latter could hardly
swallow a Morsel. Sophia likewise showed more Concern and Sorrow in her
Countenance than appeared in the other Lady; who having observed these Symptoms
in her Friend, begged her to be comforted, saying, »Perhaps all may yet end
better than either you or I expect.«
    Our Landlord thought he had now an Opportunity to open his Mouth, and was
resolved not to omit it. »I am sorry, Madam,« cries he, »that your Ladyship
can't eat; for to be sure you must be hungry after so long fasting. I hope your
Ladyship is not uneasy at any Thing: For as Madam there says, all may end better
than any body 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, somewhat 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 runing 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 Fortune: 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 chide her Maid for the
Fright into which she had thrown her; and said, »she was glad it was no worse;
for that she had feared somebody else was come.«
    »Ay, ay,« quoth the Landlord smiling, »her Ladyship knows better things; she
knows the French are our very best Friends, and come over hither only for our
good. They are the People who are to make old England flourish again. I warrant
her Honour thought the Duke was coming; and that was enough to put her into a
Fright. I was going to tell your Ladyship the News. - His Honour's Majesty,
Heaven bless him, hath given the Duke the Slip; and is marching as fast as he
can to London, and ten thousand French are landed to join him on the Road.«
    Sophia was not greatly pleased with this News, nor with the Gentleman who
related it; but as she still imagined he knew her (for she could not possibly
have any Suspicion of the real Truth) she durst not show any Dislike. And now
the Landlord, having removed the Cloth from the Table, withdrew; but at his
Departure frequently repeated his Hopes of being remembered hereafter.
    The Mind of Sophia was not at all easy under the Supposition of being known
at this House; for she still applied to herself many Things which the Landlord
had addressed to Jenny Cameron; she therefore ordered her Maid to pump out of
him by what Means he had become acquainted with her Person, and who had offered
him the Reward for betraying her; she likewise ordered the Horses to be in
Readiness by four in the Morning, at which Hour Mrs. Fitzpatrick promised to
bear her Company, and then composing herself as well as she could, she desired
that Lady to continue her Story.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                In which Mrs. Fitzpatrick concludes her History.
 
While Mrs. Honour, in Pursuance of the Commands of her Mistress, ordered a Bowl
of Punch, and invited my Landlord and Landlady to partake of it, Mrs.
Fitzpatrick thus went on with her Relation.
    »Most of the Officers who were quartered at a Town in our Neighbourhood were
of my Husband's Acquaintance. Among these 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-ned for
having spoiled one of the prettiest Fellows in the World, by making a Milk-sop
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. Every thing 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 tho' he had a very
good Understanding, he always acknowledged (as was really true) that his Wife
had a better. And this, perhaps, was one Reason of the Hatred my Tyrant bore
her.
    Before he would be so governed by a Wife, he said, especially such an ugly
B- (for indeed she was not a regular Beauty, but very agreeable, and extremely
genteel) he would see all the Women upon Earth at the Devil, which was a very
usual Phrase with him. He said, he wondered what I could see in her to be so
charmed with her Company; since this Woman, says he, hath come among us, there
is an End of your beloved Reading, which you pretended to like so much, that you
could not afford Time to return the Visits of the Ladies, in this Country; and I
must confess I had been guilty of a little Rudeness this Way; for the Ladies
there are at least no better than the mere Country Ladies here, and I think, I
need make no other Excuse to you for declining any Intimacy with them.
    This Correspondence however continued a whole Year, even all the while the
Lieutenant was quartered in that Town; for which I was contented to pay the Tax
of being constantly abused in the Manner above-mentioned by my Husband; I mean
when he was at home; for he was frequently absent a Month at a Time at Dublin,
and once made a Journey of two Months to London; in all which Journeys I thought
it a very singular Happiness that he never once desired my Company; nay, by his
frequent Censures on Men who could not travel, as he phrased it, without a Wife
tied up to their Tail, he sufficiently intimated that had I been never so
desirous of accompanying him, my Wishes would have been in vain; but, Heaven
knows, such Wishes were very far from my Thoughts.
    At length my Friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my
Solitude, to the tormenting Conversation with my own Reflections, and to apply
to Books for my only Comfort. I now read almost all Day long. - How many Books
do you think I read in three Months?« »I can't guess, indeed, Cousin,« answered
Sophia. - »Perhaps half a Score!« »Half a Score! half a thousand, Child,«
answered the other. »I read a good deal in Daniel's English History of France; a
great deal in Plutarch's Lives; the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays,
Chillingworth, the Countess D'Anois, and Lock'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 stopped, 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, tho' 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 no body
all that Time, except my Servants, and a very few Visitors, when a young Lady, a
Relation of my Husband, came from a distant Part of Ireland to visit me. She had
staid once before a Week at my House, and I then 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 most 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, Tho' 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 the 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 surprised 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 deposite 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 Thunder-struck with this, and more confused
than I had seen him; tho' 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 ought 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, or 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, 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, tho' 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 - every Thing would be excusable at such a Time - at
that very Time I received - But it would take up an Hour to tell you all
Particulars. - In one Word, then, (for I will not tire you with Circumstances)
Gold, the common Key to all Padlocks, opened my Door, and set me at Liberty.
    I now made Haste to Dublin, where I immediately procured a Passage to
England; and was proceeding to Bath, in Order to throw myself into the
Protection of my Aunt, or of your Father, or of any Relation who would afford it
me. My Husband overtook me last Night, at the Inn where I lay, and which you
left a few Minutes before me; but I had the good Luck to escape him, and to
follow you.
    And thus, my Dear, ends my History: A tragical one, I am sure, it is to
myself; but, perhaps, I ought rather to apologize to you for its 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 alter'd Voice, »do you think, make a bad
Husband, who is not a Fool?« »That,« answered the other, »is too general a
Negative; but none, I believe, is so likely as a Fool to prove so. Among my
Acquaintance, the silliest Fellows are the worst Husbands; and I will venture to
assert, as a Fact, that a Man of Sense rarely behaves very ill to a Wife, who
deserves very well.«
 

                                  Chapter VIII

 A dreadful Alarm in the Inn, with the Arrival of an unexpected Friend of Mrs.
                                  Fitzpatrick.
 
Sophia now, at the Desire of her Cousin, related - not what follows, but what
hath gone before in this History: For which Reason the Reader will, I suppose,
excuse me, for not repeating it over again.
    One Remark, however, I cannot forbear making on her Narrative, namely, that
she made no more mention of Jones, from the Beginning to the End, than if there
had been no such Person alive. This I will neither endeavour to account for, nor
to excuse. Indeed, if this may be called a Kind of Dishonesty, it seems the more
inexcusable, from the apparent Openness and explicit Sincerity of the other
Lady. - But so it was.
    Just as Sophia arrived at the Conclusion of her Story, there arrived in the
Room where the two Ladies were sitting, a Noise, not unlike, in Loudness, to
that of a Pack of Hounds just let out from their Kennel; nor, in Shrillness, to
Cats when caterwauling; or, to Screech-Owls; or, indeed, more like (for what
Animal can resemble a human Voice) to those Sounds, which, in the pleasant
Mansions of that Gate, which seems to derive its Name from a Duplicity of
Tongues, issue from the Mouths, and sometimes from the Nostrils of those fair
River Nymphs, ycleped of old the Naïades; in the vulgar Tongue translated
Oyster-Wenches: For when, instead of the ancient Libations of Milk and Honey and
Oil, the rich Distillation from the Juniper-Berry, or, perhaps, from Malt, hath,
by the early Devotion of their Votaries, been poured forth in great Abundance,
should any daring Tongue, with unhallowed License prophane; i.e. depreciate the
delicate fat Milton Oyster, the Plaice sound and firm, the Flounder as much
alive as when in the Water, the Shrimp as big as a Prawn, the fine Cod alive but
a few Hours ago, or any other of the various Treasures, which those
Water-Deities, who fish the Sea and Rivers, have committed to the Care of the
Nymphs, the angry Naïades lift up their immortal Voices, and the prophane Wretch
is struck deaf for his Impiety.
    Such was the Noise, which now burst from one of the Rooms below; and soon
the Thunder, which long had rattled at a Distance, began to approach nearer and
nearer, till, having ascended by Degrees up Stairs, it at last entered the
Apartment where the Ladies were. In short, to drop all Metaphor and Figure, Mrs.
Honour having scolded violently below Stairs, and continued the same all the Way
up, came in to her Mistress in a most outrageous Passion, crying out, »What doth
your Ladyship think? Would you imagine, that this impudent Villain, the Master
of this House, hath had the Impudence to tell me, nay, to stand it out to my
Face, that your Ladyship is that nasty, stinking Wh-re, (Jenny Cameron they call
her) that runs about the Country with the Pretender? Nay, the lying, saucy
Villain, had the Assurance to tell me, that your Ladyship had owned yourself to
be so: But I have clawed the Rascal; I have left the Marks of my Nails in his
impudent Face. My Lady!« says I, »you saucy Scoundrel: My Lady is Meat for no
Pretenders. She is a young Lady of as good Fashion, and Family, and Fortune, as
any in Somersetshire. Did you never hear of the great Squire Western, Sirrah?
She is his only Daughter; she is, - and Heiress to all his great Estate. My Lady
to be called a nasty Scotch Wh-re by such a Varlet. - To be sure, I wish I had
knocked his Brains out with the Punch-bowl.«
    The principal Uneasiness with which Sophia was affected on this Occasion,
Honour had herself caused, by having in her Passion discovered who she was.
However, as this Mistake of the Landlord sufficiently accounted for those
Passages which Sophia had before mistaken, she acquired some Ease on that
Account; nor could she, upon the whole, forbear smiling. This enraged Honour,
and she cried, »Indeed, Madam, I did not think your Ladyship would have made a
laughing Matter of it. To be called Whore by such an impudent low Rascal. Your
Ladyship may be angry with me, for ought I know, for taking your Part, since
proffered Service, they say, stinks; but to be sure I could never bear to hear a
Lady of mine called Whore. - Nor will I bear it. I am sure your Ladyship is as
virtuous a Lady as ever sat Foot on English Ground, and I will claw any
Villain's Eyes out who dares for to offer to presume for to say the least Word
to the contrary. No body ever could say the least ill of the Character of any
Lady that ever I waited upon.«
    Hinc illæ Lachrymæ; in plain Truth, Honour had as much Love for her Mistress
as most Servants have, that is to say - But besides this, her Pride obliged her
to support the Character of the Lady she waited on; for she thought her own was
in a very close Manner connected with it. In Proportion as the Character of her
Mistress was raised, hers likewise, as she conceived, was raised with it; and,
on the contrary, she thought the one could not be lowered without the other.
    On this Subject, Reader, I must stop a Moment to tell thee a Story. »The
famous Nell Gwynn, stepping one Day from a House where she had made a short
Visit into her Coach, saw a great Mob assembled, and her Footman all bloody and
dirty; the Fellow being asked, by his Mistress, the Reason of his being in that
Condition, answered, I have been fighting, Madam, with an impudent Rascal who
called your Ladyship a Wh-re. You Blockhead, replied Mrs. Gwynn, at this Rate
you must fight every Day of your Life; why, you Fool, all the World knows it. Do
they? cries the Fellow, in a muttering Voice, after he had shut the Coach Door,
they shan't call me a Whore's Footman for all that.«
    Thus the Passion of Mrs. Honour appears natural enough, even if it were to
be no otherwise accounted for; but, in reality, there was another Cause of her
Anger; for which we must beg Leave to remind our Reader of a Circumstance
mentioned in the above Simile. There are indeed certain Liquors, which being
applied to our Passions, or to Fire, produce Effects the very Reverse of those
produced by Water, as they serve to kindle and inflame, rather than to
extinguish. Among these, the generous Liquor called Punch is one. It was not
therefore without Reason, that the learned Dr. Cheney used to call drinking
Punch pouring liquid Fire down your Throat.
    Now Mrs. Honour had unluckily poured so much of this liquid Fire down her
Throat, that the Smoke of it began to ascend into her Pericranium, and blinded
the Eyes of Reason which is there supposed to keep her Residence, while the Fire
itself from the Stomach easily reached the Heart, and there inflamed the noble
Passion of Pride. So that upon the whole, we shall cease to wonder at the
violent Rage of the Waiting-woman; tho' 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 tho' Tranquility was restored above Stairs, it was not so below; where
my Landlady highly resenting the Injury done to the Beauty of her Husband, by
the Flesh-Spades of Mrs. Honour, called aloud for Revenge and Justice. As to the
poor Man who had principally suffered in the Engagement, he was perfectly quiet.
Perhaps the Blood which he lost might have cooled his Anger: For the Enemy had
not only applied her Nails to his Cheeks, but likewise her Fist to his Nostrils,
which lamented the Blow with Tears of Blood in great Abundance. To this we may
add Reflections on his Mistake; but indeed nothing so effectually silenced his
Resentment, as the Manner in which he now discovered his Error; for as to the
Behaviour of Mrs. Honour, it had the more confirmed him in his Opinion: but he
was now assured by a Person of great Figure, and who was attended by a great
Equipage, that one of the Ladies was a Woman of Fashion, and his intimate
Acquaintance.
    By the Orders of this Person, the Landlord now ascended, and acquainted our
fair Travellers, that a great Gentleman below desired to do them the Honour of
waiting on them. Sophia turned pale, and trembled at this Message, tho' 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 up Stairs
with Compliments rather civiler than those which were delivered.
    It may perhaps be wondered at, that the Waiting- herself was not the
Messenger employed on this Occasion; but we are sorry to say, she was not at
present qualified for that, or indeed for any other Office. The Rum (for so the
Landlord chose to call the Distillation from Malt) had basely taken the
Advantage of the Fatigue which the poor Woman had undergone, and had made
terrible Depredations on her noble Faculties, at a Time when they were very
unable to resist the Attack.
    We shall not describe this tragical Scene too fully; but we thought
ourselves obliged by that historic Integrity which we profess, shortly to hint a
Matter which we would otherwise have been glad to have spared. Many Historians
indeed, for Want of this Integrity, or of Diligence, to say no worse, often
leave the Reader to find out these little Circumstances in the Dark, and
sometimes to his great Confusion and Perplexity.
    Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless Fright by the Entry of the noble
Peer, who was not only an intimate Acquaintance of Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but in
reality a very particular Friend of that Lady. To say Truth, it was by his
Assistance, that she had been enabled to escape from her Husband; for this
Nobleman had the same gallant Disposition with those renowned Knights, of whom
we read in heroic Story, and had delivered many an imprisoned Nymph from
Durance. He was indeed as bitter an Enemy to the savage Authority too often
exercised by Husbands and Fathers, over the young and lovely of the other Sex,
as ever Knight Errant was to the barbarous Power of Enchanters: nay, to say
Truth, I have often suspected that those very Enchanters with which Romance
every where abounds, were in reality no other than the Husbands of those Days;
and Matrimony itself was perhaps the enchanted Castle in which the Nymphs were
said to be confined.
    This Nobleman had an Estate in the Neighbourhood of Fitzpatrick, and had
been for some Time acquainted with the Lady. No sooner therefore did he hear of
her Confinement, than he earnestly applied himself to procure her Liberty; which
he presently effected, not by storming the Castle, according to the Example of
ancient 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
Surprise 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 surprising Manner, and am now going to London
with this young Lady, who is a near Relation of mine, and who hath escaped from
as great a Tyrant as my own.«
    His Lordship concluding that this Tyrant was likewise a Husband, made a
Speech full of Compliments to both the Ladies, and as full of Invectives against
his own Sex; nor indeed did he avoid some oblique Glances at the matrimonial
Institution itself, and at the unjust Powers given by it to Man over the more
sensible, and more meritorious Part of the Species. He ended his Oration with an
Offer of his Protection, and of his Coach and Six, which was instantly accepted
by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and at last, upon her Persuasions, by Sophia.
    Matters being thus adjusted, his Lordship took his Leave, and the Ladies
retired to Rest, where Mrs. Fitzpatrick entertained her Cousin with many high
Encomiums on the Character of the noble Peer, and enlarged very particularly on
his great Fondness for his Wife; saying, she believed he was almost the only
Person of high Rank, who was entirely constant to the Marriage Bed. »Indeed,«
added she, »my dear Sophy, that is a very rare Virtue amongst Men of Condition.
Never expect it when you marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will certainly
be deceived.«
    A gentle Sigh stole from Sophia at these Words, which perhaps contributed to
form a Dream of no very pleasant Kind; but as she never revealed this Dream to
any one, so the Reader cannot expect to see it related here.
 

                                   Chapter IX

 The Morning introduced in some pretty Writing. A 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 the 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 House-maid 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 tho' 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-sake, Gentlemen's Coaches, tho' 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.
    Every thing 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 every where, 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, tho' 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 by two led Captains, who had before rode with his
Lordship, and who would have been dismissed from the Vehicle upon a much less
worthy Occasion, than was this of accommodating two Ladies. In this they acted
only as Gentlemen; but they were ready at any Time to have performed the Office
of a Footman, or indeed would have condescended lower, for the Honour of his
Lordship's Company, and for the Convenience of his Table.
    My Landlord was so pleased with the Present he had received from Sophia,
that he rather rejoiced in than regretted his Bruise, or his Scratches. The
Reader will perhaps be curious to know the Quantum of this Present, but we
cannot satisfy his Curiosity. Whatever it was, it satisfied the Landlord for his
bodily Hurt; but he lamented he had not known before how little the Lady valued
her Money; »For to be sure,« says he, »one might have charged every Article
double, and she would have made no Cavil at the Reckoning.«
    His Wife however was far from drawing this Conclusion; whether she really
felt any Injury done to her Husband more than he did himself, I will not say;
certain it is, she was much less satisfied with the Generosity of Sophia.
»Indeed,« cries she, »my Dear, the Lady knows better how to dispose of her Money
than you imagine. She might very well think we should not put up such a Business
without some Satisfaction, and the Law would have cost her an infinite deal more
than this poor little Matter, which I wonder you would take.« »You are always so
bloodily wise,« quoth the Husband, »It would have cost her more, would It? Dost
fancy I don't know that as well as thee? But would any of that more, or so much,
have come into our Pockets? Indeed, if Son Tom the Lawyer had been alive, I
could have been glad to have put such a pretty Business into his Hands. He would
have got a good Picking out of it; but I have no Relation now who is a Lawyer,
and why should I go to Law for the Benefit of Strangers?« »Nay, to be sure,«
answered she, »you must know best.« »I believe I do,« replied he. »I fancy when
Money is to be got, I can smell it out as well as another. Every body, let me
tell you, would not have talked People out of this. Mind that, I say, every body
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 jogg, 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 tho' we will always lend
thee proper Assistance in difficult Places, as we do not, like some others,
expect thee to use the Arts of Divination to discover our Meaning; yet we shall
not indulge thy Laziness where nothing but thy own Attention is required, for
thou art highly mistaken if thou dost imagine that we intended, when we began
this great Work, to leave thy Sagacity nothing to do, or that without sometimes
exercising this Talent, thou wilt be able to travel through our Pages with any
Pleasure or Profit to thyself.
 

                                   Chapter X

Containing a Hint or two concerning Virtue, and a few more concerning Suspicion.
 
Our Company being arrived at London, were set down at his Lordship's House,
where while they refreshed themselves after the Fatigue of their Journey,
Servants were dispatched 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 choose 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-akes to Innocence and Virtue. I cannot help therefore regarding
this vast Quicksightedness 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 surprise his Wife in the Lap or in
the Embraces of some of those pretty young Gentlemen who profess the Art of
Cuckoldmaking, I should not highly, I think, blame him for concluding something
more than what he saw, from the Familiarities which he really had seen, and
which we are at least favourable enough to, when we call them innocent Freedoms.
The Reader will easily suggest great Plenty of Instances to himself; I shall add
but one more, which however unchristian it may be thought by some, I cannot help
esteeming to be strictly justifiable; and this is a Suspicion that a Man is
capable of doing what he hath done already, and that it is possible for one who
hath been a Villain once, to act the same Part again. And to confess the Truth,
of this Degree of Suspicion I believe Sophia was guilty. From this Degree of
Suspicion she had, in Fact, conceived an Opinion, that her Cousin was really not
better than she should be.
    The Case, it seems, was this: Mrs. Fitzpatrick wisely considered, that the
Virtue of a young Lady is, in the World, in the same Situation with a poor Hare,
which is certain, whenever it ventures abroad, to meet its Enemies: For it can
hardly meet any other. No sooner therefore was she determined to take the first
Opportunity of quitting the Protection of her Husband, than she resolved to cast
herself under the Protection of some other Man; and whom could she so properly
choose to be her Guardian as a Person of Quality, of Fortune, of Honour; and who,
besides a gallant Disposition which inclines Men to Knight-Errantry; that is, to
be the Champions of Ladies in Distress; had often declared a violent Attachment
to herself, and had already given her all the Instances of it in his Power?
    But as the Law hath foolishly omitted this Office of Vice-Husband, or
Guardian to an eloped Lady; and as Malice is apt to denominate him by a more
disagreeable Appellation; it was concluded that his Lordship should perform all
such kind Offices to the Lady in secret, and without publicly assuming the
Character of her Protector. Nay, to prevent any other Person from seeing him in
this Light, it was agreed that the Lady should proceed directly to Bath, and
that his Lordship should first go to London, and thence should go down to that
Place by the Advice of his Physicians.
    Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the Lips or Behaviour
of Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but from the Peer, who was infinitely less expert at
retaining a Secret, than was the good Lady; and perhaps the exact Secrecy which
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had observed on this Head in her Narrative, served not a little
to heighten those Suspicions which were now risen in the Mind of her Cousin.
    Sophia very easily found out the Lady she sought, for indeed there was not a
Chairman in Town to whom her House was not perfectly well known; and as she
received, in Return of her first Message, a most pressing Invitation, she
immediately accepted it. Mrs. Fitzpatrick indeed did not desire her Cousin to
stay with her with more Earnestness than Civility required. Whether she had
discerned and resented the Suspicion above-mentioned, or from what other Motive
it arose, I cannot say; but certain it is, she was full as desirous of parting
with Sophia, as Sophia herself could be of going.
    The young Lady, when she came to take Leave of her Cousin, could not avoid
giving her a short Hint of Advice. She begged her, for Heaven's Sake, to take
Care of herself, and to consider in how dangerous a Situation she stood; adding,
she hoped some Method would be found of reconciling her to her Husband. »You
must remember, my Dear,« says she, »the Maxim which my Aunt Western hath so
often repeated to us both; That whenever the matrimonial Alliance is broke, and
War declared between Husband and Wife, she can hardly make a disadvantageous
Peace for herself on any Conditions. These are my Aunt's very Words, and she
hath had a great deal of Experience in the World.« Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered,
with a contemptuous Smile, »Never fear me, Child, take Care of yourself; for you
are younger than I. I will come and visit you in a few Days; but, dear Sophy,
let me give you one Piece of Advice: Leave the Character of Graveairs in the
Country; for, believe me, it will sit very awkwardly upon you in this Town.«
    Thus the two Cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to Lady Bellaston,
where she found a most hearty, as well as a most polite Welcome. The Lady had
taken a great Fancy to her when she had seen her formerly with her Aunt Western.
She was indeed extremely glad to see her, and was no sooner acquainted with the
Reasons which induced her to leave the Squire and 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 choosing 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 deposite her there a while, and to look a little after other
Personages, and particularly poor Jones, whom we have left long enough to do
Pennance for his past Offences, which, as is the Nature of Vice, brought
sufficient Punishment upon him themselves.
 

                                    Book XII

              Containing the same individual Time with the former.
 

                                   Chapter I

 Shewing 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 ancient Authors, without quoting
the Original, or without taking the least Notice of the Book from whence they
were borrowed.
    This Conduct in Writing is placed in a very proper Light by the ingenious
Abbé Bannier, in his Preface to his Mythology, a Work of great Erudition, and of
equal judgement. »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 paltry 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 above-assigned by that justly celebrated
Frenchman.
    Now to obviate all such Imputations for the future, I do here confess and
justify the Fact. The Antients may be considered as a rich Common, where every
Person who hath the smallest Tenement in Parnassus hath a free Right to fatten
his Muse. Or, to place it in a clearer Light, we Moderns are to the Antients
what the Poor are to the Rich. By the Poor here I mean, that large and venerable
Body which, in English, we call The Mob. Now, whoever hath had the Honour to be
admitted to any Degree of Intimacy with this Mob, must well know that it is one
of their established Maxims, to plunder and pillage their rich Neighbours
without any Reluctance; and that this is held to be neither Sin nor Shame among
them. And so constantly do they abide and act by this Maxim, that in every
Parish almost in the Kingdom, there is a Kind of Confederacy ever carrying on
against a certain Person of Opulence called the Squire, whose Property is
considered as Free-Booty by all his poor Neighbours; who, as they conclude that
there is no Manner of Guilt in such Depredations, look upon it as a Point of
Honour and moral Obligation to conceal, and to preserve each other from
Punishment on all such Occasions.
    In like Manner are the Ancients, 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 from 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 see 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 my self any Passage which
I shall find in an ancient Author to my Purpose, without setting down the Name
of the Author from whence it was taken. Nay, I absolutely claim a Property in
all such Sentiments the Moment they are transcribed into my Writings, and I
expect all Readers henceforwards to regard them as purely and entirely my own.
This Claim however I desire to be allowed me only on Condition, that I preserve
strict Honesty towards my poor Brethren, from whom if ever I borrow any of that
little of which they are possessed, I shall never fail to put their Mark upon
it, that it may be at all Times ready to be restored to the right Owner.
    The Omission of this was highly blameable in one Mr. Moore, who having
formerly borrowed some Lines of Pope and Company, took the Liberty to transcribe
six of them into his Play of the Rival Modes. Mr. Pope however very luckily
found them in the said Play, and laying violent Hands on his own Property,
transferred it back again into his own Works; and for a further Punishment,
imprisoned the said Moore in the loathsome Dungeon of the Dunciad, where his
unhappy Memory now remains, and eternally will remain, as a proper Punishment
for such his unjust Dealings in the poetical Trade.
 

                                   Chapter II

 In which, tho' 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 Cross-way. Here he called a
short Council of War, in which, after hearing different Opinions, he at last
gave the Direction of his Pursuit to Fortune, and struck directly into the
Worcester Road.
    In this Road he proceeded about two Miles, when he began to bemoan himself
most bitterly, frequently crying out, »What Pity is it! Sure never was so
unlucky a Dog as myself!« and then burst forth a Volley of Oaths and
Execrations.
    The Parson attempted to administer Comfort to him on this Occasion. »Sorrow
not, Sir,« says he, »like those without Hope. Howbeit we have not yet been able
to overtake young Madam, we may account it some good Fortune, that we have
hitherto traced her Course aright. Peradventure she will soon be fatigated with
her Journey, and will tarry in some Inn, in order to renovate her corporeal
Functions; and in that Case, in all moral Certainty, you will very briefly be
compos voti.«
    »Pogh! D-n the Slut,« answered the Squire, »I am lamenting the Loss of so
fine a Morning for Hunting. It is confounded hard to lose one of the best
Scenting Days, in all Appearance, which hath been this Season, and especially
after so long a Frost.«
    Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some Compassion in her wantonest
Tricks, might not take Pity of the Squire; and as she had determined not to let
him overtake his Daughter, might not resolve to make him Amends some other Way,
I will not assert; but he had hardly uttered the Words just before commemorated,
and two or three Oaths at their Heels, when a Pack of Hounds began to open their
melodious Throats at a small Distance from them, which the Squire's Horse and
his Rider both perceiving, both immediately pricked up their Ears, and the
Squire crying, »She's gone, she's gone! Damn me if she is not gone!« instantly
clapped Spurs to the Beast, who little needed it, having indeed the same
Inclination with his Master; and now the whole Company crossing into a
Corn-field, rode directly towards the Hounds, with much Hallowing and Hooping,
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 leapt 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 tho' 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, tho' 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 express'd 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, tho' often close to each other, interchanged not a single Word.
The Master of the Hunt, however, often saw and approved the great judgement 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 tho' 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 dispatched Part of his Retinue in quest of his Daughter, after whom he
likewise sent a Volley of the most bitter Execrations which he could invent.
 

                                  Chapter III

 The Departure of Jones from Upton, with what past 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 tho' 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 Ostler told them, that no Horses were by any Means to be at that Time
procured at Upton. On they marched with heavy Hearts; for tho' 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 stopped to take
Council, Jones stopped 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 had
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 ourself that
Trouble. To say the Truth, we have, from this Reason alone, often done great
Violence to the Luxuriance of our Genius, and have left many excellent
Descriptions out of our Work, which would otherwise have been in it. And this
Suspicion, to be honest, arises, as is generally the Case, from our own wicked
Heart; for we have, ourselves, been very often most horridly given to jumping,
as we have run through the Pages of voluminous Historians.
    Suffice it then simply to say, that Jones, after having played the Part of a
Madman for many Minutes, came, by Degrees, to himself; which no sooner happened,
than turning to Partridge, he very earnestly begged his Pardon for the Attack he
had made on him in the Violence of his Passion; but concluded, by desiring him
never to mention his Return again; for he was resolved never to see that Country
any more.
    Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the Injunction now
laid upon him. And then Jones very briskly cried out: »Since it is absolutely
impossible for me to pursue any farther the Steps of my Angel - I will pursue
those of Glory. Come on, my brave Lad, now for the Army: - It is a glorious
Cause, and I would willingly sacrifice my Life in it, even tho' 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
thro' which Sophia had before passed.
    Our Travellers now marched a full Mile, without speaking a Syllable to each
other, tho' 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 splipped 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
me thought 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 juventæ
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 Tomorrow, like a Mad-Dog; or, perhaps, hacked in twenty Pieces with a
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 any Thing to do with them. I could hardly bring myself ever to look upon
them as Christians. There is nothing but Cursing and Swearing among them. I wish
your Honour would repent: I heartily wish you would repent, before it is too
late; and not think of going among them. - Evil Communication corrupts good
Manners. That is my principal Reason. For as for that Matter, I am no more
afraid than another Man, not I; as to Matter of that. I know all human Flesh
must die; but yet a Man may live many Years for all that. Why I am a middle-aged
Man now, and yet I may live a great Number of Years. I have read of several who
have lived to be above a hundred, and some a great deal above a hundred. Not
that I hope, I mean that I promise myself, to live to any such Age as that
neither. - But if it be only to eighty or ninety: Heaven be praised, that is a
great Ways off yet; and I am not afraid of dying then, no more than another Man:
But, surely, to tempt Death before a Man's Time is come, seems to me downright
Wickedness and Presumption. Besides, if it was to do any Good indeed; but let
the Cause be what it will, what mighty Matter of Good can two People do? And,
for my Part, I understand nothing of it. I never fired off a Gun above ten Times
in my Life; and then it was not charged with Bullets. And for the Sword, I never
learned to fence, and know nothing of the Matter. And then there are those
Cannons, which certainly it must be thought the highest Presumption to go in the
Way of; and no Body but a Madman - I ask Pardon; upon my Soul, I meant no Harm:
I beg I may not throw your Honour into another Passion.«
    »Be under no Apprehension, Partridge,« cries Jones, »I am now so well
convinced of thy Cowardice, that thou couldst not provoke me on any Account.«
»Your Honour,« answered he, »may call me Coward or any thing else you please. If
loving to sleep in a whole Skin makes a Man a Coward, non immunes ab illis malis
sumus. I never read in my Grammar, that a Man can't be a good Man without
fighting. Vir bonus est quis? Qui consulta Patrum, qui leges juraque servat. Not
a Word of Fighting; and I am sure the Scripture is so much against it, that a
Man shall never persuade me he is a good Christian while he sheds
Christian-blood.«
 

                                   Chapter IV

                         The Adventure of a Beggar-Man.
 
Just as Partridge had uttered that good and pious Doctrine, with which the last
Chapter concluded, they arrived at another Cross-way, when a lame Fellow in
Rags, asked them for Alms; upon which Partridge gave him a severe Rebuke,
saying, »Every Parish ought to keep their own Poor.« Jones then fell a laughing,
and asked Partridge, if he was not ashamed with so much Charity in his Mouth to
have no Charity in his Heart. »Your Religion,« says he, »serves you only for an
Excuse for your Faults, but is no Incentive to your Virtue. Can any Man who is
really a Christian abstain from relieving one of his Brethren in such a
miserable Condition?« and at the same time putting his Hand in his Pocket, he
gave the poor Object a Shilling.
    »Master,« cries the Fellow, after thanking him, »I have a curious Thing here
in my Pocket, which I found about two Miles off, if your Worship will please to
buy it. I should not venture to pull it out to every one; but as you are so good
a Gentleman, and so kind to the Poor, you won't suspect a Man of being a Thief
only because he is poor.« He then pulled out a little gilt Pocket-Book, and
delivered it into the Hands of Jones.
     Jones presently opened it, and (guess, Reader, what he felt) saw in the
first Page the Words Sophia Western, written by her own fair Hand. He no sooner
read the Name, than he prest it close to his Lips; nor could he avoid falling
into some very frantic Raptures, notwithstanding his Company; but, perhaps,
these very Raptures made him forget he was not alone.
    While Jones was kissing and mumbling the Book, as if he had an excellent
brown butter'd Crust in his Mouth, or as if he had really been a Bookworm, or an
Author, who hath nothing to eat but his own Works, a Piece of Paper fell from
its Leaves to the Ground, which Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who
presently perceived it to be a Bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very Bill which
Western had given his Daughter, the Night before her Departure; and a Jew would
have jumped to purchase it at five Shillings less than 100 l.
    The Eyes of Partridge sparkled at this News, which Jones now proclaimed
aloud; and so did (tho' 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 18 d.
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 offer'd 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 expressed some Signs of Astonishment to Partridge; who more than once shook
his Head, and cry'd, poor Gentleman! orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore
sano.
    At length, they arrived at the very Spot, where Sophia unhappily dropped 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 Surprise and Joy which the first Receipt of the Guinea had occasioned,
was now considerably abated, and who had now had sufficient Time to recollect
himself, put on a discontented Look, and, scratching his Head, said, »He hoped
his Worship would give him something more. Your Worship,« said he, »will, I
hope, take it into your Consideration, that if I had not been honest I might
have kept the Whole.« And, indeed, this the Reader must confess to have been
true. »If the Paper there,« said he, »be worth 100 l. 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 been't to be found, it all belongs to the first Finder. I hope your
Worship will consider 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 no Body 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 further Gratuity, I really cannot give it you
at present; but let me know your Name, and where you live, and it is more than
possible, you may hereafter have further Reason to rejoice at this Morning's
Adventure.«
    »I don't know what you mean by Venture,« cries the Fellow; »it seems, I must
venture whether you will return the Lady her Money or no: But I hope your
Worship will consider -« »Come, come,« said Partridge, »tell his Honour your
Name, and where you may be found; I warrant you will never repent having put the
Money into his Hands.« The Fellow seeing no Hopes of recovering the Possession
of the Pocket-Book, at last complied in giving in his Name and Place of Abode,
which Jones writ upon a Piece of Paper with the Pencil of Sophia; and then
placing the Paper in the same Page where she had writ her Name, he cry'd out:
»There, Friend, you are the happiest Man alive, I have joined your Name to that
of an Angel.« »I don't know any Thing 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 Account, I
should have known the Value of these Matters as well as other People.«
 

                                   Chapter V

 Containing more Adventures which Mr. Jones and his Companion met on the Road.
 
Our Travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little Time or Breath for
Conversation; Jones meditating all the Way on Sophia, and Partridge on the
Bank-Bill, which, though it gave him some Pleasure, caused him at the same Time
to repine at Fortune, which, in all his Walks, had never given him such an
Opportunity of showing his Honesty. They had proceeded above three Miles, when
Partridge being unable any longer to keep up with Jones, called to him, and
begged him a little to slacken his Pace; with this he was the more ready to
comply, as he had for some Time lost the Footsteps of the Horses, which the Thaw
had enabled him to trace for several Miles, and he was now upon a wide Common
where were several Roads.
    He here therefore stopped 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 any thing I know to the contrary. The Devil take him that
affronts them, I say. I am sure, if they have nothing to say to me, I will have
nothing to say to them but in a civil Way. For Heaven's Sake, Sir, don't affront
them if they should come, and perhaps they may do us no Harm; but would it not
be the wiser Way to creep into some of yonder Bushes till they are gone by? What
can two unarmed Men do perhaps against fifty thousand? Certainly nobody but a
Madman; I hope your Honour is not offended; but certainly no Man who hath Mens
sana in Corpore sano -« Here Jones interrupted this Torrent of Eloquence, which
Fear had inspired, saying, »That by the Drum he perceived they were near some
Town.« He then made directly towards the Place whence the Noise proceeded,
bidding Partridge »take Courage, for that he would lead him into no Danger; and
adding, it was impossible the Rebels should be so near.«
    Partridge was a little comforted with this last Assurance; and tho' 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 any thing 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 Alehouse, 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 Kitchin, where Jones began to
enquire if no Ladies had passed that Way in the Morning, and Partridge as
eagerly examined into the State of their Provisions; and indeed his Enquiry met
with the better Success; for Jones could not hear News of Sophia; but Partridge,
to his great Satisfaction, found good Reason to expect very shortly the
agreeable Sight of an excellent smoking 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, tho' it often induces Forgetfulness, and a
Neglect of Food, as well as of every thing 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 tho' 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 Provok'd 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 any thing 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 Townly 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 any Thing 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
every thing 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 Provok'd 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 any thing 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 may have done very right in dismissing Punch
from his Service.«
    The Master of the Show then began a second Harangue, and said much of the
great Force of Example, and how much the inferior Part of Mankind would be
deterred from Vice, by observing how odious it was in their Superiors; when he
was unluckily interrupted by an Incident, which, though perhaps we might have
omitted it at another Time, we cannot help relating at present, but not in this
Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter VI

      From which it may be inferred, that the best Things are liable to be
                       misunderstood and misinterpreted.
 
A violent Uproar now arose in the Entry, where my Landlady was well cuffing her
Maid both with her Fist and Tongue. She had indeed missed the Wench from her
Employment, and, after a little Search, had found her on the Puppet-show Stage
in Company with the Merry Andrew, and in a Situation not very proper to be
described.
    Tho' 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 surprised;
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 Wh-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 Kitchin, 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 Bawdyhouse 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 Jephtha's Rash Vow, and
such good Things, and when wicked People were carried away by the Devil. There
was some Sense in those Matters; but as the Parson told us last Sunday, nobody
believes in the Devil now-a-days; and here you bring about a Parcel of Puppets
dressed? 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 every thing 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 administring
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 stopped, as
that of a 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, (tho' she looked at that Time more like a Piece of
Copper) Jones called for his Reckoning, and ordered Partridge, whom my Landlady
had just awake 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
Surprise 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 Some-body to enquire of?«
    This last Argument had indeed some Effect on Jones, and while he was
weighing it, the Landlord threw all the Rhetoric of which he was Master into the
same Scale. »Sure, Sir,« said he, »your Servant gives you most excellent Advice:
For who would travel by Night at this Time of the Year?« He then began in the
usual Stile to trumpet forth the excellent Accommodation which his House
afforded; and my Landlady likewise opened on the Occasion. - But not to detain
the Reader with what is common to every Host and Hostess, it is sufficient to
tell him, Jones was at last prevailed on to stay and refresh himself with a few
Hours Rest, which indeed he very much wanted; for he had hardly shut his Eyes
since he had left the Inn where the Accident of the broken Head had happened.
    As soon as Jones had taken a Resolution to proceed no farther that Night, he
presently retired to Rest, with his two Bedfellows the Pocket-Book, and the
Muff; but Partridge, who at several Times had refreshed himself with several
Naps, was more inclined to Eating than to Sleeping, and more to Drinking than to
either.
    And now the Storm which Grace had raised being at an End, and my Landlady
being again reconciled to the Puppet-man, who on his Side forgave the indecent
Reflections which the good Woman in her Passion had cast on his Performances, a
Face of perfect Peace and Tranquillity reigned in the Kitchin; where sat
assembled round the Fire, the Landlord and Landlady of the House, the Master of
the Puppet-show, the Attorney's Clerk, the Exciseman, and the ingenious Mr.
Partridge; in which Company past the agreeable Conversation which will be found
in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VII

    Containing a Remark or two of our own, and many more of the good Company
                           assembled in the Kitchin.
 
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 tho' 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 so great Regard for the Reputation of the Wealth of their
Masters, and little or none at all for their Character in other Points, and that
tho' 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 Expense 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 surprised 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, tho' 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 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 any Body 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 Council. »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. Thompson, (to the
Exciseman) nor the Gentleman, nor any Body 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 Trial of Madness, where twenty Witnesses swore
that the Person was as mad as a March Hare; and twenty others, that he was as
much in his Senses as any Man in England. - And indeed it was the Opinion of
most People, that it was only a Trick of his Relations to rob the poor Man of
his Right.«
    »Very likely!« cries the Landlady, »I myself knew a poor Gentleman who was
kept in a Mad-house all his Life by his Family, and they enjoyed his Estate, but
it did them no Good: For tho' 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, »Fælix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.«
    My Landlord, who had been called out by the Arrival of a Horseman at the
Gate, now returned into the Kitchin, and with an affrighted Countenance cried
out, »What do you think, Gentlemen? the Rebels have given the Duke the Slip, and
are got almost to London. - It is certainly true, for a Man on Horseback just
now told me so.«
    »I am glad of it with all my Heart,« cries Partridge, »then there will be no
fighting in these Parts.«
    »I am glad,« cries the Clerk, »for a better Reason; for I would always have
Right take Place.«
    »Ay but,« answered the Landlord, »I have heard some People say this Man hath
no Right.«
    »I will prove the contrary in a Moment,« cries the Clerk; »if my Father dies
seized of a Right; do you mind me, seized of a Right, I say; Doth not that Right
descend to his Son? And doth not one Right descend as well as another?«
    »But how can he have any Right to make us Papishes?« says the Landlord.
    »Never fear that,« cries Partridge. »As to the Matter of Right, the
Gentleman there hath proved it as clear as the Sun; and as to the Matter of
Religion, it is quite out of the Case. The Papists themselves don't expect any
such Thing. A Popish Priest, whom I know very well, and who is a very honest
Man, told me upon his Word and Honour they had no such Design.«
    »And another Priest of my Acquaintance,« said the Landlady, »hath told me
the same Thing. - But my Husband is always so afraid of Papishes. I know a great
many Papishes that are very honest Sort of People, and spend their Money very
freely; and it is always a Maxim with me, that one Man's Money is as good as
another's.«
    »Very true, Mistress,« said the Puppet-show-Man, »I don't care what Religion
comes, provided the Presbyterians are not uppermost, for they are Enemies to
Puppet-shows.«
    »And so you would sacrifice your Religion to your Interest?« cries the
Exciseman; »and are desirous to see Popery brought in, are you?«
    »Not I truly,« answered the other, »I hate Popery as much as any Man; but
yet it is a Comfort to one, that one should be able to live under it, which I
could not do among Presbyterians. To be sure every Man values his Livelihood
first, that must be granted; and I warrant if you would confess the Truth, you
are more afraid of losing your Place than any Thing 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, tho' reluctantly; but he could not withstand the Menaces of
the Clerk, who swore he would never set his Foot within his House again, if he
refused. The Bumpers which were swallowed on this Occasion soon put an End to
the Conversation. Here, therefore, we will put an End to the Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

 In which Fortune seems to have been in a better Humour with Jones than we have
                               hitherto seen her.
 
As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger Sleeping Potions
than Fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to have taken a very large Dose, and
it operated very forcibly upon him. He had already slept nine Hours, and might
perhaps have slept longer, had he not been awakened by a most violent Noise at
his Chamber Door, where the Sound of many heavy Blows was accompanied with as
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 tho' the Merry Andrew was a little Fellow, and not very strong, he had
nevertheless some Choler about him. He therefore no sooner found himself
delivered from the Enemy, than he began to attack him with the only Weapon at
which he was his Equal. From this he first discharged a Volley of general
abusive Words, and thence proceeded to some particular Accusations. - »D-n your
Bl-d, you Rascal,« says he, »I have not only supported you, (for to me you owe
all the Money you get) but I have saved you from the Gallows. Did you not want
to rob the Lady of her fine Riding-Habit, no longer ago than Yesterday, in the
Back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to have her alone in a Wood to
strip her, to strip one of the prettiest Ladies that ever was seen in the World?
and here you have fallen upon me, and have almost murdered me for doing no Harm
to a Girl as willing as myself, only because she likes me better than you.«
    Jones no sooner heard this, than he quitted the Master, laying on him at the
same time the most violent Injunctions of Forbearance from any further Insult on
the Merry Andrew, and then taking the poor Wretch with him into his own
Apartment, he soon learnt 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 Alehouse,
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 tho' 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 Kitchin, 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, tho' 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 Mugg, and at length casting his Eyes on a Lad at the Fire, who had
entered into the Kitchin, 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 Mugg 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 Kitchin 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 tho' 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 Sir-name.
    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 seeing her 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, tho' 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 Kitchin
very openly catechising the other Guide who had attended Mrs. Fitzpatrick; by
which Means the Landlord, whose Ears were open enough on all such Occasions,
became perfectly well acquainted with the Tumble of Sophia from her Horse, etc.
with the Mistake concerning Jenny Cameron, with the many Consequences of the
Punch, and, in short, with almost every thing 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 IX

              Containing little more than a few odd Observations.
 
Jones had been absent a full half Hour, when he returned into the Kitchin 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 a warm
Chimney-corner, and a Cup of excellent Liquor, was somewhat compensated by
hearing that he was to proceed no farther on Foot; for Jones, by Golden
Arguments, had prevailed with the Boy to attend him back to the Inn whither he
had before conducted Sophia; but to this however the Lad consented, upon
Condition that the other Guide would wait for him at the Alehouse; because, as
the Landlord at Upton was an intimate Acquaintance of the Landlord at Gloucester
, it might some Time or other come to the Ears of the latter, that his Horses
had been let to more than one Person, and so the Boy might be brought to Account
for Money which he wisely intended to put in his own Pocket.
    We were obliged to mention this Circumstance, trifling as it may seem, since
it retarded Mr. Jones a considerable Time in his setting out; for the Honesty of
this latter Boy was somewhat high - that is, somewhat high-priced, and would
indeed have cost Jones very dear, had not Partridge, who, as we have said, was a
very cunning Fellow, artfully thrown in half a Crown to be spent at that very
Alehouse, while the Boy was waiting for his Companion. This Half Crown the
Landlord no sooner got Scent of, than he opened after it with such vehement and
persuasive Outcry, that the Boy was soon overcome, and consented to take half a
Crown more for his Stay. Here we cannot help observing, that as there is so much
of Policy in the lowest Life, great Men often overvalue themselves on those
Refinements in Imposture, in which they are frequently excelled by some of the
lowest of the Human Species.
    The Horses being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the Side-Saddle, on
which his dear Sophia had rid. The Lad indeed very civilly offered him the Use
of his; but he chose the Side-Saddle, probably because it was softer. Partridge,
however, tho' 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 peculiarly fortunate. Partridge was moreover better
pleased with the present Pursuit of his Companion, than he had been with his
Pursuit of Glory; and from these very Omens, which assured the Pedagogue of
Success, he likewise first acquired a clear Idea of the Amour between Jones and
Sophia; to which he had before given very little Attention, as he had originally
taken a wrong Scent concerning the Reasons of Jones's Departure; and as to what
happened at Upton, he was too much frightened just before and after his leaving
that Place, to draw any other Conclusions from thence, than that poor Jones was
a downright Madman: A Conceit which was not at all disagreeable to the Opinion
he before had of his extraordinary Wildness, of which, he thought, his Behaviour
on their quitting Gloucester, so well justified all the Accounts he had formerly
received. He was now however pretty well satisfied with his present Expedition,
and henceforth began to conceive much worthier Sentiments of his Friend's
Understanding.
    The Clock had just struck Three when they arrived, and Jones immediately
bespoke Post Horses; but unluckily there was not a Horse to be procured in the
whole Place; which the Reader will not wonder at, when he considers the Hurry in
which the whole Nation, and especially this Part of it, was at this time
engaged, when Expresses were passing and repassing every Hour of the Day and
Night.
    Jones endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former Guide to escorte
him to Coventry; but he was inexorable. While he was arguing with the Boy in the
Inn-yard, a Person came up to him, and saluting him by his Name, enquired how
all the good Family did in Somersetshire; and now Jones casting his Eyes upon
this Person, presently discovered him to be Mr. Dowling the Lawyer, with whom he
had dined at Gloucester, and with much Courtesy returned his 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 tho' 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 Football. 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 any thing
new in its Behalf. And hence perhaps proceeds the Phrase of seconding an
Argument or a Motion, and the great Consequence of which this is 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 Kitchin, the Ostler took great
Care that his Corn should not be consumed in the Stable) Mr. Jones, at the
earnest Desire of Mr. Dowling, accompanied that Gentleman into his Room, where
they sat down together over a Bottle of Wine.
 

                                   Chapter X

          In which Mr. Jones and Mr. Dowling drink a Bottle together.
 
Mr. Dowling, pouring out a Glass of Wine, named the Health of the good Squire
Allworthy; adding, »If you please, Sir, we will likewise remember his Nephew and
Heir, the young Squire: Come, Sir, here's Mr. Blifil to you, a very pretty young
Gentleman; and who, I dare swear, will hereafter make a very considerable Figure
in his Country. I have a Borough for him myself in my Eye.«
    »Sir,« answered Jones, »I am convinced you don't intend to affront me, so I
shall not resent it; but, I promise you, you have joined two Persons very
improperly together; for one is the Glory of the Human Species, and the other is
a Rascal who dishonours the Name of Man.«
    Dowling stared at this. He said, »He thought both the Gentlemen had a very
unexceptionable Character. As for Squire Allworthy himself,« says he, »I never
had the Happiness to see him; but all the World talks of his Goodness. And,
indeed, as to the young Gentleman, I never saw him but once, when I carried him
the News of the Loss of his Mother; and then I was so hurried, and drove, and
tore with the Multiplicity of Business, that I had hardly Time to converse with
him; but he looked so like a very honest Gentleman, and behaved himself so
prettily, that I protest I never was more delighted with any Gentleman since I
was born.«
    »I don't wonder,« answered Jones, »that he should impose upon you in so
short an Acquaintance; for he hath the Cunning of the Devil himself, and you may
live with him many Years without discovering him. I was bred up with him from my
Infancy, and we were hardly ever asunder; but it is very lately only, that I
have discovered half the Villainy 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 by 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 surprising that you should pass for a Relation of a Gentleman,
without being so.«
    Jones, who in the Compliance of his Disposition (tho' 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 wondrous 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 conceive 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 show 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 some Body: »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 no Body 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 æstiva recreatur aura
Quod latus mundi nebulæ, malusque Jupiter urget.
 
Pone, sub curru nimium propinqui
Soils, in Terra dominibus negata;
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo Dulce loquentem.«18
 
He then filled a Bumper of Wine, and drank it off to the Health of his dear
Lalage; and filling Dowling's Glass likewise up to the Brim, insisted on his
pledging him. »Why then here's Miss Lalage's Health, with all my Heart,« cries
Dowling. »I have heard her toasted often, I protest, though I never saw her; but
they say she's extremely handsome.«
    Though the Latin was not the only Part of this Speech which Dowling did not
perfectly understand, yet there was somewhat in it, that made a very strong
Impression upon him. And though he endeavoured, by winking, nodding, sneering,
and grinning, to hide the Impression from Jones, (for we are as often ashamed of
thinking right as of thinking wrong) it is certain he secretly approved as much
of his Sentiments as he understood, and really felt a very strong Impulse of
Compassion for him. But we may possibly take some other Opportunity of
commenting upon this, especially if we should happen to meet Mr. Dowling any
more in the Course of our History. At present we are obliged to take our Leave
of that Gentleman a little abruptly, in Imitation of Mr. Jones; who was no
sooner informed, by Partridge, that his Horses were ready, than he deposited his
Reckoning, wished his Companion a good Night, mounted, and set forward towards
Coventry, though the Night was dark, and it just then began to rain very hard.
 

                                   Chapter XI

  The Disasters which befell Jones on his Departure for Coventry; with the sage
                             Remarks of Partridge.
 
No Road can be plainer than that from the Place where they now were to Coventry;
and though neither Jones nor Partridge, nor the Guide, had ever travelled it
before, it would have been almost impossible to have missed their Way, had it
not been for the two Reasons mentioned in the Conclusion of the last Chapter.
    These two Circumstances, however, happening both unfortunately to intervene,
our Travellers deviated into a much less frequented Track; and after riding full
Six Miles, instead of arriving at the stately Spires of Coventry, they found
themselves still in a very dirty Lane, where they saw no Symptoms of approaching
the Suburbs of a large City.
    Jones now declared that they must certainly have lost their Way; but this
the Guide insisted upon was impossible; a Word which, in common Conversation, is
often used to signify not only improbable, but often what is really very likely,
and, sometimes, what hath certainly happened: An hyperbolical Violence like that
which is so frequently offered to the Words Infinite and Eternal; by the former
of which it is usual to express a Distance of half a Yard; and by the latter, a
Duration of five Minutes. And thus it is as usual to assert the Impossibility of
losing what is already actually lost. This was, in fact, the Case at present:
For notwithstanding all the confident Assertions of the Lad to the contrary, it
is certain they were no more in the right Road to Coventry, than the fraudulent,
griping, cruel, canting Miser is in the right Road to Heaven.
    It is not, perhaps, easy for a Reader who hath never been in those
Circumstances, to imagine the Horror with which Darkness, Rain, and Wind fill
Persons who have lost their Way in the Night; and who, consequently, have not
the pleasant Prospect of warm Fires, dry clothes, 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; tho' he affirmed, at the same Time, it was impossible they should
have mist the Way. But Partridge was of a different Opinion. He said, »When they
first set out he imagined some Mischief or other would happen. - Did not you
observe, Sir,« said he to Jones, »that old Woman who stood at the Door just as
you was taking Horse? I wish you had given her a small Matter, with all my
Heart; for she said then you might repent it, and at that very Instant it began
to rain, and the Wind hath continued rising ever since. Whatever some People may
think, I am very certain it is in the Power of Witches to raise the Wind
whenever they please. I have seen it happen very often in my Time: And if ever I
saw a Witch in all my Life, that old Woman was certainly one. I thought so to
myself at that very Time; and if I had 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, tho' 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 clothes.
    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
Spicket, 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 thro' 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 tho' 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 Day-light, we might now see the Inn we set
out from.«
    Instead of returning any Answer to this sage Advice, Jones was entirely
attentive to what had happened to the Boy, who received no other Hurt than what
had before befallen Partridge, and which his clothes very easily bore, as they
had been for many Years inured to the like. He soon regained his Side-Saddle,
and, by the hearty Curses and Blows which he bestowed on his Horse, quickly
satisfied Mr. Jones that no Harm was done.
 

                                  Chapter XII

     Relates that Mr. Jones continued his Journey contrary to the Advice of
                Partridge, with what happened on that Occasion.
 
They now discovered a Light at some Distance, to the great Pleasure of Jones,
and to the no small Terror of Partridge, who firmly believed himself to be
bewitched, and that this Light was a Jack with a Lanthorn, or somewhat more
mischievous.
    But how were these Fears increased, when, as they approached nearer to this
Light, (or Lights as they now appeared) they heard a confused Sound of Human
Voices; of singing, laughing, and hallowing, together with a strange Noise that
seemed to proceed from some Instruments; but could hardly be allowed the Name of
Music. Indeed, to favour a little the Opinion of Partridge, it might very well
be called Music bewitched.
    It is impossible to conceive a much greater Degree of Horror than what now
seized on Partridge; the Contagion of which had reached the Post-boy; who had
been very attentive to many Things that the other had uttered. He now therefore
joined in petitioning Jones to return; saying he firmly believed what Partridge
had just before said, that tho' 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.«
    »Oh 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- - 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 tho' he hardly dared to
advance, he dared still less to stay behind by himself.
    At length they arrived at the Place whence the Lights and different Noises
had issued. This Jones perceived to be no other than a Barn where a great Number
of Men and Women were assembled, and diverting themselves with much apparent
Jollity.
    Jones no sooner appeared before the great Doors of the Barn, which were
open, than a masculine and very rough Voice from within demanded who was there?
- To which Jones gently answered, A Friend; and immediately asked the Road to
Coventry.
    »If you are a Friend,« cries another of the Men in the Barn, »you had better
alight till the Storm is over,« (for indeed it was now more violent than ever)
»you are very welcome to put up your Horse, for there is sufficient Room for him
at one 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 Suspence, 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 lain them by
as Rubbish, capable only of affecting the Upper Gallery; a Place in which few of
our Readers ever sit.
    However, tho' 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 to introduce a Set of Beings into our History, which
scarce any one was ever childish enough to believe, tho' many have been foolish
enough to spend their Time in writing and reading their Adventures.
    To prevent therefore any such Suspicions, so prejudicial to the Credit of an
Historian, who professes to draw his Materials from Nature only, we shall now
proceed to acquaint the Reader who these People were, whose sudden Appearance
had struck such Terrors into Partridge, had more than half frightened the
Post-Boy, and had a little surprised 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 showed itself in every Countenance; nor
was their Ball totally void of all Order and Decorum. Perhaps it had more than a
Country Assembly is sometimes conducted with: For these People are subject to a
formal Government and Laws of their own, and all pay Obedience to one great
Magistrate whom they call their King.
    Greater Plenty likewise was no where 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.
    Æneas is not described under more Consternation in the Temple of Juno,
 
                  Dum stupet obtutuque; hæret defixus in uno.
 
than was our Heroe at what he saw in this Barn. While he was looking every where
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; tho' all this was perhaps imaginary in Jones, and the Truth may be,
that such Ideas are incident to Power, and almost inseparable from it.
    There was somewhat in the open Countenance and courteous Behaviour of Jones,
which being accompanied with much Comeliness of Person, greatly recommended him
at first Sight to every Beholder. These were perhaps a little heightened in the
present Instance, by that profound Respect which he paid to the King of the
Gypsies, the Moment he was acquainted with his Dignity, and which was the
sweeter to his Gypseian Majesty, as he was not used to receive such Homage from
any but his own Subjects.
    The King ordered a Table to be spread with the choicest of their Provisions
for his Accommodation, and having placed himself at his Right Hand, his Majesty
began to discourse our Heroe in the following Manner:
    »Me doubt not, Sir, but you have often seen some of my People, who are what
you call de Parties detache: For dey go about every where; but me fancy you
imagine not we be so considrable Body as we be, and may be you will surprise
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 Goodwill,
me no say, but dis me can say, dat me never design any Ting 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 ave often hear dat Sham is de Consequence and
de Cause too of many your Rewards. Are your Rewards and Punishments den de same
Ting?«
    While his Majesty was thus discoursing with Jones, a sudden Uproar arose in
the Barn, and as it seems, upon this Occasion: The Courtesy of these People had
by Degrees removed all the Apprehensions of Partridge, and he was prevailed upon
not only to stuff himself with their Food, but to taste some of their Liquors,
which by Degrees entirely expelled all Fear from his Composition, and in its
Stead introduced much more agreeable Sensations.
    A young Female Gypsy, more remarkable for her Wit than her Beauty, had
decoyed the honest Fellow aside, pretending to tell his Fortune. Now when they
were alone together in a remote Part of the Barn, whether it proceeded from the
strong Liquor, which is never so apt to inflame inordinate Desire as after
moderate Fatigue, or whether the fair Gypsy herself threw aside the Delicacy and
Decency of her Sex, and tempted the Youth Partridge with express Solicitations;
but they were discovered in a very improper Manner by the Husband of the Gypsy,
who from Jealousy, it seems, had kept a watchful Eye over his Wife, and had
dogged her to the Place, where he found her in the Arms of her Gallant.
    To the great Confusion of Jones, Partridge was now hurried before the King;
who heard the Accusation, and likewise the Culprit's Defence, which was indeed
very trifling: For the poor Fellow was confounded by the plain Evidence which
appeared against him, and had very little to say for himself. His Majesty then
turning towards Jones, said, »Sir, you have hear what dey say, what Punishment
do you tink your Man deserve?«
    Jones answered, »He was sorry for what had happened, and that Partridge
should make the Husband all the Amends in his Power:« He said, he had very
little Money about him at that Time, and putting his Hand into his Pocket,
offered the Fellow a Guinea. To which he immediately answered, »He hoped his
Honour would not think of giving him less than five.«
    This Sum after some Altercation was reduced to two, and Jones having
stipulated for the full Forgiveness of both Partridge and the Wife, was going to
pay the Money; when his Majesty restraining his Hand, turned to the Witness, and
asked him, »At what Time he had first discovered the Criminals?« To which he
answered, »That he had been desired by the Husband to watch the Motions of his
Wife from her first speaking to the Stranger, and that he had never lost Sight
of her afterwards till the Crime had been committed.« The King then asked, »If
the Husband was with him all that Time in his lurking Place?« To which he
answered in the Affirmative. His Egyptian Majesty then addressed himself to the
Husband as follows, »Me be sorry to see any Gypsy dat have no more Honour dan to
sell de Honour of his Wife for Money. If you had de Love for your Wife, you
would have prevented dis Matter, and not endeavour to make her de Whore dat you
might discover her. Me do order dat you have no Money given you, for you deserve
Punishment not Reward; me do order derefore, dat you be de infamous Gypsy, and
do wear Pair of Horns upon your Forehead for one Month, and dat your Wife be
called de Whore, and pointed at all dat Time: For you be de infamous Gypsy, but
she be no less de infamous Whore.«
    The Gypsies immediately proceeded to execute the Sentence, and left Jones
and Partridge alone with his Majesty.
    Jones greatly applauded the Justice of the Sentence; upon which the King
turning to him said, »Me believe you be surprise: 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 complete, 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.19 This was the
true Æra 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.
    In reality, I know but of one solid Objection to absolute Monarchy. The only
Defect in which excellent Constitution seems to be the Difficulty of finding any
Man adequate to the Office of an absolute Monarch: For this indispensably
requires three Qualities very difficult, as it appears from History, to be found
in princely Natures: First, a sufficient Quantity of Moderation in the Prince,
to be contented with all the Power which is possible for him to have. 2dly,
Enough of Wisdom to know his own Happiness. And, 3dly, 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 expresly 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 Inconveniencies arising from the dispassionate
Deafness of Laws, than to remedy them by applying to the passionate open Ears of
a Tyrant.
    Nor can the Example of the Gypsies, tho' possibly they may have long been
happy under this Form of Government, be here urged; since we must remember the
very material Respect in which they differ from all other People, and to which
perhaps this their Happiness is entirely owing, namely, that they have no false
Honours among them; and that they look on Shame as the most grievous Punishment
in the World.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

                    A Dialogue between Jones and Partridge.
 
The honest Lovers of Liberty will we doubt not pardon that long Digression into
which we were led at the Close of the last Chapter, to prevent our History from
being applied to the Use of the most pernicious Doctrine, which Priestcraft had
ever the Wickedness or the Impudence to preach.
    We will now proceed with Mr. Jones, who when the Storm was over, took Leave
of his Egyptian Majesty, after many Thanks for his courteous Behaviour and kind
Entertainment, and set out for Coventry; to which Place (for it was still dark)
a Gypsy was ordered to conduct him.
    Jones having, by Reason of his Deviation, travelled eleven Miles instead of
six, and most of those through very execrable Roads, where no Expedition could
have been made, in Quest of a Midwife, did not arrive at Coventry till near
Twelve. Nor could he possibly get again into the Saddle till past Two; for
Post-Horses were now not easy to get; nor were the Hostler or Post-Boy, in half
so great a Hurry as himself, but chose rather to imitate the tranquil
Disposition of Partridge; who being denied the Nourishment of Sleep, took all
Opportunities to supply its Place with every other Kind of Nourishment, and was
never better pleased than when he arrived at an Inn, nor ever more dissatisfied
than when he was again forced to leave it.
    Jones now travelled Post; we will follow him therefore, according to our
Custom, and to the Rules of Longinus, in the same Manner. From Coventry he
arrived at Daventry, from Daventry at Stratford, and from Stratford at Dunstable
, whither he came the next Day a little after Noon, and within a few Hours after
Sophia had left it; and though he was obliged to stay here longer than he
wished, while a Smith, with great Deliberation, shoed the Post-Horse he was to
ride, he doubted not but to overtake his Sophia before she should set out from
St. Albans; at which Place he concluded, and very reasonably, that his Lordship
would stop and dine.
    And had he been right in this Conjecture, he most probably would have
overtaken his Angel at the aforesaid Place; but unluckily my Lord had appointed
a Dinner to be prepared for him at his own House in London, and in order to
enable him to reach that Place in proper Time, he had ordered a Relay of Horses
to meet him at St. Albans. When Jones therefore arrived there, he was informed
that the Coach and Six had set out two Hours before.
    If fresh Post-Horses had been now ready, as they were not, it seemed so
apparently impossible to overtake the Coach before it reached London, that
Partridge thought he had now a proper Opportunity to remind his Friend of a
Matter which he seemed entirely to have forgotten; what this was the Reader will
guess, when we inform him that Jones had eat nothing more than one poached Egg
since he had left the Alehouse where he had first met the Guide returning from
Sophia; for with the Gypsies, he had feasted only his Understanding.
    The Landlord so entirely agreed with the Opinion of Mr. Partridge, that he
no sooner heard the latter desire his Friend to stay and dine, than he very
readily put in his Word, and retracting his Promise before given of furnishing
the Horses immediately, he assured Mr. Jones he would lose no Time in bespeaking
a Dinner, which, he said, could be got ready sooner than it was possible to get
the Horses up from Grass, and to prepare them for their Journey by a Feed of
Corn.
    Jones was at length prevailed on, chiefly by the latter Argument of the
Landlord; and now a Joint of Mutton was put down to the Fire. While this was
preparing, Partridge being admitted into the same Apartment with his Friend or
Master, began to harangue in the following Manner.
    »Certainly, Sir, if ever Man deserved a young Lady, you deserve young Madam
Western; for what a vast Quantity of Love must a Man have, to be able to live
upon it without any other Food, as you do. I am positive I have eat thirty times
as much within these last twenty-four Hours as your Honour, and yet I am almost
famished; for nothing makes a Man so hungry as travelling, especially in this
cold raw Weather. And yet I can't tell how it is, but your Honour is seemingly
in perfect good Health, and you never looked better nor fresher in your Life. It
must be certainly Love that you live upon.«
    »And a very rich Diet too, Partridge,« answered Jones. »But did not Fortune
send me an excellent Dainty Yesterday? Dost thou imagine I cannot live more than
twenty-four Hours on this dear Pocket-Book?«
    »Undoubtedly,« cries Partridge, »there is enough in that Pocket-book to
purchase many a good Meal. Fortune sent it to your Honour very opportunely for
present Use, as your Honour's Money must be almost out by this Time.«
    »What do you mean?« answered Jones; »I hope you don't imagine I should be
dishonest enough, even if it belonged to any other Person, besides Miss Western
-«
    »Dishonest!« replied Partridge; »Heaven forbid I should wrong your Honour so
much; but where's the Dishonesty in borrowing a little for present spending,
since you will be so well able to pay the Lady hereafter. No indeed, I would
have your Honour pay it again, as soon as it is convenient, by all Means; but
where can be the Harm in making use of it now you want it. Indeed if it belonged
to a poor Body, it would be another thing; but so great a Lady to be sure can
never want it, especially now as she is along with a Lord, who it can't be
doubted will let her have whatever she hath Need of. Besides, if she should want
a little, she can't want the whole, therefore I would give her a little; but I
would be hanged before I mentioned the having found it at first, and before I
got some Money of my own; for London, I have heard, is the very worst of Places
to be in without Money. Indeed, if I had not known to whom it belonged, I might
have thought it was the Devil's Money, and have been afraid to use it; but as
you know otherwise, and came honestly by it, it would be an Affront to Fortune
to part with it all again, at the very Time when you want it most; you can
hardly expect she should ever do you such another good Turn; for Fortuna nunquam
perpetuo est bona. You will do as you please, notwithstanding all I say; but for
my Part, I would be hanged before I mentioned a Word of the Matter.«
    »By what I can see, Partridge,« cries Jones, »hanging is a Matter non longe
alienum a Scævolæ studiis.« »You should say alienus,« says Partridge. - »I
remember the Passage; it is an Example under Communis, Alienus, immunis, variis
casibus serviunt.« »If you do remember it,« cries Jones, »I find you don't
understand it; but I tell thee, Friend, in plain English, that he who finds
another's Property, and wilfully detains it from the known Owner, deserves in
Foro Conscientiæ, 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, tho' 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 wouldst 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 to live and learn. I remember my old
Schoolmaster, who was a prodigious great Scholar, used often to say, Polly
Matete cry Town is my Daskalon. The English of which, he told us, was, That a
Child may sometimes teach his Grandmother to suck Eggs. I have lived to a fine
Purpose truly, if I am to be taught my Grammar at this Time of Day. Perhaps,
young Gentleman, you may change your Opinion if you live to my Years: For I
remember I thought myself as wise when I was a Stripling of one or two and
twenty as I am now. I am sure I always taught alienus, and my Master read it so
before me.«
    There were not many Instances in which Partridge could provoke Jones, nor
were there many in which Partridge himself could have been hurried out of his
Respect. Unluckily however they had both hit on one of these. We have already
seen Partridge could not bear to have his Learning attacked, nor could Jones
bear some Passage or other in the foregoing Speech. And now looking upon his
Companion with a contemptuous and disdainful Air (a thing not usual with him) he
cried, »Partridge, I see thou art a conceited old Fool, and I wish thou art not
likewise an old Rogue. Indeed if I was as well convinced of the latter as I am
of the former, thou shouldst 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 any thing which might give Offence, for that
he had never intended it; but Nemo omnibus horis sapit.
    As Jones had the Vices of a warm Disposition, he was entirely free from
those of a cold one; and if his Friends must have confessed his Temper to have
been a little too easily ruffled, his Enemies must at the same Time have
confessed, 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, tho' 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 any thing 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 smoking to the Table. On which, having both
plentifully feasted, they again mounted their Horses, and set forward for
London.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

           What happened to Mr. Jones in his Journey from St. Albans.
 
They were got about two Miles beyond Barnet, and it was now the Dusk of the
Evening, when a genteel looking Man, but upon a very shabby Horse, rode up to
Jones, and asked him whether he was going to London, to which Jones answered in
the affirmative. The Gentleman replied, »I should be obliged to you, Sir, if you
will accept of my Company; for it is very late, and I am a Stranger to the
Road.« Jones readily complied with the Request; and on they travelled together,
holding that Sort of Discourse which is usual on such Occasions.
    Of this, indeed, Robbery was the principal Topic; upon which Subject the
Stranger expressed great Apprehensions; but Jones declared he had very little to
lose, and consequently as little to fear. Here Partridge could not forbear
putting in his Word. »Your Honour,« said he, »may think it a little, but I am
sure, if I had a hundred Pound Bank Note in my Pocket, as you have, I should be
very sorry to lose it; but, for my Part, I never was less afraid in my Life; for
we are four of us, and if we all stand by one another, the best Man in England
can't rob us. Suppose he should have a Pistol, he can kill but one of us, and a
Man can die but once, that's my Comfort, a Man can die but once.«
    Besides the Reliance on superior Numbers, a kind of Valour which hath raised
a certain Nation among the Moderns to a high Pitch of Glory, there was another
Reason for the extraordinary Courage which Partridge now discovered; for he had
at present as much of that Quality as was in the Power of Liquor to bestow.
    Our Company were now arrived within a Mile of Highgate, when the Stranger
turned short upon Jones, and pulling out a Pistol, demanded that little Bank
Note which Partridge had mentioned.
    Jones was at first somewhat shocked at this unexpected Demand; however, he
presently recollected himself, and told the Highwayman, all the Money he had in
his Pocket was entirely at his Service; and so saying, he pulled out upwards of
three Guineas, and offered to deliver it; but the other answered with an Oath,
That would not do. Jones answered coolly, He was very sorry for it, and returned
the Money into his Pocket.
    The Highwayman then threatened, if he did not deliver the Bank Note that
Moment, he must shoot him; holding his Pistol at the same Time very near to his
Breast. Jones instantly caught hold of the Fellow's Hand, which trembled so that
he could scarce hold the Pistol in it, and turned the Muzzle from him. A
Struggle then ensued, in which the former wrested the Pistol from the Hand of
his Antagonist, and both came from their Horses on the Ground together, the
Highwayman upon his Back, and the victorious Jones upon him.
    The poor Fellow now began to implore Mercy of the Conqueror; for, to say the
Truth, he was in Strength by no Means a Match for Jones. »Indeed, Sir,« says he,
»I could have had no Intention to shoot you, for you will find the Pistol was
not loaded. This is the first Robbery I ever attempted, and I have been driven
by Distress to this.«
    At this Instant, at about an 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 a 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 alleged.«
    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 dropped 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
expressed a great Compassion for those Highwaymen who are, by unavoidable
Distress, driven, as it were, to such illegal Courses, as generally bring them
to a shameful Death. »I mean,« said he, »those only whose highest Guilt extends
no farther than to Robbery, and who are never guilty of Cruelty nor Insult to
any Person, which is a Circumstance that, I must say, to the Honour of our
Country, distinguishes the Robbers of England from those of all other Nations;
for Murder is, amongst those, almost inseparably incident to Robbery.«
    »No doubt,« answered Partridge, »it is better to take away one's Money than
one's Life, and yet it is very hard upon honest Men, that they can't travel
about their Business without being in Danger of these Villains. And to be sure
it would be better that all Rogues were hanged out of the Way, than that one
honest Man should suffer. For my own Part, indeed, I should not care to have the
Blood of any of them on my own Hands; but it is very proper for the Law to hang
them all. What Right hath any Man to take Sixpence from me, unless I give it
him? Is there any Honesty in such a Man?«
    »No surely,« cries Jones, »no more than there is in him who takes the Horses
out of another Man's Stable, or who applies to his own Use the Money which he
finds, when he knows the right Owner.«
    These Hints stopped the Mouth of Partridge, nor did he open it again till
Jones having thrown some sarcastical Jokes on his Cowardice, he offered to
excuse himself on the Inequality of Fire Arms, saying, »A thousand naked Men are
nothing to one Pistol; for though, it is true, it will kill but one at a single
Discharge, yet who can tell but that one may be himself.«
 

                                   Book XIII

                      Containing the Space of Twelve Days.
 

                                   Chapter I

                                 An Invocation.
 
Come, bright Love of Fame, inspire my glowing Breast: Not thee I call, who over
swelling Tides of Blood and Tears, dost bear the Heroe on to Glory, while Sighs
of Millions waft his spreading Sails; but thee, fair, gentle Maid, whom Mnesis,
happy Nymph, first on the Banks of Hebrus did produce. Thee, whom Mæonia
educated, whom Mantua charm'd, and who, on that fair Hill which overlooks the
proud Metropolis of Britain, satst, 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 Plumbs
delight. Thee, I call; of whom in a Treckschuyte in some Dutch Canal the fat
Ufrow Gelt, impregnated by a jolly Merchant of Amsterdam, was delivered: In
Grubstreet-School didst thou suck in the Elements of thy Erudition. Here hast
thou, in thy maturer Age, taught Poetry to tickle not the Fancy, but the Pride
of the Patron. Comedy from thee learns a grave and solemn Air; while Tragedy
storms loud, and rends th' affrighted Theatres with its Thunder. To sooth thy
wearied Limbs in Slumber, Alderman History tells his tedious Tale; and again to
awaken thee, Monsieur Romance performs his surprising 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, piece-mealed 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 prattling
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 Shakespeare, 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
Mæonian 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 awhile that Key to
all thy Treasures, which to thy Warburton thou hast entrusted.
    Lastly, come Experience long conversant with the Wise, the Good, the
Learned, and the Polite. Nor with them only, but with every Kind of Character,
from the Minister at his Levee, to the Bailiff in his Spunging-House; from the
Dutchess at her Drum, to the Landlady behind her Bar. From thee only can the
Manners of Mankind be known; to which the recluse Pedant, however great his
Parts, or extensive his Learning may be, hath ever been a Stranger.
    Come all these, and more, if possible; for arduous is the Task I have
undertaken: And without all your Assistance, will, I find, be too heavy for me
to support. But if you all smile on my Labours, I hope still to bring them to a
happy Conclusion.
 

                                   Chapter II

                 What befell 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 No-body knows, (a
Scandal, by the by, as old as the Days of Homer)20 will always be the envied
Portion of those, who have a legal Title either to Honour or Estate.
    From that Figure, therefore, which the Irish Peer, who brought Sophia to
Town, hath already made in this History, the Reader will conclude, doubtless, it
must have been an easy Matter to have discovered his House in London, without
knowing the particular Street or Square which he inhabited, since he must have
been one whom every Body knows. To say the Truth, so it would have been to any
of those Tradesmen who are accustomed to attend the Regions of the Great: For
the Doors of the Great are generally no less easy to find, than it is difficult
to get Entrance into them. But Jones, as well as Partridge, was an entire
Stranger in London; and as he happened to arrive first in a Quarter of the Town,
the Inhabitants of which have very little Intercourse with the Housholders of
Hanover or Grosvenor Square, (for he entered through Grays-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 ancient Britons, Saxons, or Danes, whose Ancestors being born
in better Days, by sundry Kinds of Merit, have entailed Riches and Honour on
their Posterity.
    Jones being at length arrived at those terrestrial Elysian Fields, would now
soon have discovered his Lordship's Mansion; but the Peer unluckily quitted his
former House when he went for Ireland; and as he was just entered into a new
one, the Fame of his Equipage had not yet sufficiently blazed in the
Neighbourhood: So that after a successless Enquiry till the Clock had struck
Eleven, Jones, at last, yielded to the Advice of Partridge, and retreated to the
Bull and Gate in Holborn, that being the Inn where he had first alighted, and
where he retired to enjoy that Kind of Repose, which usually attends Persons in
his Circumstances.
    Early in the Morning he again set forth in Pursuit of Sophia; and many a
weary Step he took to no better Purpose than before. At last, whether it was
that Fortune relented, or whether it was no longer in her Power to disappoint
him, he came into the very Street which was honoured by his Lordship's
Residence; and being directed to the House, he gave one gentle Rap at the Door.
    The Porter, who, from the Modesty of the Knock, had conceived no high Idea
of the Person approaching, conceived but little better from the Appearance of
Mr. Jones, who was dressed? in a Suit of Fustian, and had by his Side the Weapon
formerly purchased of the Serjeant; of which, tho' 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 no Body 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 Æneid, Virgil might possibly intend to satyrize 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 Sybil, in
order to procure an Entrance for Æneas, presents the Keeper of the Stygian
Avenue with such a Sop. Jones, in like Manner, now began to offer a Bribe to the
human Cerberus, which a Footman overhearing, instantly advanced, and declared,
»if Mr. Jones would give him the Sum proposed, he would conduct him to the
Lady.« Jones instantly agreed, and was forthwith conducted to the Lodging of
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, by the very Fellow who had attended the Ladies thither the Day
before.
    Nothing more aggravates ill Success than the near Approach to Good. The
Gamester, who loses his Party at Piquet by a single Point, laments his bad Luck
ten Times as much as he who never came within a Prospect of the Game. So in a
Lottery, the Proprietors of the next Numbers to that which wins the great Prize,
are apt to account themselves much more unfortunate than their Fellow-Sufferers.
In short, these kind of hair-breadth 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 frolicksome
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-
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 surprised at
the Answer which he had received, and very earnestly desired Leave to wait on
the Lady herself; but she as positively refused him that Honour.
    Jones, who, though he had never seen a Court, was better bred than most who
frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt Behaviour to a Lady. When he
had received, therefore, a peremptory Denial, he retired for the present, saying
to the Waiting-woman, »That if this was an improper Hour to wait on her Lady, he
would return in the Afternoon; and that he then hoped to have the Honour of
seeing her.« The Civility with which he uttered this, added to the great
Comeliness of his Person, made an Impression on the Waiting-woman, and she could
not help answering; »Perhaps, Sir, you may:« And, indeed, she afterwards said
every Thing to her Mistress, which she thought most likely to prevail on her to
admit a Visit from the handsome young Gentleman; for so she called him.
    Jones very shrewdly suspected, that Sophia herself was now with her Cousin,
and was denied to him; which he imputed to her Resentment of what had happened
at Upton. Having, therefore, dispatched Partridge to procure him Lodgings, he
remained all Day in the Street, watching the Door where he thought his Angel lay
concealed; but no Person did he see issue forth, except a Servant of the House.
And in the Evening he returned to pay his Visit to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, which that
good Lady at last condescended to admit.
    There is a certain Air of natural Gentility, which it is neither in the
Power of Dress to give, nor to conceal. Mr. Jones, as hath been before hinted,
was possessed of this in a very eminent Degree. He met, therefore, with a
Reception from the Lady, somewhat different from what his Apparel seemed to
demand; and after he had paid her his proper Respects, was desired to sit down.
    The Reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all the Particulars
of this Conversation, which ended very little to the Satisfaction of poor Jones.
For though Mrs. Fitzpatrick soon discovered the Lover, (as all Women have the
Eyes of Hawks in those Matters) yet she still thought it was such a Lover, as a
generous Friend of the Lady should not betray her to. In short, she suspected
this was the very Mr. Blifil, from whom Sophia had flown, and all the Answers
which she artfully drew from Jones, concerning Mr. Allworthy's Family, confirmed
her in this Opinion. She therefore strictly denied any Knowledge concerning the
Place whither Sophia was gone; nor could Jones obtain more than a Permission to
wait on her again the next Evening.
    When Jones was departed, Mrs. Fitzpatrick communicated her Suspicion
concerning Mr. Blifil, to her Maid; who answered, »Sure, Madam, he is too pretty
a Man, in my Opinion, for any Woman in the World to run away from. I had rather
fancy it is Mr. Jones.« - »Mr. Jones,« said the Lady, »what Jones?« For Sophia
had not given the least Hint of any such Person in all their Conversation: But
Mrs. Honour had been much more communicative, and had acquainted her Sister
Abigail with the whole History of Jones, which this now again related to her
Mistress.
    Mrs. Fitzpatrick no sooner received this Information, than she immediately
agreed with the Opinion of her Maid; and, what is very unaccountable, saw Charms
in the gallant, happy Lover, which she had overlooked in the slighted Squire. »
Betty,« says she, »you are certainly in the right: He is a very pretty Fellow,
and I don't wonder that my Cousin's Maid should tell you so many Women are fond
of him. I am sorry now I did not inform him where my Cousin was: And yet if he
be so terrible a Rake as you tell me, it is a Pity she should ever see him any
more; for what but her Ruin can happen from marrying a Rake and a Beggar against
her Father's Consent. I protest, if he be such a Man as the Wench described him
to you, it is but an Office of Charity to keep her from him; and, I am sure, it
would be unpardonable in me to do otherwise, who have tasted so bitterly of the
Misfortunes attending such Marriages.«
    Here she was interrupted by the Arrival of a Visitor, which was no other
than his Lordship; and as nothing passed at this Visit either new or
extraordinary, or any Ways material to this History, we shall here put an End to
this Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter III

        A Project of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and her Visit to Lady Bellaston.
 
When Mrs. Fitzpatrick retired to Rest, her Thoughts were entirely taken up by
her Cousin Sophia and Mr. Jones. She was, indeed, a little offended with the
former, for the Disingenuity which she now discovered. In which Meditation she
had not long exercised her Imagination, before the following Conceit suggested
itself: That could she possibly become the Means of preserving Sophia from this
Man, and of restoring her to her Father, she should, in all human Probability,
by so great a Service to the Family, reconcile to herself both her Uncle and her
Aunt Western.
    As this was one of her most favourite Wishes, so the Hope of Success seemed
so reasonable, that nothing remained but to consider of proper Methods to
accomplish her Scheme. To attempt to reason the Case with Sophia, did not appear
to her one of those Methods: For as Betty had reported from Mrs. Honour, that
Sophia had a violent Inclination to Jones, she conceived, that to dissuade her
from the Match, was an Endeavour of the same Kind as it would be, very heartily
and earnestly to entreat a Moth not to fly into a Candle.
    If the Reader will please to remember, that the Acquaintance which Sophia
had with Lady Bellaston, was contracted at the House of Mrs. Western, and must
have grown at the very Time when Mrs. Fitzpatrick lived with this latter Lady,
he will want no Information, that Mrs. Fitzpatrick must have been acquainted
with her likewise. They were, besides, both equally her distant Relations.
    After much Consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early in the Morning
to that Lady, and endeavour to see her, unknown to Sophia, and to acquaint her
with the whole Affair. For she did not in the least doubt, but that the prudent
Lady, who had often ridiculed romantic Love, and indiscreet Marriages, in her
Conversation, would very readily concur in her Sentiments concerning this Match,
and would lend her utmost Assistance to prevent it.
    This Resolution she accordingly executed; and the next Morning before the
Sun, she huddled on her clothes, 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 this 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 complete 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 tyrannize over us, and from such I shall
ever esteem it the Cause of my Sex to rescue any Woman who is so unfortunate to
be under their Power. - The Business, dear Cousin, will be only to keep Miss
Western from seeing this young Fellow, till the good Company, which she will
have an Opportunity of meeting here, give her a properer Turn.«
    »If he should find her out, Madam,« answered the other, »your Ladyship may
be assured he will leave nothing unattempted to come at her.«
    »But Madam,« replied the Lady, »it is impossible he should come here, - tho'
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 answer'd, »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 bestow'd on her Cousin, and after some little immaterial
Conversation withdrew, and getting as fast as she could into her Chair unseen by
Sophia or Honour, returned home.
 

                                   Chapter IV

                          Which consists of Visiting.
 
Mr. Jones had walked within Sight of a certain Door during the whole Day, which,
though one of the shortest, appeared to him to be one of the longest in the
whole Year. At length the Clock having struck five he returned to Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, who, though it was a full Hour earlier than the decent Time of
visiting, receive'd him very civilly; but still persisted in her Ignorance
concerning Sophia.
    Jones in asking for his Angel, had drop'd the Word Cousin; upon which Mrs.
Fitzpatrick said, »Then, Sir, you know we are related, and as we are, you will
permit me the Right of enquiring into the Particulars of your Business with my
Cousin.« Here Jones hesitated a good while, and at last answered, He had a
considerable Sum of Money of hers in his Hands, which he desired to deliver to
her. He then produced the Pocket-book, and acquainted Mrs. Fitzpatrick with the
Contents, and with the Method in which they came into his Hands. He had scarce
finished his Story when a most violent Noise shook the whole House. To attempt
to describe this Noise to those who have heard it would be in vain, and to aim
at giving any Idea of it to those who have never heard the like, would be still
more vain: For it may be truly said,
 
- Non acuta
Sic geminant Corybantes Æra.
 
          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
surprised 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 Curtesy to
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and as low a one to Mr. Jones, was ushered to the upper End of
the Room.
    We mention these minute Matters for the Sake of some Country Ladies of our
Acquaintance, who think it contrary to the Rules of Modesty to bend their Knees
to a Man.
    The Company were hardly well settled, before the Arrival of the Peer lately
mentioned caused a fresh Disturbance and a Repetition of Ceremonials.
    These being over, the Conversation began to be (as the Phrase is) extremely
brilliant. However, as nothing past in it which can be thought material to this
History, or, indeed, very material in itself, I shall omit the Relation; the
rather as I have known some very fine polite Conversation grow extremely dull,
when transcribed into Books, or repeated on the Stage. Indeed this mental Repast
is a Dainty, of which those who are excluded from polite Assemblies, must be
contented to remain as ignorant as they must of the several Dainties of French
Cookery, which are served only at the Tables of the Great. To say the Truth, as
neither of these are adapted to every Taste, they might both be often thrown
away on the Vulgar.
    Poor Jones was rather a Spectator of this elegant Scene, than an Actor in
it; for though in the short Interval before the Peer's Arrival, Lady Bellaston
first, and afterwards Mrs. Fitzpatrick, had addressed some of their Discourse to
him; yet no sooner was the noble Lord entered, than he engrossed the whole
Attention of the two Ladies to himself; and as he took no more Notice of Jones
than if no such Person had been present, unless by now and then staring at him,
the Ladies followed his Example.
    The Company had now staid so long, that Mrs. Fitzpatrick plainly perceived
they all designed to stay out each other. She therefore resolved to rid herself
of Jones, he being the Visitant, to whom she thought the least Ceremony was due.
Taking therefore an Opportunity of a Cessation of Chat, she addressed herself
gravely to him, and said, »Sir, I shall not possibly be able to give you an
Answer To-night, as to that Business; but if you please to leave Word where I
may send to you To-morrow -«
    Jones had natural, but not artificial good Breeding. Instead therefore of
communicating the Secret of his Lodgings to a Servant, he acquainted the Lady
herself with it particularly, and soon after very ceremoniously withdrew.
    He was no sooner gone, than the great Personages who had taken no Notice of
him present, began to take much Notice of him in his Absence; but if the Reader
hath already excused us from relating the more brilliant Part of this
Conversation, he will surely be very ready to excuse the Repetition of what may
be called vulgar Abuse: Though, perhaps, it may be material to our History to
mention an Observation of Lady Bellaston, who took her Leave in a few Minutes
after him, and then said to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, at her Departure. »I am satisfied
on the Account of my Cousin, she can be in no Danger from this Fellow.«
    Our History shall follow the Example of Lady Bellaston, and take Leave of
the present Company, which was now reduced to two Persons; between whom, as
nothing passed, which in the least concerns us or our Reader, we shall not
suffer ourselves to be diverted by it from Matters which must seem of more
Consequence to all those who are at all interested in the Affairs of our Heroe.
 

                                   Chapter V

An Adventure which happened to Mr. Jones, at his Lodgings, with some Account of
 a young Gentleman who lodged there, and of the Mistress of the House, and her
                                 two Daughters.
 
The next Morning as early as it was decent, Jones attended at Mrs. Fitzpatrick's
Door, where he was answered that the Lady was not at Home; an Answer which
surprised 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 complete 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 Vertù (take heed you do not read Virtue). Thus at an
Age when the Gentlemen abovementioned employed 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 of Methods to bribe a Corporation, or meditating Speeches for the
House of Commons, or rather for the Magazines. But the Science of Gaming is that
which above all others employs their Thoughts. These are the Studies of their
graver Hours, while for their Amusements they have the vast Circle of
Connoisseurship, Painting, Music, Statuary, and natural Philosophy, or rather
unnatural, which deals in the Wonderful, and knows nothing of Nature, except her
Monsters and Imperfections.
    When Jones had spent the whole Day in vain Enquiries after Mrs. Fitzpatrick,
he returned at last disconsolate to his Apartment. Here while he was venting his
Grief in private, he heard a violent Uproar below Stairs; and soon after a
female Voice begged him for Heaven's Sake to come and prevent Murder. Jones, who
was never backward on any Occasion, to help the Distressed, immediately ran down
Stairs; when stepping into the Dining-room, whence all the Noise issued, he
beheld the young Gentleman of Wisdom and Vertù just before mentioned, pinned
close to the Wall by his Footman, and a young Woman standing by, wringing her
Hands, and crying out, »He will be murdered, he will be murdered;« and indeed
the poor Gentleman seemed in some Danger of being choaked, when Jones flew
hastily to his Assistance, and rescued him just as he was breathing his last,
from the unmerciful Clutches of the Enemy.
    Though the Fellow had received several Kicks and Cuffs from the little
Gentleman, who had more Spirit than Strength, he had made it a kind of Scruple
of Conscience to strike his Master, and would have contented himself with only
choaking him; but towards Jones he bore no such Respect: He no sooner therefore
found himself a little roughly handled by his new Antagonist, than he gave him
one of those Punches in the Guts, which, tho' 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, cry'd, - O d-n me, I'll have nothing more to do with you, you
have been upon the Stage, or I am 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 muffled21 Graduates of Mr. Broughton's School.
    The Master foaming with Wrath, ordered his Man immediately to strip, to
which the latter very readily agreed, on Condition of receiving his Wages. This
Condition was presently complied with, and the Fellow was discharged.
    And now the young Gentleman, whose Name was Nightingale, very strenuously
insisted, that his Deliverer should take Part of a Bottle of Wine with him; to
which Jones, after much Entreaty, consented; tho' more out of Complaisance 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
excuseable. I happened to come home several Hours before my usual Time, when I
found four Gentlemen of the Cloth at Whisk 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 cheerful
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 charm'd 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, tho' 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 cheerful. 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 News-Paper, 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
dropped from him; and particularly many Expressions of the highest
Disinterestedness in the Affair of Love. On which Subject the young Gentleman
delivered himself in a Language which might have very well become an Arcadian
Shepherd of Old, and which appeared very extraordinary when proceeding from the
Lips of a modern fine Gentleman, but he was only one by Imitation, and meant by
Nature for a much better Character.
 

                                   Chapter VI

What arrived while the Company were at Breakfast, with some Hints concerning the
                            Government of Daughters.
 
Our Company brought together in the Morning the same good Inclinations towards
each other, with which they had separated the Evening before; but poor Jones was
extremely disconsolate; for he had just received Information from Partridge,
that Mrs. Fitzpatrick had left her Lodging, and that he could not learn whither
she was gone. This News highly afflicted him, and his Countenance, as well as
his Behaviour, in Defiance of all his Endeavours to the contrary, betrayed
manifest Indications of a disordered Mind.
    The Discourse turned at present, as before, on Love; and Mr. Nightingale
again expressed many of those warm, generous, and disinterested Sentiments upon
this Subject, which wise and sober Men call romantic, but which wise and sober
Women generally regard in a better Light. Mrs. Miller, (for so the Mistress of
the House was called) greatly approved these Sentiments; but when the young
Gentleman appealed to Miss Nancy, she answered only, »That she believed the
Gentleman who had spoke the least, was capable of feeling the most.«
    This Compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we should have
been sorry had he passed it by unregarded. He made her indeed a very polite
Answer, and concluded with an oblique Hint, that her own Silence subjected her
to a Suspicion of the same Kind: For indeed she had scarce opened her Lips
either now, or the last Evening.
    »I am glad, Nancy,« 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 Gayety?
Would you think, Sir, I used to call her my little Prattler. She hath not spoke
twenty Words this Week.«
    Here their Conversation was interrupted by the Entrance of a Maid-Servant,
who brought a Bundle in her Hands, 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 Surprise 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 dropped
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 stopped 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 these
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 clothes,«
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 ancient 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 ancient Opinion, that Men might live very comfortably on Virtue
only, be, as the modern wise Men just abovementioned pretend to have discovered,
a notorious Error; no less false is, I apprehend, that Position of some Writers
of Romance, that a Man can live altogether on Love: For however delicious
Repasts this may afford to some of our Senses or Appetites, it is most certain
it can afford none to others. Those, therefore, who have placed too great a
Confidence in such Writers, have experienced their Error when it was too late;
and have found that Love was no more capable of allaying Hunger, than a Rose is
capable of delighting the Ear, or a Violin of gratifying the Smell.
    Notwithstanding, therefore, all the Delicacies which Love had set before
him, namely, the Hopes of seeing Sophia at the Masquerade; on which, however
ill-founded his Imagination might be, he had voluptuously feasted during the
whole Day, the Evening no sooner came, than Mr. Jones began to languish for some
Food of a grosser Kind. Partridge discovered this by Intuition, and took the
Occasion to give some oblique Hints concerning the Bank-bill, and when those
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 clothes 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 Intreaties 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 it. 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 stopped the Mouth of Jones; as Surprise, for a Moment, did that
of Partridge: But he soon recovered the Use of Speech, and after a short
Preface, in which he declared he had no Inquisitiveness in his Temper, enquired,
what Jones meant by a considerable Sum; he knew not how much; and what was
become of the Money?
    In both these Points he now received full Satisfaction; on which he was
proceeding to comment, when he was interrupted by a Message from Mr. Nightingale
, who desired his Master's Company in his Apartment.
    When the two Gentlemen were both attired for the Masquerade, and Mr.
Nightingale had given Orders for Chairs to be sent for, a Circumstance of
Distress occurred to Jones, which will appear very ridiculous to many of my
Readers. This was how to procure a Shilling; but if such Readers will reflect a
little on what they have themselves felt from the Want of a thousand Pound, or,
perhaps, of ten or twenty, to execute a favourite Scheme, they will have a
perfect Idea of what Mr. Jones felt on this Occasion. For this Sum, therefore,
he applied to Partridge, which was the first he had permitted him to advance,
and was the last he intended that poor Fellow should advance in his Service. To
say the Truth, Partridge had lately made no Offer of this Kind; whether it was
that he desired to see the Bank-bill broke in upon, or that Distress should
prevail on Jones to return Home, or from what other Motive it proceeded, I will
not determine.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                 Containing the whole Humours of a Masquerade.
 
Our Cavaliers now arrived at that Temple, where Heydegger, the great Arbiter
Deliciarum, the great High-Priest of Pleasure presides; and, like other Heathen
Priests, imposes on his Votaries by the pretended Presence of the Deity, when in
reality no such Deity is there.
    Mr. Nightingale having taken a Turn or two with his Companion, soon left
him, and walked off with a Female, saying, »Now you are here, Sir, you must beat
about for your own Game.«
    Jones began to entertain strong Hopes that his Sophia was present; and these
Hopes gave him more Spirits than the Lights, the Music, and the Company; though
these are pretty strong Antidotes against the Spleen. He now accosted every
Woman he saw, whose Stature, Shape, or Air, bore any Resemblance to his Angel.
To all of whom he endeavoured to say something smart, in order to engage an
Answer, by which he might discover that Voice which he thought it impossible he
should mistake. Some of these answered by a Question, in a squeaking Voice, Do
you know me? Much the greater Numbers 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 much Vehemence. Upon which the Lady cry'd, -
»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 every Thing 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 tho' 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 any thing
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 no
better Opinion of your Gallantry, she would scarce have appointed you to meet
her at a 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 no where 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 bare-faced. He could not help
expressing his Surprise at this, saying, »Sure, Madam, you must have infinite
Discernment to know People in all Disguises.« To which the Lady answered, »You
cannot conceive any Thing 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 o' 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 Surprise, 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-warm'd Room, when the Female still speaking in her Masquerade Voice, said,
she was surprised at her Friend, who must absolutely have forgot her
Appointment; at which after venting much Resentment, she suddenly expressed 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 any wise material
to this History. And this was a Promise that the Lady would endeavour to find
out Sophia, and in a few Days bring him to an Interview with her, on Condition
that he would then take his Leave of her. When this was thoroughly settled, and
a second Meeting in the Evening appointed at the same Place, they separated; the
Lady returned to her House, and Jones to his Lodgings.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

Containing a Scene of Distress, which will appear very extraordinary to most of
                                  our Readers.
 
Jones having refreshed himself with a few Hours Sleep, summoned Partridge to his
Presence; and delivering him a Bank Note of fifty Pounds, ordered him to go and
change it. Partridge received this with sparkling Eyes, though when he came to
reflect farther, it raised in him some Suspicions not very advantagious 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 in to the Hackney Charities of the Age, such as
building Hospitals etc., 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 surprising 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, cry'd the Child, I shan't die, God Almighty, I'm sure, wont 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 rather like one 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 Cawdle as if she lay in, in the midst of the greatest Affluence; I
tasted it, and I scarce ever tasted better. - The Means of procuring her this,
he said, he believed was sent him by an Angel from Heaven; I know not what he
meant, for I had not Spirits enough to ask a single Question.
    This was a Love-Match, as they call it, on both Sides; that is, a Match
between two Beggars. I must indeed say I never saw a fonder Couple; but what is
their Fondness good for, but to torment each other?« »Indeed, Mamma,« cries
Nancy, »I have always looked on my Cousin Enderson (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 the 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 every Thing. They have always been in great Distress; but,
indeed, this absolute Ruin hath been brought upon them by others. The poor Man
was Bail for the Villain his Brother; and about a Week ago, the very Day before
her Lying-in, their Goods were all carried away, and sold by an Execution. He
sent a Letter to me of it by one of the Bailiffs, which the Villain never
delivered. - What must he think of my suffering a Week to pass before he heard
of me?«
    It was not with dry Eyes that Jones heard this Narrative; when it was ended,
he took Mrs. Miller apart with him into another Room, and delivering her his
Purse, in which was the Sum of 50 l. 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 cry'd out, - »Good Heavens! Is there such a Man in the World?« -
But recollecting herself, she said, »Indeed I know one such; but can there be
another?« »I hope, Madam,« cries Jones, »there are many who have common
Humanity: For to relieve such Distresses in our Fellow-Creatures, can hardly be
called more.« Mrs. Miller then took ten Guineas, which were the utmost he could
prevail with her to accept, and said, »she would find some Means of conveying
them early the next Morning;« adding, »that she had herself done some little
Matter for the poor People, and had not left them in quite so much Misery as she
found them.«
    They then returned to the Parlour, where Nightingale express'd 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 one's self 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 any thing;
and therefore as the others thought proper to make no Demand, he kept his Money
in his Pocket.
    I have in Truth observed, and shall never have a better Opportunity than at
present to communicate my Observation, that the World are in general divided
into two Opinions concerning Charity, which are the very reverse of each other.
One Party seems to hold, that all Acts of this Kind are to be esteemed as
voluntary Gifts, and however little you give (if indeed no more than your good
Wishes) you acquire a great Degree of Merit in so doing. - Others, on the
contrary, appear to be as firmly persuaded, that Beneficence is a positive Duty,
and that whenever the Rich fall greatly short of their Ability in relieving the
Distresses of the Poor, their pitiful Largesses are so far from being
meritorious, that they have only performed their Duty by Halves, and are in some
Sense more contemptible than those who have entirely neglected it.
    To reconcile these different Opinions is not in my Power. I shall only add,
that the Givers are generally of the former Sentiment, and the Receivers are
almost universally inclined to the latter.
 

                                   Chapter IX

  Which treats of Matters of a very different Kind from those in the preceding
                                    Chapter.
 
In the Evening Jones met his Lady again, and a long Conversation again ensued
between them; but as it consisted only of the same ordinary Occurrences as
before, we shall avoid mentioning Particulars, which we despair of rendring
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 dress'd 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
deserve to be hang'd, 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 tho' the virtuous Love which 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 an
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 Gayety 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, tho' very beautiful to the
Eye, very improper to be placed in a Wilderness of Sweets, and what above all
others is most disagreeable to the Breath of Love.
    Though Jones saw all these Discouragements on the one Side, he felt his
Obligations full as strongly on the other; nor did he less plainly discern the
ardent Passion whence those Obligations proceeded, the extreme Violence of which
if he failed to equal, he well knew the Lady would think him ungrateful; and,
what is worse, he would have thought himself so. He knew the tacit Consideration
upon which all her Favours were conferred; and as his Necessity obliged him to
accept them, so his Honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the Price. This
therefore he resolved to do, whatever Misery it cost him, and to devote himself
to her, from that great Principle of Justice, by which the Laws of some
Countries oblige a Debtor who is no otherwise capable of discharging his Debt,
to become the Slave of his Creditor.
    While he was meditating on these Matters, he received the following Note
from the Lady.
    »A very foolish, but a very perverse Accident hath happened since our last
Meeting, which makes it improper I should see you any more at the usual Place. I
will, if possible, contrive some other Place by To-morrow. In the mean Time,
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 Funn, 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 surprised at the Imprudence of Lady Bellaston in bringing her Lover
to the very House where her Rival was lodged.
    First then the Mistress of the House where these Lovers had hitherto met,
and who had been for some Years a Pensioner to that Lady, was now become a
Methodist, and had that very Morning waited upon her Ladyship, and after
rebuking her very severely for her past Life, had positively declared, that she
would, on no Account, be instrumental in carrying on any of her Affairs for the
future.
    The Hurry of Spirits into which this Accident threw the Lady, made her
despair of possibly finding any other Convenience to meet Jones that Evening;
but as she began a little to recover from her Uneasiness at the Disappointment,
she set her Thoughts to work, when luckily it came into her Head to propose to
Sophia to go to the Play, which was immediately consented to, and a proper Lady
provided for her Companion. Mrs. Honour was likewise dispatched 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 apprised
of the Revolution that had happened in the Mind and Morals of her late
Confidante.
 

                                   Chapter X

         A Chapter which, though short, may draw Tears from some Eyes.
 
Mr. Jones was just dress'd to wait on Lady Bellaston, when Mrs. Miller rapp'd 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 steadfastly at each other, showed at
once the utmost Tokens of Surprise. 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 surprised 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 every thing to preserve
his Wife and Children from instant Destruction, may I have a Friend capable of
disowning me in Adversity.«
    »O you are an excellent young Man,« cries Mrs. Miller, - »yes, indeed, poor
Creature! he hath ventured every thing. - 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.«
    »O, 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 tea. 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 own, 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 avaritious, 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 owe House. He then stepped into his
Chair, and proceeded to Lady Bellaston's, greatly exulting in the Happiness
which he had procured to this poor Family; nor could he forbear reflecting
without Horror on the dreadful Consequences which must have attended them, had
he listened rather to the Voice of strict Justice, than to that of Mercy when he
was attacked on the high Road.
    Mrs. Miller sung forth the Praises of Jones during the whole Evening, in
which Mr. Enderson, while he stayed, so passionately accompanied her, that he
was often on the very Point of mentioning the Circumstances 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 apprised of the Loquacity of this
Lady; and yet such was his Gratitude, that it had almost got the better both of
Discretion and Shame, and made him publish that which would have defamed his own
Character, rather than omit any Circumstances which might do the fullest Honour
to his Benefactor.
 

                                   Chapter XI

                     In which the Reader will be surprised.
 
Mr. Jones was rather earlier than the Tirne 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 faltering Accents, said, - »I see, Madam,
you are surprised.« - »Surprized!« answered she; »Oh Heavens! Indeed, I am
surprised. I almost doubt whether you are the Person you seem.« »Indeed,« cries
he, »my Sophia, pardon me, Madam, for this once calling you so, I am that very
wretched Jones, whom Fortune, after so many Disappointments, hath, at last,
kindly conducted to you. Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand Torments I
have suffered in this long, fruitless Pursuit.« - »Pursuit of whom?« said Sophia
, a little recollecting herself, and assuming a reserved Air. - »Can you be so
cruel to ask that Question?« cries Jones. »Need I say of you?« »Of me?« answered
Sophia: »Hath Mr. Jones then any such important Business with me?« »To some,
Madam,« cries Jones, »this might seem an important Business,« (giving her the
Pocket-Book). »I hope, Madam, you will find it of the same Value, as when it was
lost.« Sophia took the Pocket-Book, and was going to speak, when he interrupted
her, thus; - »Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of these precious Moments
which Fortune hath so kindly sent us. - O my Sophia, I have Business of a much
superior Kind. - Thus, on my Knees, let me ask your Pardon.« - »My Pardon?«
cries she; - »Sure, Sir, after what is past you cannot expect, after what I have
heard -« »I scarce know what I say,« answered Jones. »By Heavens! I scarce wish
you should pardon me. O my Sophia, henceforth never cast away a Thought on such
a Wretch as I am. If any Remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a
Moment's Uneasiness to that tender Bosom, think of my Unworthiness; and let the
Remembrance of what past 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 doted still on your
charming Idea, and could seriously love no other Woman. But if my Heart had not
been engaged, she, into whose Company I accidentally fell at that cursed Place,
was not an Object of serious Love. Believe me, my Angel, I never have seen her
from that Day to this; and never intend, or desire, to see her again.« Sophia,
in her Heart, was very glad to hear this; but forcing into her Face an Air of
more Coldness than she had yet assumed; »Why,« said she, »Mr. Jones, do you take
the Trouble to make a Defence, where you are not accused? If I thought it worth
while to accuse you, I have a Charge of unpardonable Nature indeed.« »What is
it, for Heaven's Sake?« answered Jones, trembling and pale, expecting to hear of
his Amour with Lady Bellaston. »Oh,« said she, »how is it possible! Can every
Thing noble, and every Thing base, be lodged together in the same Bosom?« Lady
Bellaston, and the ignominious Circumstance of having been kept, rose again in
his Mind, and stopped 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
betray'd 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 Surprise 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 stopped 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 begun 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 stopped; when after a Pause of a few Moments, recollecting herself with
admirable Presence of Mind, she said, - tho' with sufficient Indications of
Surprise 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 Playhouse, 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 betray'd 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 to me with the Bill in it.«
    Jones, ever since the Arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been ready to sink with
Fear. He sat kicking his Heels, playing with his Fingers, and looking more like
a Fool, if it be possible, than a young booby Squire, when he is first
introduced into a polite Assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself;
and taking a Hint from the Behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who, he saw, did not
intend to claim any Acquaintance with him, he resolved as entirely to affect the
Stranger on his Part. He said, »Ever since he had the Pocket-Book in his
Possession, he had used great Diligence in enquiring out the Lady whose Name was
writ in it; but never till that Day could be so fortunate to discover her.«
    Sophia had, indeed, mentioned the Loss of her Pocket-Book to Lady Bellaston;
but as Jones, for some Reason or other, had never once hinted to her that it was
in his Possession, she believed not one Syllable of what Sophia now said, and
wonderfully admired the extreme Quickness of the young Lady, in inventing such
an Excuse. The Reason of Sophia's leaving the Play-house 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.«
    »O 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 look'd very slyly at Lady Bellaston,
without any Fear of being remarked by Sophia; for she was visibly too much
confounded to make any Observations. This Hint a little alarmed the Lady, and
she was silent; when Jones, who saw the Agitations of Sophia's Mind, resolved to
take the only Method of relieving her, which was by retiring: But before he did
this, he said, »I believe, Madam, it is customary to give some Reward on these
Occasions; - I must insist on a very high one for my Honesty; - It is, Madam, no
less than the Honour of being permitted to pay another Visit here.«
    »Sir,« replied the Lady, »I make no Doubt that you are a Gentleman, and my
Doors are never shut to People of Fashion.«
    Jones then, after proper Ceremonials, departed, highly to his own
Satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was terribly alarmed lest Lady
Bellaston should discover what she knew already but too well.
    Upon the Stairs Jones met his old Acquaintance Mrs. Honour, who,
notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so well-bred to behave
with great Civility. This Meeting proved indeed a lucky Circurnstance, as he
communicated to her the House where he lodged, with which Sophia was
unacquainted.
 

                                  Chapter XII

                   In which the Thirteenth Book is concluded.
 
The elegant Lord Shaftsbury 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 abovementioned 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 cry'd, »Upon my Word, a
good pretty young Fellow; I wonder who he is: For I don't remember ever to have
seen his Face before.«
    »Nor I neither, Madam,« cries Sophia. »I must say he behaved very handsomely
in relation to my Note.«
    »Yes; and he is a very handsome Fellow,« said the Lady; »don't you think
so?«
    »I did not take much Notice of him,« answered Sophia; »but I thought he
seemed rather awkward and ungenteel than otherwise.«
    »You are extremely right,« cries Lady Bellaston: »You may see, by his
Manner, that he hath not kept good Company. Nay, notwithstanding his returning
your Note, and refusing the Reward, I almost question whether he is a Gentleman.
- I have always observed there is a Something in Persons well-born, which others
can never acquire. - I think I will give Orders not to be at Home to him.«
    »Nay sure, Madam,« answered Sophia, »one can't suspect after what he hath
done: - Besides, if your Ladyship observed him, there was an Elegance in his
Discourse, a Delicacy, a Prettiness of Expression that, that -.«
    »I confess,« said Lady Bellaston, »the Fellow hath Words. - And indeed,
Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.«
    »I forgive your Ladyship!« said Sophia.
    »Yes indeed you must,« answered she laughing; »for I had a horrible
Suspicion when I first came into the Room - I vow you must forgive it; but I
suspected it was Mr. Jones himself.«
    »Did your Ladyship indeed?« cries Sophia, blushing, and affecting a Laugh.
    »Yes, I vow I did,« answered she, »I can't imagine what put it into my Head:
For, give the Fellow his due, he was genteelly dressed?; which, I think, dear Sophy
, is not commonly the Case with your Friend.«
    »This Raillery,« cries Sophia, »is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, after my
Promise to your Ladyship.«
    »Not at all, Child,« said the Lady; - »It would have been cruel before; but
after you have promised me never to marry without your Father's Consent, in
which you know is implied your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little
Raillery on a Passion which was pardonable enough in a young Girl in the
Country, and of which you tell me you have so entirely got the better. What must
I think, my dear Sophy, if you cannot bear a little Ridicule even on his Dress?
I shall begin to fear you are very far gone indeed; and almost question whether
you have dealt ingenuously with me.«
    »Indeed, Madam,« cries Sophia, »your Ladyship mistakes me, if you imagine I
had any Concern on his Account.«
    »On his Account?« answered the Lady: »You must have mistaken me; I went no
farther than his Dress; - for I would not injure your Taste by any other
Comparison. - I don't imagine, my dear Sophy, if your Mr. Jones had been such a
Fellow as this -«
    »I thought,« says Sophia, »your Ladyship had allowed him to be handsome.« -
    »Whom, pray?« cried the Lady, hastily.
    »Mr. Jones,« answered Sophia; - and immediately recollecting herself, »Mr.
Jones! - no, no; I ask your Pardon; - I mean the Gentleman who was just now
here.«
    »O Sophy! Sophy!« cries the Lady; »this Mr. Jones, I am afraid, still runs
in your Head.«
    »Then upon my Honour, Madam,« said Sophia, »Mr. Jones is as entirely
indifferent to me, as the Gentleman who just now left us.«
    »Upon my Honour,« said Lady Bellaston, »I believe it. Forgive me, therefore,
a little innocent Raillery; but I promise you I will never mention his Name any
more.«
    And now the two Ladies separated, infinitely more to the Delight of Sophia,
than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly have tormented her Rival a little
longer, had not Business of more Importance called her away. As for Sophia, her
Mind was not perfectly easy under this first Practice of Deceit; upon which,
when she retired to her Chamber, she reflected with the highest Uneasiness and
conscious Shame. Nor could the peculiar Hardship of her Situation, and the
Necessity of the Case, at all reconcile her Mind to her Conduct; for the Frame
of her Mind was too delicate to bear the Thought of having been guilty of a
falsehood, however qualified by Circumstances. Nor did this Thought once suffer
her to close her Eyes during the whole succeeding Night.
 

                                    Book XIV

                              Containing two Days.

                                   Chapter I

    An Essay to prove that an Author will write the better, for having some
                  Knowledge of the Subject on which he writes.
 
As several Gentlemen in these Times, by the wonderful Force of Genius only,
without the least Assistance of Learning, perhaps, without being well able to
read, have made a considerable Figure in the Republic of Letters; the modern
Critics, I am told, have lately begun to assert, that all kind of Learning is
entirely useless to a Writer; and, indeed, no other than a kind of Fetters on
the natural Spriteliness and Activity of the Imagination, which is thus weighed
down, and prevented from soaring to those high Flights which otherwise it would
be able to reach.
    This Doctrine, I am afraid, is, at present, carried much too far: For why
should Writing differ so much from all other Arts? The Nimbleness of a
Dancing-Master is not at all prejudiced by being taught to move; nor doth any
Mechanic, I believe, exercise his Tools the worse by having learnt to use them.
For my own Part, I cannot conceive that Homer or Virgil would have writ with
more Fire, if, instead of being Masters of all the Learning of their Times, they
had been as ignorant as most of the Authors of the present Age. Nor do I believe
that all the Imagination, Fire, and judgement 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 perswades 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 ea 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 abovesaid 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 ancient or modern, have
ever treated about that noble and useful Art.
    To avoid a Multiplicity of Examples in so plain a Case, and to come at once
to my Point, I am apt to conceive, that one Reason why many English Writers have
totally failed in describing the Manners of upper Life, may possibly be, that in
Reality they know nothing of it.
    This is a Knowledge unhappily not in the Power of many Authors to arrive at.
Books will give us a very imperfect Idea of it; nor will the Stage a much
better: The fine Gentleman formed upon reading the former will almost always
turn out a Pedant, and he who forms himself upon the latter, a Coxcomb.
    Nor are the Characters drawn from these Models better supported. Vanbrugh
and Congreve copied Nature; but they who copy them draw as unlike the present
Age, as Hogarth would do if he was to paint a Rout or a Drum in the Dresses of
Titian and of Vandyke. In short, Imitation here will not do the Business. The
Picture must be after Nature herself. A true Knowledge of the World is gained
only by Conversation, and the Manners of every Rank must be seen in order to be
known.
    Now it happens that this higher Order of Mortals is not to be seen, like all
the rest of the Human Species, for nothing, in the Streets, Shops, and
Coffee-houses: Nor are they shown, like the upper Rank of Animals, for so much a
Piece. In short, this is a Sight to which no Persons are admitted, without one
or other of these Qualifications, viz. either Birth or Fortune; or what is
equivalent to both, the honourable Profession of a Gamester. And very unluckily
for the World, Persons so qualified, very seldom care to take upon themselves
the bad Trade of Writing; which is generally entered upon by the lower and
poorer Sort, as it is a Trade which many think requires no Kind of Stock to set
up with.
    Hence those strange Monsters in Lace and Embroidery, in Silks and Brocades,
with vast Wigs and Hoops; which, under the Name of Lords and Ladies, strut the
Stage, to the great Delight of Attornies 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 curtesying, make up the Business of their Lives.
    Some there are however of this Rank, upon whom Passion exercises its
Tyranny, and hurries them far beyond the Bounds which Decorum prescribes; of
these, the Ladies are as much distinguished by their noble Intrepidity, and a
certain superior Contempt of Reputation, from the frail ones of meaner Degree,
as a virtuous Woman of Quality is by the Elegance and Delicacy of her Sentiments
from the honest Wife of a Yeoman 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 Satyrists, 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 Characteristick of the present Beau
Monde, is rather Folly than Vice, and the only Epithet which it deserves is that
of Frivolous.
 

                                   Chapter II

           Containing Letters and other Matters which attend Amours.
 
Jones had not long been at Home, before he received the following Letter.
 
        »I was never more surprised 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 dote 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, she yet 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 surprised at any Expressions in my former Note. - Yet,
        perhaps, on Reflection, they were rather too warm. At least I would, if
        possible, think all owing to the odious Playhouse, and to the
        Impertinence of a Fool, which detained me beyond my Appointment. - How
        easy is it to think well of those we love? - Perhaps you desire I should
        think so. I have resolved to see you To-Night, so come to me
        immediately.
            P.S. I have ordered to be at Home to none but yourself.
            P.S. Mr. Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his Defence; for I
        believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than I desire to impose on
        myself.
            P.S. Come immediately.«
 
To the Men of Intrigue I refer the Determination, whether the angry or the
tender Letter gave the greatest Uneasiness to Jones. Certain it is, he had no
violent Inclination to pay any more Visits that Evening, unless to one single
Person. However he thought his Honour engaged, and had not this been Motive
sufficient, he would not have ventured to blow the Temper of Lady Bellaston into
that Flame of which he had Reason to think it susceptible, and of which he
feared the Consequence might be a Discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded. After
some discontented Walks therefore about the Room, he was preparing to depart,
when the Lady kindly prevented him, not by another Letter, but by her own
Presence. She entered the Room very disordered in her Dress, and very
discomposed in her Looks, and threw herself into a Chair, where having recovered
her Breath, she said, - »You see, Sir, when Women have gone one Length too far,
they will stop at none. If any Person would have sworn this to me a Week ago, I
would not have believed it of myself.« »I hope, Madam,« said Jones, »my charming
Lady Bellaston will be as difficult to believe any thing 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,« cry'd she, »do not run through
the odious Recital. - Answer me but one Question, and I shall be easy. - Have
you not betrayed my Honour to her?« - Jones fell upon his Knees, and began to
utter the most violent Protestations, when Partridge came dancing and capering
into the Room, like one drunk with Joy, crying out, »She's found! she's found! -
Here, Sir, here, she's here, - Mrs. Honour is upon the Stairs.« »Stop her a
Moment,« cries Jones, - »Here, Madam, step behind the Bed, I have no other Room
nor Closet, nor Place on Earth to hide you in; sure never was so damn'd 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 up Stairs. 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 makes 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 slip'd five
Pieces into her Hand. He then returned a thousand Thanks to his dear Sophia in a
Whisper, and begged her to 1eave him to read her Letter; she presently departed,
not without expressing much grateful Sense of his Generosity.
    Lady Bellaston now came from behind the Curtain. How shall I describe her
Rage? Her Tongue was at first incapable of Utterance; but Streams of Fire darted
from her Eyes, and well indeed they might, for her Heart was all in a Flame. And
now as soon as her Voice found Way, instead of expressing any Indignation
against Honour, or her own Servants, she began to attack poor Jones. »You see,«
said she, »what I have sacrificed to you, my Reputation, my Honour, - gone for
ever! And what Return have I found? Neglected, slighted for a Country Girl, for
an Idiot.« - »What Neglect, Madam, or what Slight,« cries Jones, »have I been
guilty of?« - »Mr. Jones,« said she, »it is in vain to dissemble, if you will
make me easy, you must entirely give her up; and as a Proof of your Intention,
show me the Letter.« - »What Letter, Madam?« said Jones. »Nay, surely,« said
she, »you cannot have the Confidence to deny your having received a Letter by
the Hands of that Trollop.« »And can your Ladyship,« cries he, »ask of me what I
must part with my Honour before I grant? Have I acted in such a Manner by your
Ladyship? Could I be guilty of betraying this poor innocent Girl to you, what
Security could you have, that I should not act the same Part by yourself? A
Moment's Reflection will, I am sure, convince you, that a Man with whom the
Secrets of a Lady are not safe, must be the most contemptible of Wretches.«
»Very well,« said she - »I need not insist on your becoming this contemptible
Wretch in your own Opinion; for the Inside of the Letter could inform me of
nothing more than I know already. I see the Footing you are upon.« - Here ensued
a long Conversation, which the Reader, who is not too curious, will thank me for
not inserting at length. It shall suffice therefore to inform him, that Lady
Bellaston grew more and more pacified, and at length believed, or affected to
believe, his Protestations, that his meeting with Sophia that Evening was merely
accidental, and every other Matter which the Reader already knows, and which as
Jones set before her in the strongest Light, it is plain that she had in Reality
no Reason to be angry with him.
    She was not however in her Heart perfectly satisfied with his Refusal to
show her the Letter, so deaf are we to the clearest Reason, when it argues
against our prevailing Passions. She was indeed well convinced that Sophia
possessed the first Place in Jones's Affections; and yet, haughty and amorous as
this Lady was, she submitted at last to bear the second Place; or to express it
more properly in a legal Phrase, was contented with the Possession of that of
which another Woman had the Reversion.
    It was at length agreed, that Jones should for the future visit at the
House: for that Sophia her Maid, and all the Servants would place these Visits
to the Account of Sophia; and that she herself would be considered as the Person
imposed upon.
    This Scheme was contrived by the Lady, and highly relished by Jones, who was
indeed glad to have a Prospect of seeing his Sophia at any Rate; and the Lady
herself was not a little pleased with the Imposition on Sophia, which Jones, she
thought, could not possibly discover to her for his own Sake.
    The next Day was appointed for the first Visit, and then, after proper
Ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned Home.
 

                                  Chapter III

                          Containing various Matters.
 
Jones was no sooner alone, than he eagerly broke open his Letter, and read as
follows.
 
        »Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since you left
        this House; and as I have Reason to think you intend coming here again,
        I have sent Honour, though so late at Night, as she tells me she knows
        your Lodgings, to prevent you. I charge you, by all the Regard you have
        for me, not to think of visiting here; for it will certainly be
        discovered; nay, I almost doubt from some Things which have dropped 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 administred 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
supply'd 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 enclosed in one to Honour. He then dispatched another to
Lady Bellaston, containing the abovementioned Excuse; and to this he soon
received the following Answer.
 
        »I am vexed that I cannot see you here this Afternoon, but more
        concerned for the Occasion; take great Care of yourself, and have the
        best Advice, and I hope there will be no Danger. - I am so tormented all
        this Morning with Fools, that I have scarce a Moment's Time to write to
        you. Adieu.
            P.S. I will endeavour to call on you this Evening at nine. - Be sure
        to be alone.«
 
Mr. Jones now received a Visit from Mrs. Miller, who, after some formal
Introduction, began the following Speech. »I am very sorry, Sir, to wait upon
you on such an Occasion; but I hope you will consider the ill Consequence which
it must be to the Reputation of my poor Girls, if my House should once be talked
of as a House of ill Fame. I hope you won't think me therefore guilty of
Impertinence, if I beg you not to bring any more Ladies in at that Time of
Night. The Clock had struck two before one of them went away.« »I do assure you,
Madam,« said Jones, »the Lady who was here last Night, and who staid the latest
(for the other only brought me a Letter) is a woman of very great Fashion, and
my near Relation.« »I don't know what Fashion she is of,« answered Mrs. Miller,
»but I am sure no Woman of Virtue, unless a very near Relation indeed, would
visit a young Gentleman at ten at Night, and stay four Hours in his Room with
him alone; besides, Sir, the Behaviour of her Chairmen shows what she was; for
they did nothing but make Jests all the Evening in the Entry, and asked Mr.
Partridge in the hearing of my own Maid, if Madam intended to stay with his
Master all Night; with a great deal of Stuff not proper to be repeated. I have
really a great Respect for you, Mr. Jones, upon your own Account, nay I have a
very high Obligation to you for your Generosity to my Cousin. Indeed I did not
know how very good you had been till lately. Little did I imagine to what
dreadful Courses the poor Man's Distress had driven him. Little did I think when
you gave me the ten Guineas, that you had given them to a Highwayman! O Heavens!
What Goodness have you shown? How have you preserved this Family. - The
Character which Mr. Allworthy hath formerly given me of you, was, I find,
strictly true. - And indeed if I had no Obligation to you, my Obligations to him
are such, that, on his Account, I should 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 Connection 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 any thing so unfortunate; hear me but
out, and you will own how wrongfully you have accused me. When Mrs. Honour came
down Stairs 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 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
ten Pence 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 any thing 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 some body
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 any body in the
House, ever to say, I mentioned any such Word. To be certain, Sir, it is a
wonderful Thing, and I have been thinking with myself ever since, how it was she
came to know it; not but I saw an old Woman here t'other Day a begging at the
Door, who looked as like her we saw in Warwickshire, that caused all that
Mischief to us. To be sure it is never good to pass by an old Woman without
giving her something, especially if she looks at you; for all the World shall
never persuade me but that they have a great Power to do Mischief, and to be
sure I shall never see an old Woman again, but I shall think to myself,
Infandum, Regina, jubes renovare Dolorem.«
    The Simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a final end to his
Anger, which had indeed seldom any long Duration in his Mind; and instead of
commenting on his Defence, he told him he intended presently to leave those
Lodgings, and ordered him to go and endeavour to get him others.
 

                                   Chapter IV

 Which we hope will be very attentively perused by young People of both Sexes.
 
Partridge had no sooner left Mr. Jones, than Mr. Nightingale, with whom he had
now contracted a great Intimacy, came to him, and after a short Salutation,
said, »So, Tom, I hear you had Company very late last Night. Upon my Soul, you
are a happy Fellow, who have not been in Town above a Fortnight, and can keep
Chairs waiting at your Door till two in the Morning.« He then ran on with much
common-place 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.« »O 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 play'd 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 one's
self 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 eleven foreseen the Consequence; for I am sure thou art a very
good-natured Fellow, and such a one can never be guilty of a Cruelty of that
Kind; but at the same time, you have pleased your own Vanity, without
considering that this poor Girl was made a Sacrifice to it; and while you have
had no Design but of amusing an idle Hour, you have actually given her Reason to
flatter herself, that you had the most serious Designs in her Favour. Prithee,
Jack, answer me honestly: To what have tended all those elegant and luscious
Descriptions of Happiness arising from violent and mutual Fondness, all those
warm Professions of Tenderness, and generous, disinterested Love? did you
imagine she would not apply them? or speak ingenuously, did not you intend she
should?« »Upon my Soul, Tom,« cries Nightingale, »I did not think this was in
thee. Thou wilt make an admirable Parson. - So, I suppose, you would not go to
Bed to Nancy now, if she would let you?« - »No,« cries Jones, »may I be d-n'd if
I would.« »Tom, Tom,« answered Nightingale, »last Night, remember last Night.
 
- When every Eye was clos'd, 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 Pound; 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 oftner 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 expressed 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
curtivated, honoured, and caressed with the utmost Love and Tenderness; but if
regarded as Enemies, were a Conquest of which a Man ought rather to be ashamed
than to value himself upon it.
 

                                   Chapter V

                 A short Account of the History of Mrs. Miller.
 
Jones this Day eat a pretty good Dinner for a sick Man, that is to say, the
larger Half of a Shoulder of Mutton. In the Afternoon he received an Invitation
from Mrs. Miller to drink Tea: For that good Woman having learnt, either by
Means of Partridge, or by some other Means natural or supernatural, that he had
a Connection 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 surprising 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 any Thing 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 afterwards of the Small-pox: A
Lady was so kind 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 comply'd.
Five Years did I live in a State of perfect Happiness with that best of Men,
till at last - Oh! cruel, cruel Fortune that ever separated us, that deprived me
of the kindest of Husbands, and my poor Girls of the tenderest Parent. - O my
poor Girls! you never knew the Blessing which ye lost. - I am ashamed, Mr. Jones
, of this womanish Weakness; but I shall never mention him without Tears.« - »I
ought rather, Madam,« said Jones, »to be ashamed that I do not accompany you.« -
»Well, Sir,« continued she, »I was now left a second Time in a much worse
Condition than before; besides the terrible Affliction I was to encounter, I had
now two Children to provide for; and was, if possible, more pennyless than ever,
when that great, that good, that glorious Man, Mr. Allworthy, who had some
little Acquaintance with my Husband, accidentally heard of my Distress, and
immediately writ this Letter to me. Here, Sir; - here it is; I put it into my
Pocket to show 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, etc.
    This Letter, Sir, I received within a Fortnight after the irreparable Loss I
have mentioned, and within a Fortnight afterwards, Mr. Allworthy, - the blessed
Mr. Allworthy, came to pay me a Visit, when he placed me in the House where you
now see me, gave me a large Sum of Money to furnish it, and settled an Annuity
of 50 l. 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 any Thing 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 entirely
innocent.«
    Here Jones heaved a deep Sigh, and then said, »Since I perceive, Madam, you
really do know me, and Mr. Allworthy hath thought proper to mention my Name to
you; and since you have been so explicit with me as to your own Affairs, I will
acquaint you with some more Circumstances concerning myself.« And these Mrs.
Miller having expressed great Desire and Curiosity to hear, he began and related
to her his whole History, without once mentioning the Name of Sophia.
    There is a Kind of Sympathy in honest Minds, by Means of which they give an
easy Credit to each other. Mrs. Miller believed all which Jones told her to be
true, and expressed 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 entirely
innocent was to pass between them; and I do firmly believe he intended to keep
his Word.
    Mrs. Miller was at length prevailed on, and Jones departed to his Chamber,
where he sat alone till Twelve o'Clock, but no Lady Bellaston appeared.
    As we have said that this Lady had a great Affection for Jones, and as it
must have appeared that she really had so, the Reader may perhaps wonder at the
first Failure of her Appointment, as she apprehended him to be confined by
Sickness, a Season when Friendship seems most to require such Visits. This
Behaviour, therefore, in the Lady, may, by some, be condemned as unnatural; but
that is not our Fault; for our Business is only to record Truth.
 

                                   Chapter VI

       Containing a Scene which we doubt not will affect all our Readers.
 
Mr. Jones closed not his Eyes during all the former Part of the Night; not owing
it 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 Ancients 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 down Stairs, 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 any Thing so
trifling as his Disappointment; that he was heartily sorry for the Occasion; and
that if he could be of any Service to her, she might command him.« He had scarce
spoke these Words, when Mrs. Miller, who heard them all, suddenly threw open the
Door, and coming out to him, in a Flood of Tears, said, »O Mr. Jones, you are
certainly one of the best young Men alive. I give you a thousand Thanks for your
kind Offer of your Service; but, alas! Sir, it is out of your Power to preserve
my poor Girl. - O my Child, my Child! She is undone, she is ruined for ever!« »I
hope, Madam,« said Jones, »no Villain -« »O Mr. Jones,« said she, »that Villain
who Yesterday left my Lodgings, hath betrayed my poor Girl; hath destroyed her,
- I know you are a Man of Honour. You have a good - a noble Heart, Mr. Jones.
The Actions to which I have been myself a Witness, could proceed from no other.
I will tell you all: Nay, indeed, it is impossible, after what hath happened, to
keep it a Secret. That Nightingale, that barbarous Villain hath undone my
Daughter. She is - she is - oh! Mr. Jones, my Girl is with Child by him; and in
that Condition he hath deserted her. Here! here, Sir, is his cruel Letter; read
it, Mr. Jones, and tell me if such another Monster lives.« The Letter was as
follows:
 
        »Dear Nancy,
            As I found it impossible to mention to you what I am afraid will be
        no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I have taken this Method to
        inform you, that my Father insists upon my immediately paying my
        Addresses to a young Lady of Fortune, whom he hath provided for my - I
        need not write the detested Word. Your own good Understanding will make
        you sensible, how entirely I am obliged to an Obedience, by which I
        shall be for ever excluded from your dear Arms. The Fondness of your
        Mother may encourage you to trust her with the unhappy Consequence of
        our Love, which may be easily kept a Secret from the World, and for
        which I will take Care to provide, as I will for you. I wish you may
        feel less on this Account than I have suffered: But summon all your
        Fortitude to your Assistance, and forgive and forget the Man, whom
        nothing but the Prospect of certain Ruin, could have forced to write
        this Letter. I bid you forget me, I mean only as a Lover; but the best
        of Friends you shall ever find in
Your faithful, tho' 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,« cry'd 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 out-live it; nor could I myself out-live any Accident of that Nature. -
What then will become of my little Betsy, a helpless, infant Orphan? And thc
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 the 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 cheerfully 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 Conveniencies 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 sooth 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 any Thing 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
any where with those I love.«
    Jones was so pleased with this Answer, that he eagerly kissed the Child; and
soon after Mrs. Miller returned, saying, »She thanked Heaven Nancy was now come
to herself. And now, Betsy,« says she, »you may go in, for your Sister is
better, and longs to see you.« She then turned to Jones, and began to renew her
Apologies for having disappointed him of his Breakfast.
    »I hope, Madam,« said Jones, »I shall have a more exquisite Repast than any
you could have provided for me. This, I assure you, will be the Case, if I can
do any Service to this little Family of Love. But whatever Success may attend my
Endeavours, I am resolved to attempt it. I am very much deceived in Mr.
Nightingale, if, notwithstanding what hath happened, he hath not much Goodness
of Heart at the Bottom, as well as a very violent Affection for your Daughter.
If this be the Case, I think the Picture which I shall lay before him, will
affect him. Endeavour, Madam, to comfort yourself and Miss Nancy, as well as you
can. I will go instantly in quest of Mr. Nightingale; and I hope to bring you
good News.«
    Mrs. Miller fell upon her Knees, and invoked all the Blessings of Heaven
upon Mr. Jones; to which she afterwards added the most passionate Expressions of
Gratitude. He then departed to find Mr. Nightingale, and the good Woman returned
to comfort her Daughter, who was somewhat cheared at what her Mother told her;
and both joined in resounding the Praises of Mr. Jones.
 

                                  Chapter VII

              The Interview between Mr. Jones and Mr. Nightingale.
 
The Good or Evil we confer on others, very often, I believe, recoils on
ourselves. For as Men of a benign Disposition enjoy their own Acts of
Beneficence, equally with those to whom they are done, so there are scarce any
Natures so entirely diabolical, as to be capable of doing Injuries, without
paying themselves some Pangs, for the Ruin which they bring on their
Fellow-Creatures.
    Mr. Nightingale, at least, was not such a Person. On the contrary, Jones
found him in his new Lodgings, sitting melancholy by the Fire, and silently
lamenting the unhappy Situation in which he had placed poor Nancy. He no sooner
saw his Friend appear, than he rose hastily to meet him; and after much
Congratulation said, »Nothing could have been more opportune than this kind
Visit; for I was never more in the Spleen in my Life.«
    »I am sorry,« answered Jones, »that I bring News very unlikely to relieve
you; nay, what I am convinced must, of all other, shock you the most. However,
it is necessary you should know it. Without further Preface then, I come to you,
Mr. Nightingale, from a worthy Family, which you have involved in Misery and
Ruin.« Mr. Nightingale changed Colour at these Words; but Jones, without
regarding it, proceeded, in the liveliest Manner, to paint the tragical Story,
with which the Reader was acquainted in the last Chapter.
    Nightingale never once interrupted the Narration, though he discovered
violent Emotions at many Parts of it. But when it was concluded, after fetching
a deep Sigh, he said, »What you tell me, my Friend, affects me in the tenderest
Manner. Sure there never was so cursed an Accident as the poor Girl's betraying
my Letter. Her Reputation might otherwise have been safe, and the Affair might
have remained a profound Secret; and then the Girl might have gone off never the
worse; for many such Things happen in this Town; and if the Husband should
suspect a little, when it is too late, it will be his wiser Conduct to conceal
his Suspicion both from his Wife and the World.«
    »Indeed, my Friend,« answered Jones, »this could not have been the Case with
your poor Nancy. You have so entirely gained her Affections, that it is the Loss
of you, and not of her Reputation, which afflicts her, and will end in the
Destruction of her and her Family.« »Nay, for that Matter, I promise you,« cries
Nightingale, »she hath my Affections so absolutely, that my Wife, whoever she is
to be, will have very little Share in them.« »And is it possible then,« said
Jones, »you can think of deserting her?« »Why what can I do?« answered the
other. »Ask Miss Nancy;« replied Jones warmly. »In the Condition to which you
have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought to determine what Reparation you
shall make her. Her Interest alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole
Consideration. But if you ask me what you shall do; what can you do less,« cries
Jones, »than fulfil the Expectations of her Family, and her own. Nay, and 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 every Thing 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, tho' 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, rapturou 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
Fyes. On the one Side, see this poor, unhappy, tender, believing Girl, in the
Arms of her wretched Mother, breathing her last. Hear her breaking Heart in
Agonies sighing out your Name; and lamenting, rather than accusing, the Cruelty
which weighs her down to Destruction. Paint to your Imagination the
Circumstances of her fond, despairing Parent, driven to Madness, or, perhaps, to
Death, by the Loss of her lovely Daughter. View the poor, helpless,
Orphan-Infant: And when your Mind hath dwelt a Moment only on such Ideas,
consider yourself as the Cause of all; the Ruin of this poor, little, worthy,
defenceless Family. On the other Side, consider yourself as relieving them from
their temporary Sufferings. Think with what Joy, with what Transports, that
lovely Creature will fly to your Arms. See her Blood returning to her pale
Cheeks, her Fire to her languid Eyes, and Raptures to her tortured Breast.
Consider the Exultations of her Mother, the Happiness of all. Think of this
little Family made, by one Act of yours, completely happy. Think of this
Alternative, and sure I am mistaken in my Friend, if it requires any long
Deliberation, whether he will sink these Wretches down for ever, or, by one
generous, noble Resolution, raise them all from the Brink of Misery and Despair,
to the highest Pitch of human Happiness. Add to this but one Consideration more;
the Consideration that it is your Duty so to do. - That the Misery from which
you will relieve these poor People, is the Misery which you yourself have
wilfully brought upon them.«
    »O my dear Friend,« cries Nightingale, »I wanted not your Eloquence to rouse
me. I pity poor Nancy from my Soul, and would willingly give any Thing 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 Tomorrow 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 Tomorrow, 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 complete my own Happiness, or that of my Nancy.«
    »Then I am resolved to undertake it,« said Jones. »You must not be angry
with me, in whatever Light it may be necessary to set this Affair, which, you
may depend on it, could not otherwise be long hid from him; for Things of this
Nature make a quick Progress, when once they get abroad, as this unhappily hath
already. Besides, should any fatal Accident follow, as upon my Soul I am afraid
will, unless immediately prevented, the Public would ring of your Name, in a
Manner which, if your Father hath common Humanity, must offend him. If you will
therefore tell me where I may find the old Gentleman, I will not lose a Moment
in the Business; which while I pursue, you cannot do a more generous Action,
than by paying a Visit to the poor Girl. You will find I have not exaggerated in
the Account I have given of the Wretchedness of the Family.«
    Nightingale immediately consented to the Proposal; and now having acquainted
Jones with his Father's Lodging, and the Coffee-house where he would most
probably find him, he hesitated a Moment, and then said, »My dear Tom, you are
going to undertake an Impossibility. If you knew my Father, you would never
think of obtaining his Consent. - Stay, there is one Way. - Suppose you told him
I was already married, it might be easier to reconcile him to the Fact after it
was done; and, upon my Honour, I am so affected with what you have said, and I
love my Nancy so passionately, I almost wish it was done, whatever might be the
Consequence.«
    Jones greatly approved the Hint, and promised to pursue it. They then
separated, Nightingale to visit his Nancy, and Jones in quest of the old
Gentleman.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

What passed between Jones and old Mr. Nightingale, with the Arrival of a Person
                       not yet mentioned in this History.
 
Notwithstanding the Sentiment of the Roman Satyrist, 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, expresly 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 over-reach the other, and, as it not
rarely happens in such Cases, both had retreated fully satisfied of having
obtained the Victory.
    This Gentleman whom Mr. Jones now visited, was what they call a Man of the
World, that is to say, a Man who directs his Conduct in this World, as one who
being fully persuaded there is no other, is resolved to make the most of this.
In his early Years he had been bred to Trade, but having acquired a very good
Fortune, he had lately declined his Business; or to speak more properly, had
changed it from dealing in Goods to dealing only in Money, of which he had
always a plentiful Fund at Command, and of which he knew very well how to make a
very plentiful Advantage; sometimes of the Necessities of private Men, and
sometimes of those of the Public. He had indeed conversed so entirely with
Money, that it may be almost doubted, whether he imagined there was any other
thing really existing in the World; this at least may be certainly averred, that
he firmly believed nothing else to have any real Value.
    The Reader will, I fancy, allow, that Fortune could not have culled out a
more improper Person for Mr. Jones to attack with any Probability of Success,
nor could the whimsical Lady have directed this Attack at a more unseasonable
Time.
    As Money then was always uppermost in this Gentleman's Thoughts, so the
Moment he saw a Stranger within his Doors, it immediately occurred to his
Imagination, that such Stranger was either come to bring him Money, or to fetch
it from him. And according as one or other of these Thoughts prevailed, he
conceived a favourable or unfavourable Idea of the Person who approached him.
    Unluckily for Jones, the latter of these was the Ascendant at present; for
as a young Gentleman had visited him the Day before, with a Bill from his Son
for a Play Debt, he apprehended at the first Sight of Jones, that he was come on
such another Errand. Jones thererore 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 no Body.« »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 any thing 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 raise'd our Fears.
    Thus it happened to Nightingale, who no sooner found that Jones had no
Demand on him, as he suspected, then 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 any thing to say concerning this young Lady, I shall be glad to hear
you. As to her making him happy, it will be his own Fault if she doth not. I
have discharged my Duty, in taking Care of the main Article. She will bring him
a Fortune capable of making any reasonable, prudent, sober Man happy.«
»Undoubtedly,« cries Jones, »for she is in herself a Fortune; so beautiful, so
genteel, so sweet-tempered, and so well educated; she is indeed a most
accomplished young Lady; sings admirably well, and hath a most delicate Hand at
the Harpsichord.« »I did not know any of these Matters,« answered the old
Gentleman, »for I never saw the Lady; but I do not like her the worse for what
you tell me; and I am the better pleased with her Father for not laying any
Stress on these Qualifications in our Bargain. I shall always think it a Proof
of his Understanding. A silly Fellow would have brought in these Articles as an
Addition to her Fortune; but to give him his due, he never mentioned any such
Matter; though to be sure they are no Disparagements to a Woman.« »I do assure
you, Sir,« cries Jones, »she hath them all in the most eminent Degree: For my
Part I own I was afraid you might have been a little backward, a little less
inclined to the Match: For your Son told me you had never seen the Lady,
therefore I came, Sir, in that Case, to entreat you, to conjure you, as you
value the Happiness of your Son, not to be averse to his Match with a Woman who
hath not only all the good Qualities I have mentioned, but many more.« - »If
that was your Business, Sir,« said the old Gentleman, »we are both obliged to
you; and you may be perfectly easy, for I give you my Word I was very well
satisfied with her Fortune.« »Sir,« answered Jones, »I honour you every Moment
more and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that Account, is a
Proof of the Soundness of your Understanding, as well as the Nobleness of your
Mind.« - »Not so very moderate, young Gentleman, not so very moderate,« answered
the Father. - »Still more and more noble,« replied Jones, »and give me Leave to
add sensible: For sure it is little less than Madness to consider Money as the
sole Foundation of Happiness. Such a Woman as this with her little, her nothing
of a Fortune.« - »I find,« cries the old Gentleman, »you have a pretty just
Opinion of Money, my Friend, or else you are better acquainted with the Person
of the Lady than with her Circumstances. Why pray, what Fortune do you imagine
this Lady to have?« - »What Fortune?« cries Jones, »why too contemptible a one
to be named for your Son.« »Well, well, well,« said the other, »perhaps he might
have done better.« - »That I deny,« said Jones, »for she is one of the best of
Women.« »Ay, ay, but in Point of Fortune I mean -« answered the other. - »And
yet as to that now, how much do you imagine your Friend is to have?« - »How
much,« cries Jones, »how much! - Why at the utmost, perhaps, 200 l.« »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
Surprise. »Nay,« said Jones, »I thought you was unacquainted with it.« - »My Son
married to Miss Harris!« answered he again. - »To Miss Harris!« said Jones, »no
Sir, to Miss Nancy Miller, the Daughter of Mrs. Miller, at whose House he
lodged; a young Lady, who, though her Mother is reduced to let Lodgings -« »Are
you bantering, or are you in Earnest?« cries the Father with a most solemn
Voice. »Indeed, Sir,« answered Jones, »I scorn the Character of a Banterer. I
came to you in most serious Earnest, imagining, as I find true, that your Son
had never dared acquaint you with a Match so much inferior to him in Point of
Fortune, tho' the Reputation of the Lady will suffer it no longer to remain a
Secret.«
    While the Father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this News, a
Gentleman came into the Room, and saluted him by the Name of Brother.
    But though these two were in Consanguinity so nearly related, they were in
their Dispositions almost the opposites to each other. The Brother who now
arrived had likewise been bred to Trade, in which he no sooner saw himself worth
6000 l. 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 this projected Match, that he was now come to Town; not
indeed to forward, but to dissuade his Brother from a Purpose which he conceived
would inevitably ruin his Nephew; for he foresaw no other Event, from a Union
with Miss Harris, notwithstanding the Largeness of her Fortune, as neither her
Person nor Mind seemed to him to promise any Kind of matrimonial Felicity; for
she was very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very silly, and very
ill-natured.
    His Brother therefore no sooner mentioned the Marriage of his Nephew with
Miss Miller, than he expressed the utmost Satisfaction; and when the Father had
very bitterly reviled his Son, and pronounced Sentence of Beggary upon him, the
Uncle began in the following Manner.
    »If you was a little cooler, Brother, I would ask you whether you love your
Son for his Sake, or for your own. You would answer, I suppose, and so I suppose
you think, for his Sake; and doubtless it is his Happiness which you intended in
the Marriage you proposed for him.
    Now, Brother, to prescribe Rules of Happiness to others, hath always
appeared to me very absurd, and to insist on doing this very tyrannical. It is a
vulgar Error I know; but it is nevertheless an Error. And if this be absurd in
other Things, it is mostly so in the Affair of Marriage, the Happiness of which
depends entirely on the Affection which subsists between the Parties.
    I have therefore always thought it unreasonable in Parents to desire to
choose 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
though 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
Perswasion, they found the Father grew still more and more irritated, instead of
appeased, Jones conducted the Uncle to his Nephew at the House of Mrs. Miller.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                          Containing strange Matters.
 
At his Return to his Lodgings, Jones found the Situation of Affairs greatly
altered from what they had been in at his Departure. The Mother, the two
Daughters and young Mr. Nightingale were now sat down to Supper together, when
the Uncle was, at his own Desire, introduced without any Ceremony into the
Company, to all of whom he was well known; for he had several Times visited his
Nephew at that House.
    The old Gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, saluted and wished
her Joy, as he did afterwards the Mother and the other Sister; and lastly, he
paid the proper Compliments to his Nephew, with the same good Humour and
Courtesy, as if his Nephew had married his equal or superior in Fortune, with
all the previous Requisites first performed.
    Miss Nancy and her supposed Husband both turned pale, and looked rather
foolish than otherwise upon the Occasion; but Mrs. Miller took the first
Opportunity of withdrawing; and having sent for Jones into the Dining Room, she
threw herself at his Feet, and in a most passionate Flood of Tears, called him
her good Angel, the Preserver of her poor little Family, with many other
respectful and endearing Appellations, and made him every Acknowledgment which
the highest Benefit can extract from the most grateful Heart.
    After the first Gust of her Passion was a little over, which she declared,
if she had not vented, would have burst her, she proceeded to inform Mr. Jones,
that all Matters were settled between Mr. Nightingale and her Daughter, and that
they were to be married the next Morning: At which Mr. Jones having expressed much
Pleasure, the poor Woman fell again into a Fit of Joy and Thanksgiving, which he
at length with Difficulty silenced, and prevailed on her to return with him back
to the Company, whom they found in the same good Humour in which they had left
them.
    This little Society now past two or three very agreeable Hours together, in
which the Uncle, who was a very great Lover of his Bottle, had so well ply'd his
Nephew, that this latter, though not drunk, began to be somewhat flustered; and
now Mr. Nightingale taking the old Gentleman with him up Stairs 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 unparalelled 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 any thing.« 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 choose 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 choose wisely. - Indeed, Jack, you must and shall leave this
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
any thing 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 Trial, 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 any thing to shock
the poor Girl or her Mother.« »O 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 cheerfully obey.«
»Nay, Sir, I ask nothing,« said the Uncle, »but the Honour of your Company home
to my Lodging, that I may reason the Case a little more fully with you: For I
would if possible have the Satisfaction of preserving my Family, notwithstanding
the headstrong Folly of my Brother, who, in his own Opinion, is the wisest Man
in the World.«
    Nightingale, who well knew his Uncle to be as headstrong as his Father,
submitted to attend him Home, and then they both returned back into the Room,
where the old Gentleman promised to carry himself with the same Decorum which he
had before maintained.
 

                                   Chapter X

                   A short Chapter which concludes the Book.
 
The long Absence of the Uncle and Nephew had occasioned some Disquiet in the
Minds of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as during the
preceding Dialogue, the Uncle had more than once elevated his Voice, so as to be
heard down Stairs; 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 Complaisance 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 Art 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
over-reached 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 up Stairs, 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 Maller was, the Reader will be informed, after we have
first related the many preceding Steps which produced it, and those will be the
Subject of the following Book.
 

                                    Book XV

                 In which the History advances about two Days.

                                   Chapter I

                          Too short to need a Preface.
 
There are a Set of Religious, or rather Moral Writers, who teach that Virtue is
the certain Road to Happiness, and Vice to Misery in this World. A very wholsome
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 House-wives 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 ancient 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 ancient 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 Goal, 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 clothed 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 choose to dispute the Doctrine on which it is founded, which we don't
apprehend to be Christian, which we are convinced is not true, and which is
indeed destructive of one of the noblest Arguments that Reason alone can furnish
for the Belief of Immortality.
    But as the Reader's Curiosity (if he hath any) must be now awake, and
hungry, we shall provide to feed it as fast as we can.
 

                                   Chapter II

             In which is opened a very black Design against Sophia.
 
I remember a wise old Gentleman, who used to say, when Children are doing
nothing, they are doing Mischief. I will not enlarge this quaint Saying to the
most beautiful Part of the Creation in general; but so far I may be allowed,
that when the Effects of female Jealousy do not appear openly in their proper
Colours of Rage and Fury, we may suspect that mischievous Passion to be at work
privately, and attempting to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground.
    This was exemplified in the Conduct of the Lady Bellaston, who under all the
Smiles which she wore in her Countenance, concealed much Indignation against
Sophia; and as she plainly saw that this young Lady stood between her and the
full Indulgence of her Desires, she resolved to get rid of her by some Means or
other; nor was it long before a very favourable Opportunity of accomplishing
this, presented itself to her.
    The Reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia was thrown into that
Consternation at the Play-house, 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 increased, 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 completed 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. Tho' 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 Complaisance, even in the Age when
such Complaisance was in Fashion; the very Reverse of which is well known to be
the reigning Mode at present.
    Lady Bellaston had been apprised 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 Surprise. - »I mean,« said he, »the Lady I saw here
the other Day, whom I had last Night in my Arms at the Play-House, 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 in a Court; for besides her Beauty, I
never saw any thing so genteel, so sensible, so polite.« - »O brave!« cries the
Lady, »My Cousin hath you, I find.« - »Upon my Honour,« answered he, »I wish she
had: for I am in Love with her to Distraction.« - »Nay, my Lord,« said she, »it
is not wishing yourself very ill neither, for she is a very great Fortune, I
assure you she is an only Child, and her Father's Estate is a good 3000 l. 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 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 no body but Lady Betty, and
Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards, they will all go soon - and I
shall be at home to no body. Then your Lordship may be a little more explicit.
Nay, I will contrive some Method to convince you of her Attachment to this
Fellow.« My Lord made proper Compliments, accepted the Invitation, and then they
parted to dress, it being now past three in the Morning, or to reckon by the old
Style, in the Afternoon.
 

                                  Chapter III

                 A further Explanation of the foregoing Design.
 
Tho' the Reader may have long since concluded Lady Bellaston to be a Member (and
no inconsiderable one) of the Great World, she was in reality a very
considerable Member of the Little World; by which Appellation was distinguished
a very worthy and honourable Society which not long since flourished in this
Kingdom.
    Among other good Principles upon which this Society was founded, there was
one very remarkable; for as it was a Rule of an honourable Club of Heroes, who
assembled at the close of the late War, that all the Members should every Day
fight once at least; so 'twas in this, that every Member should, within the
twenty-four Hours, tell at least one merry Fib, which was to be propagated by
all the Brethren and Sisterhood.
    Many idle Stories were told about this Society, which from a certain Quality
may be perhaps not unjustly supposed to have come from the Society themselves.
As, that the Devil was the President, and that he sat in Person in an elbow
Chair at the upper End of the Table; but upon very strict Enquiry, I find there
is not the least Truth in any of those Tales, and that the Assembly consisted in
reality of a Set of very good sort of People, and the Fibs which they propagated
were of a harmless Kind, and tended only to produce Mirth and good Humour.
    Edwards was likewise a Member of this comical Society. To him therefore Lady
Bellaston applied as a proper Instrument for her Purpose, and furnished him with
a Fib, which he was to vent whenever the Lady gave him her Cue; and this was not
to be till the Evening when all the Company but Lord Fellamar and himself were
gone, and while they were engaged in a 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! tho' now I
think on't, there hath a terrible Accident befallen poor Col. Wilkox. - Poor Ned
- You know him, my Lord, every body 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 come 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 just began to deal as Tom had mentioned that a Man was killed,
stopped 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 dropped 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 those 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
any 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 future 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 Shakespeare.
 
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 entreat her Cousin not to encourage the Visits of that odious Lord (so
she called him though a little unjustly) upon her Account. »I see his Design,«
said she, »for he made downright Love to me Yesterday Morning; but as I am
resolved never to admit it, I beg your Ladyship not to leave us alone together
any more, and to order the Servants that if he enquires for me I may be always
denied to him.«
    »La! Child,« says Lady Bellaston, »you Country Girls have nothing but
Sweet-Hearts in your Head; you fancy every Man who is civil to you is making
Love. He is one of the most gallant young Fellows about Town, and I am convinced
means no more than a little Gallantry. Make Love to you indeed! I wish with all
my Heart he would, and you must be an arrant mad Woman to refuse him.«
    »But as I shall certainly be that mad Woman,« cries Sophia, »I hope his
Visits shall not be intruded upon me.«
    »O Child,« said Lady Bellaston, »you need not be so fearful, if you resolve
to run away with that Jones, I know no Person who can hinder you.«
    »Upon my Honour, Madam,« cries Sophia, »your Ladyship injures me. I will
never run away with any Man; nor will I ever marry contrary to my Father's
Inclinations.«
    »Well, Miss Western,« said the Lady, »if you are not in a Humour to see
Company this Morning, you may retire to your own Apartment; for I am not
frightened at his Lordship, and must send for him up into my Dressing-Room.«
    Sophia thanked her Ladyship and withdrew; and presently afterwards Fellamar
was admitted up Stairs.
 

                                   Chapter IV

 By which it will appear how dangerous an Advocate a Lady is, when she applies
                        her Eloquence to an ill Purpose.
 
When Lady Bellaston heard the young Lord's Scruples, she treated them with the
same Disdain with which one of those Sages of the Law, called Newgate
Solicitors, treats the Qualms of Conscience in a young Witness. »My dear Lord,«
said she, »you certainly want a Cordial. I must send to Lady Edgely for one of
her best Drams. Fie upon it! have more Resolution. Are you frightened by the Word
Rape? Or are you apprehensive -? Well, if the Story of Helen was modern, I
should think it unnatural. I mean the Behaviour of Paris, not the Fondness of
the Lady; for all Women love a Man of Spirit. There is another Story of the
Sabine Ladies, - and that too, I thank Heaven, is very ancient. Your Lordship,
perhaps, will admire my Reading; but I think Mr. Hook tells us they made
tolerable good Wives afterwards. I fancy few of my married Acquaintance were
ravished by their Husbands.« »Nay, dear Lady Bellaston,« cried he, »don't
ridicule me in this Manner.« »Why, my good Lord,« answered she, »do you think
any Woman in England would not laugh at you in her Heart, whatever Prudery she
might wear in her Countenance? - You force me to use a strange Kind of Language,
and to betray my Sex most abominably: But I am contented with knowing my
Intentions are good, and that I am endeavouring to serve my Cousin; for I think
you will make her a Husband notwithstanding this; or, upon my Soul, I would not
even persuade her to fling herself away upon an empty Title. She should not
upbraid me hereafter with having lost a Man of Spirit; for that his Enemies
allow this poor young Fellow to be.«
    Let those who have had the Satisfaction of hearing Reflections of this Kind
from a Wife or a Mistress, declare whether they are at all sweetened by coming
from a Female Tongue. Certain it is they sunk deeper into his Lordship, than any
Thing 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, tho' I will give him his due, I believe he is truly a Man
of Spirit.«
    »I hope so, Madam,« said my Lord; »though I must own he doth not deserve
her; for unless Heaven, or your Ladyship disappoint me, she shall within that
Time be in mine.«
    »Well spoken, my Lord,« answered the Lady. »I promise you no Disappointment
shall happen from my Side; and within this Week I am convinced I shall call your
Lordship my Cousin in Public.«
    The Remainder of this Scene consisted entirely of Raptures, Excuses, and
Compliments, very pleasant to have heard from the Parties; but rather dull when
related at second Hand. Here, therefore, we shall put an End to this Dialogue,
and hasten to the fatal Hour, when every Thing was prepared for the Destruction
of poor Sophia.
    But this being the most tragical Matter in our whole History, we shall treat
it in a Chapter by itself.
 

                                   Chapter V

  Containing some Matters which may affect, and others which may surprise 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 dropped 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 surprised 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, confuse'd 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 dote on you to the highest Degree of Distraction. O most
adorable, most divine Creature! what Language can express the Sentiments of my
Heart?« »I do assure you, my Lord,« said Sophia, »I shall not stay to hear any
more of this.« »Do not,« cries he, »think of leaving me thus cruelly: Could you
know half the Torments which I feel, that tender Bosom must pity what those Eyes
have caused.« Then fetching a deep Sigh, and laying Hold of her Hand, he ran on
for some Minutes in a Strain which would be little more pleasing to the Reader,
than it was to the Lady; and at last concluded with a Declaration, »That if he
was Master of the World, he would lay it at her Feet.« Sophia then forcibly
pulling away her Hand from his, answered, with much Spirit, »I promise you, Sir,
your World and its Master, I should spurn from me with equal Contempt.« She then
offered to go, and Lord Fellamar again laying Hold of her Hand, said, »Pardon
me, my beloved Angel, Freedoms which nothing but Despair could have tempted me
to take. - Believe me, could I have had any Hope that my Title and Fortune,
neither of them inconsiderable, unless when compared with your Worth, would have
been accepted, I had, in the humblest Manner, presented them to your Acceptance.
- But I cannot lose you. - By Heaven, I will sooner part with my Soul. - You
are, you must, you shall be only mine.« »My Lord,« said she, »I entreat 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, 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. Shew 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.
Shew 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
Villainy. Hearing, therefore, the Voice approach, and hearing likewise whose it
was (for as the Squire more than once roared forth the Word Daughter, so Sophia,
in the Midst of her Struggling, cried out upon her Father); he thought proper to
relinquish his Prey, having only disordered her Handkerchief, and with his rude
Lips committed Violence on her lovely Neck.
    If the Reader's Imagination doth not assist me, I shall never be able to
describe the Situation of these two Persons when Western came into the Room.
Sophia tottered into a Chair, where she sat disordered, pale, breathless,
bursting with Indignation at Lord Fellamar; affrighted, and yet more rejoiced at
the Arrival of her Father.
    His Lordship sat down near her, with the Bag of his Wig hanging over one of
his Shoulders, the rest of his Dress being somewhat disordered, and rather a
greater Proportion of Linnen 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 Fullness 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 entreat 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; tho' perhaps she thought he would easily be reconciled to his
Lordship's Proposals.
    »Do you hear there,« quoth the Squire, »what her Ladyship says? All your
Family are for the Match. Come, Sophy, be a good Girl, and be dutiful, and make
your Father happy.«
    »If my Death will make you happy, Sir,« answered Sophia, »you will shortly
be so.«
    »It's a Lie, Sophy, it's a d-nd Lie, 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-nd 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 a 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-nd,« quoth
he, »if a good Husband will break it. I don't value a Brass Varden, not a
Hapenny of any undutiful B- upon Earth.« He then took violently 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'n't 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 Pound to a Crown, is no more a Maid than my Grannum. No,
no, Sophy, she shall contrive no more Escapes I promise you.« He then packed up
his Daughter and the Parson into the Hackney Coach, after which he mounted
himself, and ordered it to drive to his Lodgings. In the Way thither he suffered
Sophia to be quiet, and entertained himself with reading a Lecture to the Parson
on good Manners, and a proper Behaviour to his Betters.
    It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his Daughter from
Lady Bellaston, had that good Lady desired to have detained her; but in reality
she was not a little pleased with the Confinement into which Sophia was going;
and as her Project with Lord Fellamar had failed of Success, she was well
contented that other violent Methods were now going to be used in Favour of
another Man.
 

                                   Chapter VI

            By what Means the Squire came to discover his Daughter.
 
Though the Reader in many Histories is obliged to digest much more unaccountable
Appearances than this of Mr. Western, without any Satisfaction at all; yet as we
dearly love to oblige him whenever it is in our Power, we shall now proceed to
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 herself to 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 Lodging to avoid him, lest he should by
        my Means discover my Cousin; for he doth not yet know where she is, and
        it is advisable 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 shown 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,
Wi th the utmost Respect,
Ho noured Madam,
Yo ur most dutiful obliged Niece,
An d most Obedient
Humble Servant,
                                                           Harriet Fitzpatrick.«
 
Mrs. Western was now at her Brother's House, where she had resided ever since
the Flight of Sophia, in order to administer Comfort to the poor Squire in his
Affliction. Of this Comfort which she doled out to him in daily Portions, we
have formerly given a Specimen.
    She was now standing with her Back to the Fire, and with a Pinch of Snuff in
her Hand was dealing forth this daily Allowance of Comfort to the Squire while
he smoked 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 leap'd 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 show 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
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 civilized Nation?«
    »D-n their Figures,« cries the Squire; »a pretty civilized 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 Lie; I heard his
Lordship say at 'Size, that no one is above the Law. But this of yours is
Hannover 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 a 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
Negotiation.«
    »I thank Heaven,« cries the Squire, »I don't understand you, now. You are
got to your Hannoverian Linguo. However, I'll show you I scorn to be behind-hand
in Civility with you; and as you are not angry for what I have said, so I am not
angry for what you have said. Indeed I have always thought it a Folly for
Relations to quarrel; and if they do now and then give a hasty Word, why People
should give and take; for my Part I never bear Malice; and I take it very kind
of you to go up to London, for I never was there but twice in my Life, and then
I did not stay above a Fortnight at a Time; and to be sure I can't be expected
to know much of the Streets and the Folks in that Time. I never denied that you
know'd all these Matters better than I. For me to dispute that would be all as
one, as for you to dispute the Management of a Pack of Dogs, or the finding a
Hare sitting, with me.« - »Which I promise you,« says she, »I never will.« -
»Well, and I promise you,« returned he, »that I never will dispute the t'other.«
    Here then a League was struck (to borrow a Phrase from the Lady) between the
contending Parties; and now the Parson arriving, and the Horses being ready, the
Squire departed, having promised his Sister to follow her Advice, and she
prepared to follow him the next Day.
    But having communicated these Matters to the Parson on the Road, they both
agreed that the prescribed Formalities might very well be dispensed with; and
the Squire having changed his Mind, proceeded in the Manner we have already
seen.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                 In which various Misfortunes befal 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 any thing happened to Sophia
?« cries Jones, staring like a Madman. »All that is bad,« cries Honour, »O I
shall never get such another Lady! O 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, tho' they are turned away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure
they are not Flesh and Blood like other People. No to be sure, it signifies
nothing what becomes of them.« - »If you have any Pity, any Compassion,« cries
Jones, »I beg you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?« »To be
sure I have more Pity for you than you have for me,« answered Honour; »I don't
d-n you because you have lost the sweetest Lady in the World. To be sure you are
worthy to be pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too: For to be sure if ever
there was a good Mistress -« »What hath happened,« cries Jones, in almost a
raving Fit. - »What?« - »What?« said Honour; »why the worst that could have
happened both for you and for me. - Her Father is come to Town, and hath carried
her away from us both.« Here Jones fell on his Knees in Thanksgiving that it was
no worse. - »No worse!« repeated Honour, »what could be worse for either of us?
He carried her off, swearing she should marry Mr. Blifil; that's for your
Comfort; and for poor me, I am turned out of Doors.« »Indeed Mrs. Honour,«
answered Jones, »you frightened me out of my Wits. I imagined some most dreadful
sudden Accident had happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even the
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, every Body 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 afraid 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 afraid the Squire will do her a Mischief in his Passion:
For he is a prodigious passionate Gentleman, and I am afraid 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 occur'd
to his Memory to act the Part of a sick Man; which indeed, neither the Gayety 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 dressed? 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
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
distrest situations imaginable; for to carry on the Comparison we made use of
before, tho' 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 Embarassment out of which neither the Eloquence of a
Cicero, nor the Politicks 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 smoking his
Pipe by the Kitchen Fire; so that he arrived at Mr. Jones's Chamber Door without
any Interruption. This he burst open, and was entering without any Ceremony,
when Jones started from his Seat, and ran to oppose him; which he did so
effectually, that Nightingale never came far enough within the Door to see who
was sitting on the Bed.
    Nightingale had in Reality mistaken Jones's Apartment for that in which
himself had lodged; he therefore strongly insisted on coming in, often swearing
that he would not be kept from his own Bed. Jones, however, prevailed over him,
and delivered him into the Hands of Partridge, whom the Noise on the Stairs soon
summoned to his Master's Assistance.
    And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own Apartment, where
at the very Instant of his Entrance he heard Lady Bellaston venting an
Exclamation, though not a very loud one; and at the same time, saw her flinging
herself into a Chair in a vast Agitation, which in a Lady of a tender
Constitution would have been an Hysteric Fit.
    In reality the Lady, frightened with the Struggle between the two Men, of
which she did not know what would be the Issue, as she heard Nightingale swear
many Oaths he would come to his own Bed, attempted to retire to her known Place
of Hiding, which to her great Confusion she found already occupied by another.
    »Is this Usage to be borne, Mr. Jones?« cries the Lady, - »basest of Men! -
What Wretch is this to whom you have exposed me?« »Wretch!« cries Honour,
bursting in a violent Rage from her Place of Concealment - »marry come up! -
Wretch forsooth! - As poor a Wretch as I am, I am honest, that 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 her's. -
»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 no Body'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 down Stairs, 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 up Stairs, 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 publicly known.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                                Short and sweet.
 
Notwithstanding all the Obligations she had received from Jones, Mrs. Miller
could not forbear in the Morning some gentle Remonstrances for the Hurricane
which had happened the preceding Night in his Chamber. These were however so
gentle and so friendly; professing, and indeed truly, to aim at nothing more
than the real good of Mr. Jones himself, that he, far from being offended,
thankfully received the Admonition of the good Woman, expressed much Concern for
what had past, excused it as well as he could, and promised never more to bring
the same Disturbances into the House.
    But though Mrs. Miller did not refrain from a short Expostulation in private
at their first meeting, yet the Occasion of his being summoned down Stairs that
Morning was of a much more agreeable Kind; being indeed to perform the Office of
a Father to Miss Nancy, and to give her in Wedlock to Mr. Nightingale, who was
now ready dressed?, 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 ply'd 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 of want of Complaisance 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 tho' 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 being 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 stepped into a Hackney-Coach, which conveyed
him 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.
    Those Readers who are of the same Complexion with him will perhaps think
this short Chapter contains abundance of Matter; while others may probably wish,
short as it is, that it had been totally spared as impertinent to the main
Design, which I suppose they conclude is to bring Mr. Jones to the Gallows, or
if possible, to a more deplorable Catastrophe.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                   Containing Love-Letters of several Sorts.
 
Mr. Jones at his Return Home, found the following Letters lying on his Table,
which he luckily opened in the Order they were sent.
 
                                   Letter I.
 
        »Surely I am under some strange Infatuation; I cannot keep my
        Resolutions a Moment, however strongly made or justly founded. Last
        Night I resolved never to see you more; this Morning I am willing to
        hear if you can, as you say, clear up this Affair. And yet I know that
        to be impossible. I have said every Thing 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 to - I will think no more. -
        Come to me directly. - This is the third Letter I have writ, the two
        former are burnt - I am almost inclined to burn this too - I wish I may
        preserve my Senses. - Come to me presently.«
 
                                   Letter II.
 
        »If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within my Doors,
        come to me this Instant.«
 
                                  Letter III.
 
        »I now find you was not at Home when my Notes came to your Lodgings. The
        Moment you receive this let me see you; - I shall not stir out; nor
        shall any Body 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 wou'd not speak plainly. I fancy, my Friend, by your extreme
Nicety in this Matter, you are not so well acquainted with the Character of the
Lady, as with her Person. Don't be angry, Tom, but, upon my Honour, you are not
the first young Fellow she hath debauched. Her Reputation is in no Danger,
believe me.«
    Though Jones had no Reason to imagine the Lady to have been of the vestal
Kind when his Amour began, yet as he was thoroughly ignorant of the Town, and
had very little Acquaintance in it, he had no Knowledge of that Character which
is vulgarly called a Demirep; that is to say, a Woman who intrigues with every
Man she likes, under the Name and Appearance of Virtue; and who, though some
over-nice Ladies will not be seen with her, is visited, (as they term it) by the
whole Town; in short, whom every Body knows to be what no Body calls her.
    When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly acquainted with his
Intrigue, and began to suspect, that so scrupulous a Delicacy as he had hitherto
observed, was not quite necessary on the Occasion, he gave a Latitude to his
Friend's Tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had ever
heard of the Lady.
    Nightingale, who in many other Instances, was rather too effeminate in his
Disposition, had a pretty strong Inclination to Tittle-Tattle. He had no sooner,
therefore, received a full Liberty of speaking from Jones, than he entered upon
a long Narrative concerning the Lady; which, as it contained many Particulars
highly to her Dishonour, we have too great a Tenderness for all Women of
Condition to repeat; we would cautiously avoid giving an Opportunity to the
future Commentators on our Works, of making any malicious Application; and of
forcing us to be, against our Will, the Author of Scandal, which never entered
into our Head.
    Jones having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had to say, fetched
a deep Sigh, which the other observing, cried, »Heyday! Why thou art not in Love
I hope! Had I imagined my Stories would have affected you, I promise you should
never have heard them.« »O my dear Friend,« cries Jones, »I am so entangled with
this Woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In Love indeed? No, my
Friend, but I am under Obligations to her, and very great ones. Since you know
so much, I will be very explicit with you. It is owing perhaps solely to her,
that I have not, before this, wanted a Bit of Bread. How can I possibly desert
such a Woman? And yet I must desert her, or be guilty of the blackest Treachery
to one, who deserves infinitely better of me than she can: A Woman, my
Nightingale, for whom I have a Passion which few can have an Idea of. I am half
distracted with Doubts how to act.« »And is this other, pray, an honourable
Mistress?« cries Nightingale. »Honourable?« answered Jones; »No Breath ever yet
durst sully her Reputation. The sweetest Air is not purer, the limpid Stream not
clearer than her Honour. She is all over, both in Mind and Body, consummate
Perfection. She is the most beautiful Creature in the Universe; and yet she is
Mistress of such noble, elevated Qualities, that though she is never from my
Thoughts, I scarce ever think of her Beauty, but when I see it.« »And can you,
my good Friend,« cries Nightingale, »with such an Engagement as this upon your
Hands, hesitate a Moment about quitting such a -« »Hold,« said Jones, »no more
Abuse of her; I detest the Thought of Ingratitude.« »Pooh!« answered the other,
»you are not the first upon whom she hath conferred Obligations of this Kind.
She is remarkably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her Favours
are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise a Man's Vanity, than
his Gratitude.« In short. Nightingale proceeded so far on this Head, and told
his Friend so many Stories of the Lady, which he swore to the Truth of, that he
entirely removed all Esteem for her from the Breast of Jones; and his Gratitude
was lessened in Proportion. Indeed he began to look on all the Favours he had
received, rather as Wages than Benefits, which depreciated not only her, but
himself too in his own Conceit, and put him quite out of Humour with both. From
this Disgust, his Mind, by a natural Transition, turned towards Sophia: Her
Virtue, her Purity, her Love to him, her Sufferings on his Account, filled all
his Thoughts, and made his Commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still more
odious. The Result of all was, that though his turning himself out of her
Service, in which Light he now saw his Affair with her, would be the Loss of his
Bread, yet he determined to quit her, if he could but find a handsome Pretence;
which being communicated to his Friend, Nightingale considered a little, and
then said, »I have it, my Boy; I have found out a sure Method: Propose Marriage
to her, and I would venture Hanging upon the Success.« »Marriage!« cries Jones.
»Ay, propose Marriage,« answered Nightingale, »and she will declare off in a
Moment. I knew a young Fellow whom she kept formerly, who made the Offer to her
in earnest, and was presently turned off for his Pains.«
    Jones declared he could not venture the Experiment. »Perhaps,« said he, »she
may be less shocked at this Proposal from one Man than from another. And if she
should take me at my Word, where am I then? Caught in my own Trap, and undone
for ever.« »No;« answered Nightingale, »not if I can give you an Expedient, by
which you may, at any Time, get out of the Trap.« - »What Expedient can that
be?« reply'd 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 ty'd, 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,
Wi th most profound Respect,
Yo ur 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, reply'd:
 
        »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, etc.«
 
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
falsehood 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 the Objects
of her Consideration.
    Dinner was just ended when Mrs. Miller received a Letter; but as we have had
Letters enough in this Chapter, we shall communicate the Contents in our next.
 

                                   Chapter X

       Consisting partly of Facts, and partly of Observations upon them.
 
The Letter then which arrived at the End of the preceding Chapter was from Mr.
Allworthy, and the Purport of it was his Intention to come immediately to Town,
with his Nephew Blifil, and a Desire to be accommodated with his usual Lodgings,
which were the first Floor for himself, and the second for his Nephew.
    The Chearfulness which had before display'd itself in the Countenance of the
poor Woman, was a little clouded on this Occasion. This News did indeed a good
deal disconcert her. To requite so disinterested a Match with her Daughter, by
presently turning her new Son-in-Law out of Doors, appeared to her very
unjustifiable on the one Hand; and on the other, she could scarce bear the
Thoughts of making any Excuse to Mr. Allworthy, after all the Obligations
received from him, for depriving him of Lodgings which were indeed strictly his
Due: For that Gentleman, in conferring all his numberless Benefits on others,
acted by a Rule diametrically opposite to what is practised by most generous
People. He contrived, on all Occasions, to hide his Beneficence not only from
the World, but even from the Object of it. He constantly used the Words Lend and
Pay, instead of Give; and by every other Method he could invent, always lessened
with his Tongue the Favours he conferred, while he was heaping them with both
his Hands. When he settled the Annuity of 50 l. a Year, therefore, on Mrs.
Miller, he told her, »It was in Consideration of always having her First-Floor
when he was in Town,« (which he scarce ever intended to be) »but that she might
let it at any other Time, for that he would always send her a Month's Warning.«
He was now, however, hurried to Town so suddenly, that he had no Opportunity of
giving such Notice; and this Hurry probably prevented him, when he wrote for his
Lodgings, adding, if they were then empty: For he would most certainly have been
well satisfied to have relinquished them on a less sufficient Excuse, than what
Mrs. Miller could now have made.
    But there are a Sort of Persons, who, as Prior excellently well remarks,
direct their Conduct by something
 
Beyond the fix'd and settled Rules
Of Vice and Virtue in the Schools:
Beyond the Letter of the Law.
 
To these it is so far from being sufficient that their Defence would acquit them
at the Old-Bailey, that they are not even contented, though Conscience, the
severest of all Judges, should discharge them. Nothing short of the Fair and
Honourable will satisfy the Delicacy of their Minds; and if any of their Actions
fall short of this Mark, they mope and pine, are as uneasy and restless as a
Murderer, who is afraid of a Ghost, or of the Hangman.
    Mrs. Miller was one of these. She could not conceal her Uneasiness at this
Letter; with the Contents of which she had no sooner acquainted the Company, and
given some Hints of her Distress, than Jones, her good Angel, presently relieved
her Anxiety. »As for myself, Madam,« said he, »my Lodging is at your Service at
a Moment's Warning; and Mr. Nightingale, I am sure, as he cannot yet prepare a
House fit to receive his Lady, will consent to return to his new Lodging,
whither Mrs. Nightingale will certainly consent to go.« With which Proposal both
Husband and Wife instantly agreed.
    The Reader will easily believe, that the Cheeks of Mrs. Miller began again
to glow with additional Gratitude to Jones; but, perhaps, it may be more
difficult to persuade him that Mr. Jones having, in his last Speech, called her
Daughter Mrs. Nightingale, (it being the first Time that agreeable Sound had
ever reached her Ears) gave the fond Mother more Satisfaction, and warmed her
Heart more towards Jones, than his having dissipated her present Anxiety.
    The next Day was then appointed for the Removal of the new-married Couple,
and of Mr. Jones, who was likewise to be provided for in the same House with his
Friend. And now the Serenity of the Company was again restored, and they past
the Day in the utmost Chearfulness, all except Jones, who, though he outwardly
accompanied the rest in their Mirth, felt many a bitter Pang on the Account of
his Sophia; which were not a little heightened by the News of Mr. Blifil's
coming to Town, (for he clearly saw the Intention of his Journey): And what
greatly aggravated his Concern was, that Mrs. Honour, who had promised to
enquire 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 overlook'd by it;
so that to any Man extremely in Love, may be applied what Addison says of Cæsar,
 
                    The Alps, and Pyrenæans 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 have kaled hon u a cordin too mi Prommiss haddunt itt
        bin that hur Lashipp prevent mee; for too bee sur, Sir, you nose veri
        wel that evere Persun must luk furst at ome, and sartenly such anuther
        offar mite not ave ever hapend, so as I shud ave bin justly to blam, had
        I not excepted of it when hur Laship wass so veri kind as to offar to
        make mee hur one Uman without mi ever askin any such thing to bee sur
        shee is won of thee best Ladis in thee Wurld, and Pepil who sase to thee
        Kontrari must bee veri wiket Pepil in thare Harts. To be 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 ad thee gratest Respect in thee World for ure
        Onur. To bee sur won shud kepe wons Tung within one's Teeth, for no
        Boddi nose what may hapen; and too bee sur if ani Boddi ad tolde mee
        Yesterday, that I shud have bin in so gud a Plase to Day, I shud not have
        beleeved it; for too bee sur I never was a dremd of any such Thing, nor
        shud I ever ha soft after ani other Boddi's Plase; but as her Laship
        wass so kine of her one a cord too give it mee without askin, to be sure
        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 too menshon ani thing
        of what I have sad, for I wish ure Onur all thee gud Luk in thee Wurld;
        and I don't cuestion butt thatt u wil have 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 anuthar Parson, and nott mi one
        Mistres. I begg ure Onur to say nothing of what past, and belive me to
        be, Sir,
Ur e Onur's umble Sarvant
To Cumand till Deth,
                                                              Honour Blackmore.«
 
Various were the Conjectures which Jones entertained on this Step of Lady
Bellaston; who in Reality had little further 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 tho' 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, try'd a new Method to put a final End
to it, by throwing a Temptation in his Way, which in his present desperate
Situation it seemed unlikely he should be able to resist.
 

                                   Chapter XI

               Containing curious, but not unprecedented Matter.
 
There was a Lady, one Mrs. Hunt, who had often seen Jones at the House where he
lodged, being intimately acquainted with the Women there, and indeed a very
great Friend to Mrs. Miller. Her Age was about thirty, for she owned six and
twenty; her Face and Person very good, only inclining a little too much to be
fat. She had been married young by her Relations to an old Turkey Merchant, who
having got a great Fortune, had left off Trade. With him she lived without
Reproach, but not without Pain, in a State of great Self denial, for about
twelve Years; and her Virtue was rewarded by his dying, and leaving her very
rich. The first Year of her Widowhood was just at an End, and she had past it in
a good deal of Retirement, seeing only a few particular Friends, and dividing
her Time between her Devotions and Novels, of which she was always extremely
fond. Very good Health, a very warm Constitution, and a good deal of Religion
made it absolutely necessary for her to marry again; and she resolved to please
herself in her second Husband, as she had done her Friends in the first. From
her the following Billet was brought to Jones.
 
        »Sir,
            From the first Day I saw you I doubt my Eyes have told you too
        plainly, that you were not indifferent to me; but neither my Tongue nor
        my Hand should have ever avowed it, had not the Ladies of the Family
        where you are lodged given me such a Character of you, and told me such
        Proofs of your Virtue and Goodness, as convince me you are not only the
        most agreeable, but the most worthy of Men. I have also the Satisfaction
        to hear from them, that neither my Person, Understanding or Character
        are disagreeable to you. I have a Fortune sufficient to make us both
        happy, but which cannot make me so without you. In thus disposing of
        myself I know I shall incur the Censure of the World, but if I did not
        love you more than I fear the World I should not be worthy of you. One
        only Difficulty stops me: I am informed you are engaged in a Commerce of
        Gallantry with a Woman of Fashion. If you think it worth while to
        sacrifice that to the Possession of me, I am yours; if not forget my
        Weakness, and let this remain an eternal Secret between you and
                                                                 Arabella Hunt.«
 
At the reading of this Jones was put into a violent Flutter. His Fortune was
then at a very low Ebb, the Source being stopped from which hitherto he had been
supplied. Of all he had received from Lady Bellaston not above five Guineas
remained, and that very Morning he had been dunned by a Tradesman for twice that
Sum. His honourable Mistress was in the Hands of her Father, and he had scarce
any Hopes ever to get her out of them again. To be subsisted at her Expense from
that little Fortune she had independent of her Father, went much against the
Delicacy both of his Pride and his Love. This Lady's Fortune would have been
exceeding convenient to him, and he could have no Objection to her in any
Respect. On the contrary, he liked her as well as he did any Woman except Sophia
. But to abandon Sophia, and marry another, that was impossible; he could not
think of it upon any Account. Yet why should he not, since it was plain she
could not be his? Would it not be kinder to her, than to continue her longer
engaged in a hopeless Passion for him? Ought he not to do so in Friendship to
her? This Notion prevailed some Moments, and he had almost determined to be
false to her from a high Point of Honour; but that Refinement was not able to
stand very long against the Voice of Nature, which cried in his Heart, that such
Friendship was Treason to Love. At last he called for Pen, Ink and Paper, and
writ as follows to Mrs. Hunt.
 
        »Madam,
            It would be but a poor Return to the Favour you have done me, to
        sacrifice any Gallantry to the Possession of you, and I would certainly
        do it, tho' 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
Yo ur 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, kiss'd it several Times, and then strutted some Turns
about his Room with more Satisfaction of Mind than ever any Irishman felt in
carrying off a Fortune of fifty Thousand Pounds.
 

                                  Chapter XII

                         A Discovery made by Partridge.
 
While Jones was exulting in the Consciousness of his Integrity, Partridge came
capering into the Room, as was his Custom when he brought, or fancied he
brought, any good Tidings. He had been 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 Game-keeper, 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 in 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.«
    »What News?« cries Jones, »you have not mentioned a Word of my Sophia!« -
»Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed we mentioned a great deal
about young Madam Western, and George told me all; that Mr. Blifil is coming to
Town in order to be married to her. He had best make haste then, says I, or some
Body will have her before he comes, and indeed, says I, Mr. Seagrim, it is a
Thousand Pities some Body 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 any thing 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 dressed? I promise you he is; if it was not
for his black Beard you would hardly know him.«
    »One Service then at least he may do me,« says Jones; »sure he can certainly
convey a Letter to my Sophia.«
    »You have hit the Nail ad unguem,« cries Partridge; »how came I not to think
of it? I will engage he shall do it upon the very first mentioning.«
    »Well then,« said Jones, »do you leave me at present, and I will write a
Letter which you shall deliver to him To-morrow Morning; for I suppose you know
where to find him.«
    »O yes, Sir,« answered Partridge, »I shall certainly find him again, there
is no Fear of that. The Liquor is too good for him to stay away long. I make no
doubt but he will be there every Day he stays in Town.«
    »So you don't know the Street then where my Sophia is lodged?« cries Jones.
    »Indeed, Sir, I do,« says Partridge.
    »What is the Name of the Street?« cries Jones.
    »The Name, Sir, why here, Sir, just by,« answered Partridge, »not above a
Street or two off. I don't indeed know the very Name; for as he never told me,
if I had asked, you know it might have put some Suspicion into his Head. No, no,
Sir, let me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise you.«
    »Thou art most wonderfully cunning indeed,« replied Jones; »however I will
write to my Charmer, since I believe you will be cunning enough to find him
To-morrow at the Alehouse.«
    And now having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr. Jones sat himself down
to write, in which Employment we shall leave him for a Time. And here we put an
End to the fifteenth Book.
 

                                    Book XVI

                       Containing the Space of Five Days.
 

                                   Chapter I

                                 Of Prologues.
 
I have heard of a Dramatic Writer who used to say, he would rather write a Play
than a Prologue; in like manner, I think, I can with less Pains write one of the
Books of this History, than the Prefatory Chapter to each of them.
    To say the Truth, I believe many a hearty Curse hath been devoted on the
Head of that Author, who first instituted the Method of prefixing to his Play
that Portion of Matter which is called the Prologue; and which at first was Part
of the Piece itself, but of latter Years hath had usually so little Connexion
with the Drama before which it stands, that the Prologue to one Play might as
well serve for any other. Those indeed of more modern Date, seem all to be
written on the same three Topics, viz. an Abuse of the Taste of the Town, a
Condemnation of all Cotemporary Authors, and an Elogium on the Performance just
about to be represented. The Sentiments in all these are very little varied, nor
is it possible they should; and indeed I have often wondered at the great
Invention of Authors, who have been capable of finding such various Phrases to
express the same thing.
    In like manner I apprehend, some future Historian (if any one shall do me
the Honour of imitating my Manner) will, after much scratching his Pate, bestow
some good Wishes on my Memory, for having first established these several
initial Chapters; most of which, like Modern Prologues, may as properly be
prefixed to any other Book in this History as to that which they introduce, or
indeed to any other History as to this.
    But however Authors may suffer by either of these Inventions, the Reader
will find sufficient Emolument in the one, as the Spectator hath long found in
the other.
    First, it is well known, that the Prologue serves the Critic for an
Opportunity to try his Faculty of Hissing, and to tune his Cat-call to the best
Advantage; by which means, I have known those Musical Instruments so well
prepared, that they have been able to play in full Concert at the first rising
of the Curtain.
    The same Advantages may be drawn from these Chapters, in which the Critic
will be always sure of meeting with something that may serve as a Whetstone to
his noble Spirit; so that he may fall with a more hungry Appetite for Censure on
the History itself. And here his Sagacity must make it needless to observe how
artfully these Chapters are calculated for that excellent Purpose; for in these
we have always taken Care to intersperse somewhat of the sour or acid Kind, in
order to sharpen and stimulate the said Spirit of Criticism.
    Again, the indolent Reader, as well as Spectator, finds great Advantage from
both these; for as they are not obliged either to see the one or read the
others, and both the Play and the Book are thus protracted, by the former they
have a Quarter of an Hour longer allowed them to sit at Dinner, and by the
Latter they have the Advantage of beginning to read at the fourth or fifth Page
instead of the first; a Matter by no means of trivial Consequence to Persons who
read Books with no other View than to say they have read them, a more general
Motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only Law Books,
and Good Books, but the Pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift and Cervantes have
been often turned over.
    Many other are the Emoluments which arise from both these, but they are for
the most part so obvious that we shall not at present stay to enumerate them;
especially since it occurs to us that the principal Merit of both the Prologue
and the Preface is that they be short.
 

                                   Chapter II

 A whimsical Adventure which befell 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 Hide-Park-Corner; for at that 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 a 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 dressed? 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 every thing to the
Effect of Liquor, and the most trifling Acknowledgment of that Kind will set
every thing 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 Lady
Cousin 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 apprised of
the Greatness of this Offer. I believe such a Person, Title, and Fortune, would
be no where 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 Hannoverians, 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 Hide-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
any Thing.«
    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 Highway-Man, 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 ly'd.«
    »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 had a Stick in my Hand,
you would not have dared strike me. I'd have knocked thy Lanthorn Jaws about thy
Ears. Come down into Yard this Minute, and I'll take a Bout with thee at single
Stick for a broken Head, that I will; or I will go into naked Room and box thee
for a Belly full. At unt half a Man, at unt I'm sure.«
    The Captain, with some Indignation, replied, »I see, Sir, you are below my
Notice, and I shall inform his Lordship you are below his. - I am sorry I have
dirtied my Fingers with you.« - At which Words he withdrew, the Parson
interposing to prevent the Squire from stopping him, in which he easily
prevailed, as the other, though he made some Efforts for the Purpose, did not
seem very violently bent on Success. However, when the Captain was departed, the
Squire sent many Curses and some Menaces after him; but as these did not set out
from his Lips till the Officer was at the Bottom of the Stairs, and grew louder
and louder as he was more and more remote, they did not reach his Ears, or at
least did not retard his Departure.
    Poor Sophia however, who, in her Prison, heard all her Father's Outcries
from first to last, began now first to thunder with her Foot, and afterwards to
scream as loudly as the old Gentleman himself had done before, though in a much
sweeter Voice. These Screams soon silenced the Squire, and turned all his
Consideration towards his Daughter, whom he loved so tenderly, that the least
Apprehension of any Harm happening to her, threw him presently into Agonies: For
except in that single Instance in which the whole future Happiness of her Life
was concerned, she was sovereign Mistress of his Inclinations.
    Having ended his Rage against the Captain, with swearing he would take the
Law of him, the Squire now mounted up Stairs 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 cry'd 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 Laa 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,« answer'd 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 any thing, which I suppose he hath
not. For thof he was dressed? out so vine, I question whether he hath 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 clothes in London, and the finest Jewels, and a Coach and Six at your
Command. I promised Allworthy already to give up half my Estate, - Odrabbet 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 Music of the best Pack of Dogs in England. -
Hear thee, my dear little Girl! I hope I shall hear thee as long as I live; for
if I was ever to lose that Pleasure, I would not gee a Brass Varden to live a
Moment longer. Indeed, Sophy, you do not know how I love you, indeed you don't,
or you never could have run away, and left your poor Father, who hath no other
Joy, no other Comfort upon Earth but his little Sophy.« At these Words the Tears
stood in his Eyes; and Sophia, (with the Tears streaming from hers) answered,
»Indeed, my dear Papa, I know you have loved me tenderly, and Heaven is my
Witness how sincerely I have returned your Affection; nor could any thing 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 gee me Health, Happiness, Life, every thing. - 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, »my whole Desire is to make thee happy;
me! 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.« »Lookey, 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 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 determin'd upon this Match, and have him you shall, d-n me
if that unt. D-n me if shat unt, though dost hang thyself the next Morning.« At
repeating which Words he clinched his Fist, knit his Brows, bit his Lips, and
thundered so loud, that the poor afflicted, terrified Sophia sunk trembling into
her Chair, and had not a Flood of Tears come immediately to her Relief, perhaps
worse had followed.
    Western beheld the deplorable Condition of his Daughter with no more
Contrition or Remorse, than the Turnkey of Newgate feels at viewing the Agonies
of a tender Wife, when taking her last Farewel of her condemned Husband; or
rather he looked down on her with the same Emotions which arise in an honest
fair Tradesman, who sees his Debtor dragged to Prison for 10 l. 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 every Thing he durst in Behalf of the young Lady, which though
perhaps it was not quite so much as his Duty required, yet was it sufficient to
throw the Squire into a violent Rage, and into many indecent Reflections on the
whole Body of the Clergy, which we have too great an Honour for that sacred
Function to commit to Paper.
 

                                  Chapter III

                What happened to Sophia during her Confinement.
 
The Landlady of the House where the Squire lodged had begun very early to
entertain a strange Opinion of her Guests. However as she was informed that the
Squire was a Man of a vast Fortune, and as she had taken Care to exact a very
extraordinary Price for her Rooms, she did not think proper to give any Offence;
for though she was not without some Concern for the Confinement of poor Sophia,
of whose great Sweetness of Temper and Affability, the Maid of the House had
made so favourable a Report, which was confirmed by all the Squire's Servants,
yet she had much more Concern for her own Interest, than to provoke one, whom,
as she said, she perceived to be a very hastish Kind of a Gentleman.
    Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served with her Meals;
indeed I believe if she had liked any one Rarity, that the Squire, however
angry, would have spared neither Pains nor Cost to have procured it for her;
since however strange it may appear to some of my Readers, he really doted 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 show 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, etc. were, as George well knew,
the most favourite Dainties of Sophia. It was therefore no Wonder, that he who
was a very good-natured Fellow, should take Care to supply her with this Kind of
Delicacy, at a Time when all the Servants in the House were afraid she would be
starved; for she had scarce swallowed a single Morsel in the last forty Hours.
    Though Vexation hath not the same Effect on all Persons, as it usually hath
on a Widow, whose Appetite it often renders sharper than it can be rendered by
the Air on Bansted Downs, or Salisbury Plain, yet the sublimest Grief,
notwithstanding what some People may say to the contrary, will eat at last. And
Sophia herself, after some little Consideration, began to dissect the Fowl,
which she found to be as full of Eggs as George had reported it.
    But if she was pleased with these, it contained something which would have
delighted the Royal Society much more; for if a Fowl with three Legs be so
invaluable a Curiosity, when perhaps Time hath produced a Thousand such, at what
Price shall we esteem a Bird which so totally contradicts all the Laws of Animal
OEconomy, as to contain a Letter in its Belly? Ovid tells us of a Flower into
which Hyacinthus was metamorphosed, that bears Letters on its Leaves, which
Virgil recommended as a Miracle to the Royal Society of his Day; but no Age nor
Nation hath ever recorded a Bird with a Letter in its Maw.
    But though a Miracle of this Kind might have engaged all the Academies des
Sciences in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless Enquiry, yet the Reader by barely
recollecting the last Dialogue which passed between Messieurs Jones and
Partridge, will be very easily satisfied from whence this Letter came, and how
it found its Passage into the Fowl.
    Sophia, notwithstanding her long Fast, and notwithstanding her favourite
Dish was there before her, no sooner saw the Letter than she immediately
snatched it up, tore it open, and read as follows.
 
        »Madam,
            Was I not sensible to whom I have the Honour of writing, I should
        endeavour, however difficult, to paint the Horrors of my Mind, at the
        Account brought me by Mrs. Honour: but as Tenderness alone can have any
        true Idea of the Pangs which Tenderness is capable of feeling; so can
        this most amiable Quality which my Sophia possesses in the most eminent
        Degree, sufficiently inform her what her Jones must have suffered on
        this melancholy Occasion. Is there a Circumstance in the World which can
        heighten my Agonies, when I hear of any Misfortune which hath befallen
        you? Surely there is one only, and with that I am accursed. It is, my
        Sophia, the dreadful Consideration that I am myself the wretched Cause.
        Perhaps I here do myself too much Honour, but none will envy me an
        Honour which costs me so extremely dear. Pardon me this Presumption, and
        pardon me a greater still, if I ask you whether my Advice, my
        Assistance, my Presence, my Absence, my Death or my Tortures can bring
        you any Relief? Can the most perfect Admiration, the most watchful
        Observance, the most ardent Love, the most melting Tenderness, the most
        resigned Submission to your Will, make you Amends for what you are to
        sacrifice to my Happiness? If they can, fly, my lovely Angel, to those
        Arms which are ever open to receive and protect you; and to which,
        whether you bring yourself alone, or the Riches of the World with you,
        is, in my Opinion, an Alternative not worth regarding. If, on the
        contrary, Wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature Reflection,
        inform you, that the Sacrifice is too great; and if there be no Way left
        to reconcile your Father, and restore the Peace of your dear Mind, but
        by abandoning me, I conjure you drive me for ever from your Thoughts,
        exert your Resolution, and let no Compassion for my Sufferings bear the
        least Weight in that tender Bosom. Believe me, Madam, I so sincerely
        love you better than myself, that my great and principal End is your
        Happiness. My first Wish (why would not Fortune indulge me in it?) was,
        and pardon me if I say, still is to see you every Moment the happiest of
        Women; my second Wish is to hear you are so; but no Misery on Earth can
        equal mine, while I think you owe an uneasy Moment to him who is,
Madam,
In every Sense, and to every Purpose,
Your devoted
                                                                  Thomas Jones.«
 
What Sophia said, or did, or thought upon this Letter, how often she read it, or
whether more than once, shall all be left to our Reader's Imagination. The
Answer to it he may perhaps see hereafter, but not at present; for this Reason,
among others, that she did not now write any, and that for several good Causes,
one of which was this, she had no Paper, Pen, nor Ink.
    In the Evening while Sophia was meditating on the Letter she had received,
or on something else, a violent Noise from below disturbed her Meditations. This
Noise was no other than a round Bout at Altercation between two Persons. One of
the Combatants, by his Voice, she immediately distinguished to be her Father;
but she did not so soon discover the shriller Pipes to belong to the Organ of
her Aunt Western, who was just arrived in Town, where having by means of one of
her Servants, who stopped at the Hercules Pillars, learnt where her Brother
lodged, she drove directly to his Lodgings.
    We shall therefore take our Leave at present of Sophia, and with our usual
Good-Breeding, attend her Ladyship.
 

                                   Chapter IV

               In which Sophia is delivered from her Confinement.
 
The Squire and the Parson (for the Landlord was now otherwise engaged) were
smoking 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
up Stairs; 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 show 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 up Stairs in Chamber.« »How,« answered the Lady, »is my Niece in this House,
and doth she not know of my being here?« »No, no Body 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 those 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,« cry'd 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 surprising 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 Negotiations. 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 any Thing which could put any Human Creature into a Passion; but you
are so wrong-headed 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 any Thing 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 every Thing 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 every
Thing 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 Dissention would, most probably, have arisen between the Brother and
Sister; between whom Education and Sex made the only Difference; for both were
equally violent and equally positive, they had both a vast Affection for Sophia,
and both a sovereign Contempt for each other.
 

                                   Chapter V

   In which Jones receives a Letter from Sophia, and goes to a Play with Mrs.
                             Miller and Partridge.
 
The Arrival of Black George in Town, and the good Offices which that grateful
Fellow had promised to do for his old Benefactor, greatly comforted Jones in the
Midst of all the Anxiety and Uneasiness which he had suffered on the Account of
Sophia; from whom, by the Means of the said George, he received the following
Answer to his Letter, which Sophia, to whom the Use of Pen, Ink, and Paper was
restored with her Liberty, wrote the very Evening when she departed from her
Confinement.
 
        »Sir,
            As I do not doubt your Sincerity in what you write, you will be
        pleased to hear that some of my Afflictions are at an End, by the
        Arrival of my Aunt Western, with whom I am at present, and with whom I
        enjoy all the Liberty I can desire. One Promise my Aunt hath insisted on
        my making, which is, that I will not see or converse with any Person
        without her Knowledge and Consent. This Promise I have most solemnly
        given, and shall most inviolably keep: And tho' she hath not expresly
        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 every Thing 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 Perswasion of this, must teach
        you to divert your Thoughts from what Fortune hath (perhaps) made
        impossible. This your own Interest persuades you. This may reconcile, I
        hope, Mr. Allworthy to you; and if it will, you have my Injunctions to
        pursue it. Accidents have laid some Obligations on me, and your good
        Intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be sometimes kinder to
        us both than at present. Believe this, that I shall always think of you
        as I think you deserve, and am,
Sir,
Your Obliged Humble Servant,
                                                                Sophia Western.«
 
»I charge you write to me no more - at present at least; and accept this, which
is now of no Service to me, which I know you must want, and think you owe the
Trifle only to that Fortune by which you found it.«22
    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, tho' 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 tho' the Match had been never so great, and never so likely to end in
making her completely happy. That refined Degree of Platonic Affection which is
absolutely detached from the Flesh, and is indeed entirely and purely spiritual,
is a Gift confined to the female Part of the Creation; many of whom I have heard
declare, (and doubtless with great Truth) that they would, with the utmost
Readiness, resign a Lover to a Rival, when such Resignation was proved to be
necessary for the temporal Interest of such Lover. Hence, therefore, I conclude,
that this Affection is in Nature, though I cannot pretend to say, I have ever
seen an Instance of it.
    Mr. Jones having spent three Hours in reading and kissing the aforesaid
Letter, and being, at last, in a State of good Spirits, from the last-mentioned
Considerations, he agreed to carry an Appointment which he had before made into
Execution. This was to attend Mrs. Miller and her younger Daughter into the
Gallery at the Playhouse, 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 Musick was
played, he said, »It was a Wonder how so many Fidlers could play at one Time,
without putting one another out.« While the Fellow was lighting the upper
Candles, he cry'd 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,
»Perswade 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 any Thing; for I know it is but a Play: And if it
was really a Ghost, it could do one no Harm at such a Distance, and in so much
Company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only Person.« »Why, who,«
cries Jones, »dost thou take to be such a Coward here besides thyself?« »Nay,
you may call me Coward if you will; but if that little Man there upon the Stage
is not frightened, I never saw any Man frightened in my Life. Ay, ay; go along
with you! Ay, to be sure! Who's Fool then? Will you? Lud have Mercy upon such
Fool-Hardiness! - Whatever happens, it is good enough for you. - Follow you? I'd
follow the Devil as soon. Nay, perhaps, it is the Devil - for they say he can
put on what Likeness he pleases. - Oh! here he is again. - No farther! No, you
have gone far enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the King's
Dominions.« Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, »Hush, hush, dear Sir,
don't you hear him!« And during the whole Speech of the Ghost, he sat with his
Eyes fixed partly on the Ghost, and partly on Hamlet, and with his Mouth open;
the same Passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in
him.
    When the Scene was over, Jones said, »Why, Partridge, you exceed my
Expectations. You enjoy the Play more than I conceived possible.« »Nay, Sir,«
answered Partridge, »if you are not afraid of the Devil, I can't help it; but to
be sure it is natural to be surprised at such Things, though I know there is
nothing in them: Not that it was the Ghost that surprised me neither; for I
should have known that to have been only a Man in a strange Dress: But when I
saw the little Man so frightened himself, it was that which took Hold of me.«
»And dost thou imagine then, Partridge,« cries Jones, »that he was really
frightened?« »Nay, Sir,« said Partridge, »did not you yourself observe
afterwards, when he found it was his own Father's Spirit, and how he was
murdered in the Garden, how his Fear forsook him by Degrees, and he was struck
dumb with Sorrow, as it were, just as I should have been, had it been my own
Case. - But hush! O la! What Noise is that? There he is again. - Well, to be
certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down
yonder, where those Men are.« Then turning his Eyes again upon Hamlet, »Ay, you
may draw your Sword; what signifies a Sword against the Power of the Devil?«
    During the second Act, Partridge made very few Remarks. He greatly admired
the Fineness of the Dresses; nor could he help observing upon the King's
Countenance. »Well,« said he, »how People may be deceived by Faces? Nulla fides
fronti is, I find, a true Saying. Who would think, by looking in the King's
Face, that he had ever committed a Murder?« He then enquired after the Ghost;
but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other Satisfaction,
than »that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a Flash of Fire.«
    Partridge sat in 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, no
Body 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 any Thing 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
should 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 Surprise 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
cry'd out, »Well, it is strange to see how fearless some Men are: I never could
bring myself to touch any Thing 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. - Any Body
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 any Thing that passed
on the Stage.
    He durst not go to Bed all that Night, for Fear of the Ghost, and for many
Nights after, sweated two or three Hours before he went to sleep, with the same
Apprehensions, and waked several Times in great Horrors, crying out, »Lord have
Mercy upon us! there it is.«
 

                                   Chapter VI

                 In which the History is obliged to look back.
 
It is almost impossible for the best Parent to observe an exact Impartiality to
his Children, even though no superior Merit should biass his Affection; but sure
a Parent can hardly be blamed, when that Superiority determines his Preference.
    As I regard all the Personages of this History in the Light of my Children,
so I must confess the same Inclination of Partiality to Sophia; and for that I
hope the Reader will allow me the same Excuse, from the Superiority of her
Character.
    This extraordinary Tenderness, which I have for my Heroine, never suffers me
to quit her any long Time without the utmost Reluctance. I could now, therefore,
return impatiently to enquire what hath happened to this lovely Creature since
her Departure from her Father's, but that I am obliged first to pay a short
Visit to Mr. Blifil.
    Mr. Western, in the first Confusion into which his Mind was cast, upon the
sudden News he received of his Daughter, and in his 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 stopped at
the very first Inn he came to, and dispatched away a Messenger to acquaint
Blifil with his having found Sophia, and with his firm Resolution to marry her
to him immediately, if he would come up after him to Town.
    As the Love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent Kind, which
nothing but the Loss of her Fortune, or some such Accident, could lessen, his
Inclination to the Match was not at all altered by her having run away, though
he was obliged to lay this to his own Account. He very readily, therefore,
embraced this Offer. Indeed, he now proposed the Gratification of a very strong
Passion besides Avarice, by marrying this young Lady, and this was Hatred: For
he concluded that Matrimony afforded an equal Opportunity of satisfying either
Hatred or Love; and this Opinion is very probably verified by much Experience.
To say the Truth, if we are to judge by the ordinary Behaviour of married
Persons to each other, we shall, perhaps, be apt to conclude, that the
Generality seek the Indulgence of the former Passion only in their Union of
every Thing 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
Opinions 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 superiour
Understanding to be triumphed over by the inferiour; and thus is the Prudence of
the best of Heads often defeated by the Tenderness of the best of Hearts.
    Blifil having obtained this unhoped for Acquiescence in his Uncle, rested
not till he carried his Purpose into Execution. And as no immediate Business
required Mr. Allworthy's Presence in the Country, and little Preparation is
necessary to Men for a Journey, they set out the very next Day, and arrived in
Town that Evening when Mr. Jones, as we have seen, was diverting himself with
Partridge at the Play.
    The Morning after his Arrival, Mr. Blifil waited on Mr. Western, by whom he
was most kindly and graciously received, and from whom he had every possible
Assurance (perhaps more than was possible) that he should very shortly be as
happy as Sophia could make him; nor would the Squire suffer the young Gentleman
to return to his Uncle, till he had, almost against his Will, carried him to his
Sister.
 

                                  Chapter VII

  In which Mr. Western pays a Visit to his Sister, in company with Mr. Blifil.
 
Mrs. Western was reading a Lecture on Prudence, and Matrimonial Politics to her
Niece, when her Brother and Blifil broke in with less Ceremony than the Laws of
Visiting require. Sophia no sooner saw Blifil, than she turned pale, and almost
lost the Use of all her Faculties; but her Aunt on the contrary waxed red, and
having all her Faculties at Command, began to exert her Tongue on the Squire.
    »Brother,« said she, »I am astonished at your Behaviour, will you never
learn any Regard to Decorum? Will you still look upon every Apartment as your
own, or as belonging to one of your Country Tenants? Do you think yourself at
Liberty to invade the Privacies of Women of Condition, without the least Decency
or Notice?« - »Why, what, a Pox! is the Matter now,« quoth the Squire, »one
would think, I had caught you at -« »None of your Brutality, Sir, I beseech
you,« answered she. - »You have surprised 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 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 any Body knows of me,« answered the Squire, - »but when
must he come to see her; for consider, I tell you, he is a 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 muore 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 dropped from the Lady; and, to say the Truth, he
suspected right, as will appear when I have unfolded the several Matters which
will be contained in the following Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                Schemes of Lady Bellaston for the Ruin of Jones.
 
Love had taken too deep a Root in the Mind of Lord Fellamar to be plucked up by
the rude Hands of Mr. Western. In the Heat of Resentment he had indeed given a
Commission to Captain Egglane, which the Captain had far exceeded in the
Execution; nor had it been executed at all, had his Lordship been able to find
the Captain after he had seen Lady Bellaston, which was in the Afternoon of the
Day after he had received the Affront; but so industrious was the Captain in the
Discharge of his Duty, that having after long Enquiry found out the Squire's
Lodgings very late in the Evening, he sat up all Night at a Tavern, that he
might not miss the Squire in the Morning, and by that Means missed the
Revocation which my Lord had sent to his Lodgings.
    In the Afternoon then next after the intended Rape of Sophia, his Lordship,
as we have said, made a Visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid open so much of the
Character of the Squire, that his Lordship plainly saw the Absurdity he had been
guilty of in taking any Offence at his Words, especially as he had those
honourable Designs on his Daughter. He then unbosomed the violence of his
Passion to Lady Bellaston, who readily undertook the Cause, and encouraged him
with certain Assurance of a most favourable Reception, from all the Elders of
the Family, and from the Father himself when he should be sober, and should be
made acquainted with the Nature of the Offer made to his Daughter. The only
Danger, she said, lay in the Fellow she had formerly mentioned, who, though a
Beggar and a Vagabond, had by some Means or other, she knew not what, procured
himself tolerable clothes, and past for a Gentleman. »Now,« says she, »as I
have, for the sake of my Cousin, made it my Business to enquire after this
Fellow, I have luckily found out his Lodging;« 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 dressed?, 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 Extasies 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 dispatched
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, Bell - 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
Hand-writing, 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 try'd 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, etc. 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 half way 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 tho'
the Squire, as was usual with him, imputed to a wrong Cause, infused into Blifil
himself, (he being a much more cunning Man) a Suspicion of the real Truth.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                In which Jones pays a Visit to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
 
The Reader may now perhaps be pleased to return with us to Mr. Jones, who at the
appointed Hour attended on Mrs. Fitzpatrick; but before we relate the
Conversation which now past, it may be proper, according to our Method, to
return a little back, and to account for so great an Alteration of Behaviour in
this Lady, that from changing her Lodging principally to avoid Mr. Jones, she
had now industriously, as hath been seen, sought this Interview.
    And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the preceding Day,
when hearing from Lady Bellaston, that Mr. Western was arrived in Town, she went
to pay her Duty to him, at his Lodgings at Piccadilly, where she was received
with many scurvy Compellations too coarse to be repeated, and was even threatened
to be kicked out of Doors. From hence an old Servant of her Aunt Western, with
whom she was well acquainted, conducted her to the Lodgings of that Lady, who
treated her, not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the Truth, with
Rudeness in another Way. In short, she returned from both, plainly convinced not
only that her Scheme of Reconciliation had proved abortive, but that she must
for ever give over all Thoughts of bringing it about by any Means whatever. From
this Moment Desire of Revenge only filled her Mind; and in this Temper meeting
Jones at the Play, an Opportunity seemed to her to occur of effecting this
Purpose.
    The Reader must remember, that he was acquainted by Mrs. Fitzpatrick, in the
Account she gave of her own Story, with the Fondness Mrs. Western had formerly
shown 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
any thing easier than to cheat an old Woman with a Profession of Love, when her
Complexion is amorous; and, tho' 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, had 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 pity they were
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 faltered 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 display'd
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 any Thing 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 Woman (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 any thing
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 inferiour 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 are 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 cry'd, »Indeed Mr. Jones, I pity you; but it is the
Curse of such Tenderness to be thrown away on those who are insensible of it. I
know my Cousin better than you, Mr. Jones, and I must say, any Woman who makes
no Return to such a Passion and such a Person, is unworthy of both.«
    »Sure, Madam,« said Jones, »you can't mean -« »Mean?« cries Mrs. Fitzpatrick
, »I know not what I mean; there is something, I think, in true Tenderness
bewitching; few Women ever meet with it in Men, and fewer still know how to
value it when they do. I never heard such truly noble Sentiments, and I can't
tell how it is, but you force one to believe you. Sure she must be the most
contemptible of Women who can overlook such Merit.«
    The Manner and Look with which all this was spoke infused a Suspicion into
Jones, which we don't care to convey in direct Words to the Reader. Instead of
making any Answer, he said, »I am afraid, Madam, I have made too tiresome a
Visit,« and offered to take his Leave.
    »Not at all, Sir,« answered Mrs. Fitzpatrick. - »Indeed I pity you, Mr.
Jones, indeed I do; but if you are going, consider of the Scheme I have
mentioned, I am convinced you will approve it, and let me see you again as soon
as you can. - To-morrow Morning if you will, or at least some time to-morrow. I
shall be at Home all Day.«
    Jones then, after many Expressions of Thanks, very respectfully retired; nor
could Mrs. Fitzpatrick forbear making him a Present of a Look at parting, by
which if he had understood nothing, he must have had no Understanding in the
Language of the Eyes. In Reality it confirmed his Resolution of returning to her
no more; for faulty as he hath hitherto appeared in this History, his whole
Thoughts were now so confined to his Sophia, that I believe no Woman upon Earth
could have now drawn him into an Act of Inconstancy.
    Fortune however, who was not his Friend, resolved, as he intended to give
her no second Opportunity, to make the best of this; and accordingly produced
the tragical Incident which we are now in sorrowful Notes to record.
 

                                   Chapter X

                    The Consequence of the preceding Visit.
 
Mr. Fitzpatrick having received the Letter before-mentioned, from Mrs. Western,
and being by that Means acquainted with the Place to which his Wife was retired,
returned directly to Bath, and thence the Day after set forward to London.
    The Reader hath been already often informed of the jealous Temper of this
Gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to remember the Suspicion which he had
conceived of Jones at Upton, upon his finding him in the Room with Mrs. Waters;
and though sufficient Reasons had afterwards appeared entirely to clear up that
Suspicion, yet now the reading so handsome a Character of Mr. Jones from his
Wife caused him to reflect that she likewise was in the Inn at the same Time,
and jumbled together such a Confusion of Circumstances in a Head which was
naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that greeney'd Monster
mentioned by Shakespeare in his Tragedy of Othello.
    And now as he was enquiring in the Street after his Wife, and had just
received Directions to the Door, unfortunately Mr. Jones was issuing from it.
    Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the Face of Jones; however seeing a young
well-dressed Fellow coming from his Wife, he made directly up to him, and asked
him what he had been doing in that House; »For I am sure,« said he, »you must
have been in it, as I saw you come out of it.«
    Jones answered very modestly, »That he had been visiting a Lady there.« To
which Fitzpatrick replied, »What Business have you with the Lady?« Upon which
Jones, who now perfectly remembered the Voice, Features, and indeed Coat, of the
Gentleman, cried out, - »Ha, my good Friend! give me your Hand; I hope there is
no ill Blood remaining between us upon a small Mistake which happened so long
ago.«
    »Upon my Soul, Sir,« said Fitzpatrick, »I don't know your Name, nor your
Face.« »Indeed, Sir,« said Jones, »neither have I the Pleasure of knowing your
Name, but your Face I very well remember to have seen before, at Upton, where a
foolish Quarrel happened between us, which, if it is not made up yet, we will
now make up over a Bottle.«
    »At Upton!« cried the other. - »Ha! upon my Soul, I believe your Name is
Jones.« »Indeed,« answered he, »it is.« - »O, upon my Soul,« cries Fitzpatrick,
»you are the very Man I wanted to meet. - Upon my Soul I will drink a Bottle
with you presently; but first I will give you a great Knock over the Pate. There
is for you, you Rascal. Upon my Soul, if you do not give me Satisfaction for
that Blow, I will give you another.« And then drawing his Sword, put himself in
a Posture of Defence, which was the only Science he understood.
    Jones was a little staggered by the Blow which came somewhat unexpectedly;
but presently recovering himself he also drew, and tho' 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 stepped 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 dressed?, and hearing that the
Accident had happened in a Duel, treated his Prisoner with great Civility, and,
at his Request, dispatched a Messenger to enquire after the wounded Gentleman,
who was now at a Tavern under the Surgeon's Hands. The Report brought back was
that the Wound was certainly mortal, and there were no Hopes of Life. Upon which
the Constable informed Jones, that he must go before a Justice. He answered,
»Wherever you please; I am indifferent as to what happens to me, for tho' I am
convinced I am not guilty of Murder in the Eye of the Law, yet the Weight of
Blood I find intolerable upon my Mind.«
    Jones was now conducted before the Justice, where the Surgeon who dressed? Mr.
Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that he believed the Wound to be mortal; upon
which the Prisoner was committed to the Gatehouse. It was very late at Night, so
that Jones would not send for Partridge till the next Morning; and as he never
shut his Eyes till seven, so it was near twelve before the poor Fellow, who was
greatly frightened at not hearing from his Master so long, received a Message
which almost deprived him of his Being, when he heard it.
    He went to the Gatehouse with trembling Knees and a beating Heart, and was
no sooner arrived in the Presence of Jones, than he lamented the Misfortune that
had befallen him with many Tears, looking all the while frequently about him in
great Terror; for as the News now arrived that Mr. Fitzpatrick was dead, the
poor Fellow apprehended every Minute that his Ghost would enter the Room. At
last he delivered him a Letter, which he had like to have forgot, and which came
from Sophia by the Hands of Black George.
     Jones presently dispatched every one out of the Room, and having eagerly
broke open the Letter, read as follows.
 
        »You owe the hearing from me again to an Accident which I own surprizes
        me. My Aunt hath just now shown me a Letter from you to Lady Bellaston,
        which contains a Proposal of Marriage. I am convinced it is your own
        Hand; and what more surprizes me is, that it is dated at the very Time
        when you would have me imagine you was under such Concern on my Account.
        - I leave you to comment on this Fact. All I desire is, that your Name
        may never more be mentioned to
                                                                           S.W.«
 
Of the present Situation of Mr. Jones's Mind, and of the Pangs with which he was
now tormented, we cannot give the Reader a better Idea, than by saying his
Misery was such, that even Thwackum would almost have pitied him. But bad as it
is, we shall at present leave him in it, as his good Genius (if he really had
any) seems to have done. And here we put an End to the sixteenth Book of our
History.
 

                                   Book XVII

                             Containing three Days.
 

                                   Chapter I

                 Containing a Portion of introductory Writing.
 
When a Comic Writer hath made his principal Characters as happy as he can; or
when a Tragic Writer hath brought them to the highest Pitch of human Misery,
they both conclude their Business to be done, and that their Work is come to a
Period.
    Had we been of the Tragic Complexion, the Reader must now allow we were very
nearly arrived at this Period, since it would be difficult for the Devil, or any
of his Representatives on Earth, to have contrived much greater Torments for
poor Jones, than those in which we left him in the last Chapter; and as for
Sophia, a good-natured Woman would hardly wish more Uneasiness to a Rival, than
what she must at present be supposed to feel. What then remains to complete the
Tragedy but a Murder or two, and a few moral Sentences.
    But to bring our Favourites out of their present Anguish and Distress, and
to land them at last on the Shore of Happiness, seems a much harder Task; a Task
indeed so hard that we do not undertake to execute it. In Regard to Sophia it is
more than probable, that we shall somewhere or other provide a good Husband for
her in the End, either Blifil, or my Lord, or Somebody else; but as to poor
Jones, such are the Calamities in which he is at present involved, owing to his
Imprudence, by which if a Man doth not become a Felon to the World, he is at
least a Felo de se; so destitute is he now of Friends, and so persecuted by
Enemies, that we almost despair of bringing him to any good; and if our Reader
delights in seeing Executions, I think he ought not to lose any Time in taking a
first Row at Tyburn.
    This I faithfully promise, that notwithstanding any Affection which we may
be supposed to have for this Rogue, whom we have unfortunately made our Heroe,
we will lend him none of that supernatural Assistance with which we are
entrusted, upon Condition that we use it only on very important Occasions. If he
doth not therefore find some natural Means of fairly extricating himself from
all his Distresses, we will do no Violence to the Truth and Dignity of History
for his Sake; for we had rather relate that he was hanged at Tyburn (which may
very probably be the Case) than forfeit our Integrity, or shock the Faith of our
Reader.
    In this the Antients had a great Advantage over the Moderns. Their
Mythology, which was at that Time more firmly believed by the Vulgar than any
Religion is at present, gave them always an Opportunity of delivering a
favourite Heroe. Their Deities were always ready at the Writer's Elbow, to
execute any of his Purposes; and the more extraordinary the Intervention was,
the greater was the Surprise and Delight of the credulous Reader. Those Writers
could with greater Ease have conveyed a Friend 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 Goal.
    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 are we confined; let us try therefore what by these Means may be
done for poor Jones; though to confess the Truth, something whispers me in the
Ear, that he doth not yet know the worst of his Fortune; and that a more
shocking Piece of News than any he hath yet heard remains for him in the
unopened Leaves of Fate.
 

                                   Chapter II

              The generous and grateful Behaviour of Mrs. Miller.
 
Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller were just sat down to Breakfast, when Blifil, who
had gone out very early that Morning, returned to make one of the Company.
    He had not been long seated before he began as follows, »Good Lord! my dear
Uncle, what do you think hath happened? I vow I am afraid of telling it you, for
fear of shocking you with the Remembrance of ever having shown 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 cry'd, »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 surprised
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 surprise 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, grosly 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,« says 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 are 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 over-ballanced by one of the most humane tender
honest Hearts that ever Man was blessed 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
every Thing I have said, I am sure you will; and when you have heard the Story
which I shall tell you, (for I will tell you all) you will be so far from being
offended, that you will own (I know your Justice so well) that I must have been
the most despicable and most ungrateful of Wretches, if I had acted any other
Part than I have.«
    »Well, Madam,« said Allworthy, »I shall be very glad to hear any good Excuse
for a Behaviour which I must confess, I think wants an Excuse. And now, Madam,
will you be pleased to let my Nephew proceed in his Story without Interruption.
He would not have introduced a Matter of slight Consequence with such a Preface.
Perhaps even this Story will cure you of your Mistake.«
    Mrs. Miller gave Tokens of Submission, and then Mr. Blifil began thus. »I am
sure, Sir, if you don't think proper to resent the ill Usage of Mrs. Miller, I
shall easily forgive what affects me only. I think your Goodness hath not
deserved this Indignity at her Hands.« »Well, Child,« said Allworthy, »but what
is this new Instance? What hath he done of late?« »What?« cries Blifil,
»notwithstanding all Mrs. Miller hath said, I am very sorry to relate, and what
you should never have heard from me, had it not been a Matter impossible to
conceal from the whole World. In short he hath killed a Man; I will not say
murdered, - for perhaps it may not be so construed in Law, and I hope the best
for his Sake.«
    Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then turning to Mrs.
Miller, he cried, »Well, Madam, what say you now?«
    »Why, I say, Sir,« answered she, »that I never was more concerned at any
Thing in my Life; but, if the Fact be true, I am convinced the Man, who ever he
is, was in Fault. Heaven knows there are many Villains in this Town, who make it
their Business to provoke young Gentlemen. Nothing but the greatest Provocation
could have tempted him; for of all the Gentlemen I ever had in my House, I never
saw one so gentle, or so sweet-tempered. He was beloved by every one in the
House, and every one who came near it.«
    While she was thus running on, a violent Knocking at their Door interrupted
the Conversation, and prevented her from proceeding further, or from receiving
any Answer; for as she concluded this was a Visiter to Mr. Allworthy, she
hastily retired, taking with her her little Girl, whose Eyes were all over
blubbered at the melancholy News she heard of Jones, who used to call her his
little Wife, and not only gave her many Playthings, but spent whole Hours in
playing with her himself.
    Some Readers may perhaps be pleased with these minute Circumstances, in
relating of which we follow the Example of Plutarch, one of the best of our
Brother Historians; and others to whom they may appear trivial, will, we hope,
at least pardon them, as we are never prolix on such Occasions.
 

                                  Chapter III

The Arrival of Mr. Western, with some Matters concerning the Paternal Authority.
 
Mrs. Miller had not long left the Room, when Mr. Western entered; but not before
a small wrangling Bout had pass'd 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 Handbarrows again. They have jolted me more in
a Mile than Brown Bess would in a long Fox Chace.«
    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 who's not I - And now here is 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 Hannover.«
    »You surprise me much, my good Friend,« said Allworthy. »Why, zounds! I am
surprised myself,« answered the Squire. »I went to zee Sister Western last
Night, according to her own Appointment, and there I was a had into a whole
Room-full of Women. - There was my Lady Cousin Bellaston, and my Lady Betty, and
my Lady Catharine, 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 kili'd un, and eat un. Od-rabbet-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
snap'd 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
oum 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 oum 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, been'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 any thing 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 judgement on his Side. Indeed,
she always showed 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 tho' 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 Accessaries 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, tho' 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 o'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 any Thing for me? To give me any thing? - 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 zuch a Manner, that I could not marry if I woud,
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-d bevore
her little Vinger should be hurt. Indeed, Mr. Allworthy, you must excuse me, but
I am surprised 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 inexcuseable 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 wou'd 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 every Thing 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's an old Acquaintance of
above Twenty Years standing. I can tell you Landlord is a vast comical Bitch,
you will like un hugely.«
    Mr. Allworthy at last agreed to this Invitation, and soon after the Squire
went off, singing and capering at the Hopes of seeing the speedy tragical End of
poor Jones.
    When he was gone, Mr. Allworthy resumed the aforesaid Subject with much
Gravity. He told his Nephew, »he wished with all his Heart he would endeavour to
conquer a Passion, in which I cannot,« says he, »flatter you with any Hopes of
succeeding. It is certainly a vulgar Error, that Aversion in a Woman may be
conquered by Perseverance. Indifference may, perhaps, sometimes yield to it; but
the usual Triumphs gained by Perseverance in a Lover, are over Caprice,
Prudence, Affectation, and often an exorbitant Degree of Levity, which excites
Women not over-warm in their Constitutions, to indulge their Vanity by
prolonging the Time of Courtship, even when they are well-enough pleased with
the Object, and resolve (if they ever resolve at all) to make him a very pitiful
Amends in the End. But a fixed Dislike, as I am afraid this is, will rather
gather Strength, than be conquered by Time. Besides, my dear, I have another
Apprehension which you must excuse. I am afraid this Passion which you have for
this fine young Creature, hath her beautiful Person too much for its Object, and
is unworthy of the Name of that Love, which is the only Foundation of
matrimonial Felicity. To admire, to like, and to long for the Possession of a
beautiful Woman, without any Regard to her Sentiments towards us, is, I am
afraid, too natural: But Love, I believe, is the Child of Love only; at least, I
am pretty confident, that to love the Creature who we are assured hates us, is
not in Human Nature. Examine your Heart, therefore, thoroughly, my good Boy, and
if, upon Examination, you have but the least Suspicion of this Kind, I am sure
your own Virtue and Religion will impel you to drive so vicious a Passion from
your Heart, and your good Sense will soon enable you to do it without Pain.«
    The Reader may pretty well guess Blifil's Answer; but if he should be at a
Loss, we are not, at present, at Leisure to satisfy him, as our History now
hastens on to Matters of higher Importance, and we can no longer bear to be
absent from Sophia.
 

                                   Chapter IV

              An extraordinary Scene between Sophia and her Aunt.
 
The lowing Heifer, and the bleating Ewe in Herds and Flocks, may ramble safe and
unregarded through the Pastures. These are, indeed, hereafter doomed to be the
Prey of Man; yet many Years are they suffered to enjoy their Liberty
undisturbed. But if a plump Doe be discovered to have escaped from the Forest,
and to repose herself in some Field or Grove, the whole Parish is presently
alarmed, every Man is ready to set his Dogs after her; and if she is preserved
from the rest by the good Squire, it is only that he may secure her for his own
eating.
    I have often considered a very fine young Woman of Fortune and Fashion, when
first found strayed from the Pale of her Nursery, to be in pretty much the same
Situation with this Doe. The Town is immediately in an Uproar, she is hunted
from Park to Play, from Court to Assembly, from Assembly to her own Chamber, and
rarely escapes a single Season from the Jaws of some Devourer or other: For if
her Friends protect her from some, it is only to deliver her over to one of
their own choosing, often more disagreeable to her than any of the rest: While
whole Herds or Flocks of other Women securely, and scarce regarded, traverse the
Park, the Play, the Opera, and the Assembly; and though, for the most Part at
least, they are at last devoured, yet for a long Time do they wanton in Liberty,
without Disturbance or Controul.
    Of all these Paragons, none ever tasted more of this Persecution than poor
Sophia. Her ill Stars were not contented with all that she had suffered on
Account of Blifil, they now raised her another Pursuer, who seemed likely to
torment her no less than the other had done. For though her Aunt was less
violent, she was no less assiduous in teasing 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 Tomorrow 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 cry'd, »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 shown 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 and vile Manner?« »Indeed, Madam,« says 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 show he had 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,
tho' 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 onesself to give Lips
up to a Husband; and, indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to marry, I
believe I should not have soon been brought to endure so much,« »You will pardon
me, dear Madam,« said Sophia, »if I make one Observation: You own you have had
many Lovers, and the World knows it, even if you should deny it. You refused
them all, and I am convinced one Coronet at least among them.« »You say true,
dear Sophy,« answered she; »I had once the Offer of a Title.« »Why then,« said
Sophia, »will you not suffer me to refuse this once?« »It is true, Child,« said
she, »I have refused the Offer of a Title; but it was not so good an Offer; that
is, not so very, very good an Offer.« - »Yes, Madam,« said Sophia; »but you have
had very great Proposals from Men of vast Fortunes. It was not the first, nor
the second, nor the third advantageous Match that offered itself.« »I own it was
not,« said she. »Well, Madam,« continued Sophia, »and why may not I expect to
have a second perhaps better than this? You are now but a young Woman, and I am
convinced would not promise to yield to the first Lover of Fortune, nay, or of
Title too. I am a very young Woman, and sure I need not despair.« »Well, my
dear, dear Sophy,« cries the Aunt, »what would you have me say?« »Why I only beg
that I may not be left alone, at least this Evening: Grant me that, and I will
submit, if you think, after what is past, I ought to see him in your Company.«
»Well, I will grant it,« cries the Aunt. »Sophy, you know I love you, and can
deny you nothing. You know the Easiness of my Nature; I have not always been so
easy. I have been formerly thought cruel; by the Men I mean. I was called the
cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many a Window that has had Verses to the cruel
Parthenissa in it. Sophy, I was never so handsome as you, and yet I had
something of you formerly. I am a little altered. Kingdoms and States, as Tully
Cicero says in his Epistles, undergo Alterations, and so must the human Form.«
Thus run she on for near half an Hour upon herself, and her Conquests and her
Cruelty, till the Arrival of my Lord, who, after a most tedious Visit, during
which Mrs. Western never once offered to leave the Room, retired, not much more
satisfied with the Aunt than with the Niece. For Sophia had brought her Aunt
into so excellent a Temper, that she consented to almost every Thing 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 well be imagined.
 

                                   Chapter V

           Mrs. Miller and Mr. Nightingale visit Jones in the Prison.
 
When Mr. Allworthy and his Nephew went to meet Mr. Western, Mrs. Miller set
forwards to her Son-in-Law's Lodgings, in order to acquaint him with the
Accident which had befallen his Friend Jones; but he had known it long before
from Partridge, (for Jones, when he left Mrs. Miller, had been furnished with a
Room in the same House with Mr. Nightingale.) The good Woman found her Daughter
under great Affliction on Account of Mr. Jones, whom having comforted as well as
she could, she set forwards to the Gatehouse, where she heard he was, and where
Mr. Nightingale was arrived before her.
    The Firmness and Constancy of a true Friend is a Circumstance so extremely
delightful to Persons in any Kind of Distress, that the Distress itself, if it
be only temporary and admits of Relief, is more than compensated by bringing
this Comfort with it. Nor are Instances of this Kind so rare, as some
superficial and inaccurate Observers have reported. To say the Truth, Want of
Compassion is not to be numbered among our general Faults. The black Ingredient
which fouls our Disposition is Envy. Hence our Eye is seldom, I am afraid,
turned upward to those who are manifestly greater, better, wiser, or happier
than ourselves, without some Degree of Malignity; while we commonly look
downwards on the Mean and Miserable, with sufficient Benevolence and Pity. In
Fact, I have remarked, that most of the Defects which have discovered themselves
in the Friendships within my Observation have arisen from Envy only; a hellish
Vice; and yet one from which I have known very few absolutely exempt. But enough
of a Subject which, if pursued, would lead me too far.
    Whether it was that Fortune was apprehensive lest Jones should sink under
the Weight of his Adversity, and that she might thus lose any future Opportunity
of tormenting him; or whether she really abated somewhat of her Severity towards
him, she seemed a little to relax her Persecution, by sending him the Company of
two such faithful Friends, and what is perhaps more rare, a faithful Servant.
For Partridge, tho' he had many Imperfections, wanted not Fidelity; and tho'
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, tho'
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 in 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, »cheer 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
wou'd 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 any Thing 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 any Thing 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 so I hear from every one she is.«
    »Believe me, Madam,« said he, »I do not speak the common Cant of one in my
unhappy Situation. Before this dreadful Accident happened, I had resolved to
quit a Life of which I was become sensible of the Wickedness as well as Folly. I
do assure you, notwithstanding the Disturbances I have unfortunately occasioned
in your House, for which I heartily ask your Pardon, I am not an abandoned
Profligate. Though I have been hurried into Vices, I do not approve a vicious
Character; nor will I ever, from this Moment, deserve it.«
    Mrs. Miller expressed great Satisfaction in these Declarations, in the
Sincerity of which she averred she had an entire Faith; and now, the Remainder
of the Conversation past in the joint Attempts of that good Woman and Mr.
Nightingale, to cheer the dejected Spirits of Mr. Jones, in which they so far
succeeded, as to leave him much better comforted and satisfied than they found
him; to which happy Alteration nothing so much contributed as the kind
Undertaking of Mrs. Miller, to deliver his Letter to Sophia, which he despaired
of finding any Means to accomplish: For when Black George produced the last from
Sophia, he informed Partridge, that she had strictly charged him, on pain of
having it communicated to her Father, not to bring her any Answer. He was
moreover not a little pleased, to find he had so warm an Advocate to Mr.
Allworthy himself in this good Woman, who was in Reality one of the worthiest
Creatures in the World.
    After about an Hour's Visit from the Lady, (for Nightingale had been with
him much longer) they both took their leave promising to return to him soon;
during which Mrs. Miller said, she hoped to bring him some good News from his
Mistress, and Mr. Nightingale promised to enquire into the State of Mr.
Fitzpatrick's Wound, and likewise to find out some of the Persons who were
present at the Rencounter.
    The former of these went directly in quest of Sophia, whither we likewise
shall now attend her.
 

                                   Chapter VI

                  In which Mrs. Miller pays a Visit to Sophia.
 
Access to the young Lady was by no means difficult; for as she lived now on a
perfect friendly Footing with her Aunt, she was at full Liberty to receive what
Visitants she pleased.
    Sophia was dressing, when she was acquainted that there was a Gentlewoman
below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, nor ashamed, to see any of her
own Sex, Mrs. Miller was immediately admitted.
    Curt'sies, 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 any thing,« 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
surprising 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 any thing 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. Enderson. - 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 every
thing 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 cry'd, »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 any thing, 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 intitle 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 she 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 dressed?, therefore, down she went,
resolved to encounter all the Horrours of the Day, and a most disagreeable one
it proved; for Lady Bellaston took every Opportunity very civilly and slyly 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 befell 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 public 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 ever 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 any Thing by it.
    No wonder then as so much Spirits must be required to support any Vivacity
in these Scenes of Dulness, that we hear Persons of Fashion eternally
complaining of the Want of them; a Complaint confined entirely to upper Life.
How insupportable must we imagine this Round of Impertinence to have been to
Sophia, at this time; how difficult must she have found it to force the
Appearance of Gaiety into her Looks, when her Mind dictated nothing but the
tenderest Sorrow, and when every Thought was charged with tormenting Ideas.
    Night, however at last, restored her to her Pillow, where we will leave her
to soothe her Melancholy at least, though incapable we fear of Rest, and shall
pursue our History, which something whispers us is now arrived at the Eve of
some great Event.
 

                                  Chapter VII

            A pathetic Scene between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller.
 
Mrs. Miller had a long Discourse with Mr. Allworthy at his Return from Dinner,
in which she acquainted him with Jones's having unfortunately lost all which he
was pleased to bestow on him at their Separation; and with the Distresses to
which that Loss had subjected him; of all which she had received a full Account
from the faithful Retailer Partridge. She then explained the Obligations she had
to Jones; not that she was entirely explicite 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 had 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 show all Matters in their true and natural
Colours, and that you will be convinced this poor young Man deserves better of
you than some other Folks that shall be nameless.«
    »Madam,« cries Allworthy, a little ruffled, »I will not hear any Reflections
on my Nephew, and if you ever 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
Terrour in his Frowns) »I shall never speak against any Gentleman you are
pleased to think well of. I am sure, Sir, such Behaviour would very little
become me, especially when the Gentleman is your nearest Relation; but, Sir, you
must not be angry with me, you must not indeed, for my good Wishes to this poor
Wretch. Sure, I may call him so now, though once you would have been angry with
me, if I had spoke of him with the least Disrespect. How often have I heard you
call him your Son? How often have you prattled to me of him with all the
Fondness of a Parent? Nay, Sir, I cannot forget the many tender Expressions, the
many good Things you have told me of his Beauty, and his Parts, and his Virtues;
of his Good-nature and Generosity. - I am sure, Sir, I cannot forget them: For I
find them all true. I have experienced them in my own Cause. They have preserved
my Family. You must pardon my Tears, Sir, indeed you must, when I consider the
cruel Reverse of Fortune which this poor Youth, to whom I am so much obliged,
hath suffered; when I consider the Loss of your Favour, which I know he valued
more than his Life, I must, I must lament him. If you had a Dagger in your Hand,
ready to plunge into my Heart, I must lament the Misery of one whom you have
loved, and I shall ever love.«
    Allworthy was pretty much moved with this Speech, but it seemed not to be
with Anger: For after a short Silence, taking Mrs. Miller by the Hand, he said
very affectionately to her; »Come, Madam, let us consider a little about your
Daughter. I cannot blame you, for rejoicing in a Match which promises to be
advantageous to her; but you know this Advantage, in a great Measure, depends on
the Father's Reconciliation. I know Mr. Nightingale very well, and have formerly
had Concerns with him; I will make him a Visit, and endeavour to serve you in
this Matter. I believe he is a worldly Man; but as this is an only Son, and the
Thing is now irretrievable, perhaps he may in Time be brought to Reason. I
promise you I will do all I can for you.«
    Many were the Acknowledgments which the poor Woman made to Allworthy, for
this kind and generous Offer, nor could she refrain from taking this Occasion
again to express her Gratitude towards Jones, to whom, said she, I owe the
Opportunity of giving you, Sir, this present Trouble. Allworthy gently stopped
her; but he was too good a Man to be really offended with the Effects of so
noble a Principle as now actuated Mrs. Miller; and indeed had not this new
Affair inflamed his former Anger against Jones, it is possible he might have
been a little softened towards him by the Report of an Action which Malice
itself could not have derived from an evil Motive.
    Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Miller had been above an Hour together, when their
Conversation was put an End to by the Arrival of Blifil, and another Person,
which other Person was no less than Mr. Dowling, the Attorney, who was now
become a great Favourite with Mr. Blifil, and whom Mr. Allworthy, at the Desire
of his Nephew, had made his Steward, and had likewise recommended him to Mr.
Western, from whom the Attorney received a Promise of being promoted to the same
Office upon the first Vacancy; and in the mean Time was employed in transacting
some Affairs which the Squire then had in London, in Relation to a Mortgage.
    This was the principal Affair which then brought Mr. Dowling to Town,
therefore he took the same Opportunity to charge himself with some Money for Mr.
Allworthy, and to make a Report to him of some other Business; in all which as
it was of much too dull a Nature to find any Place in this History, we will
leave the Uncle, Nephew, and their Lawyer concerned, and resort to other
Matters.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                          Containing various Matters.
 
Before we return to Mr. Jones, we will take one more View of Sophia.
    Though that young Lady had brought her Aunt into great good Humour by those
soothing Methods, which we have before related, she had not brought her in the
least to abate of her Zeal for the Match with Lord Fellamar; this Zeal was now
inflamed by Lady Bellaston, who had told her the preceding Evening, that she was
well satisfied from the Conduct of Sophia, and from her Carriage to his
Lordship, that all Delays would be dangerous, and that the only Way to succeed,
was to press the Match forward with such Rapidity, that the young Lady should
have no Time to reflect, and be obliged to consent, while she scarce knew what
she did. In which Manner, she said, one half of the Marriages among People of
Condition were brought about. A Fact very probably true, and to which I suppose
is owing the mutual Tenderness which afterwards exists among so many happy
Couples.
    A Hint of the same Kind was given by the same Lady to Lord Fellamar; and
both these so readily embraced the Advice that the very next Day was, at his
Lordship's Request, appointed by Mrs. Western for a private Interview between
the young Parties. This was communicated to Sophia by her Aunt, and insisted
upon in such high Terms, that, after having urged every Thing she possibly could
invent against it, without the least Effect, she at last agreed to give the
highest Instance of Complaisance 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 attone 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, every Thing at your Feet.« »My Lord,« says she, »it is
that Fortune and those Honours which give you the Advantage of which I complain.
These are the Charms which have seduced my Relations, but to me they are Things
indifferent. If your Lordship will merit my Gratitude, there is but one Way.« -
»Pardon me, divine Creature,« said he, »there can be none. All I can do for you
is so much your due, and will give me so much Pleasure, that there is no room
for your Gratitude.« - »Indeed, my Lord,« answered she, »you may obtain my
Gratitude, my good Opinion, every kind Thought and Wish which it is in my Power
to bestow, nay you may obtain them with Ease; for sure to a generous Mind it
must be easy to grant my Request. Let me beseech you then, to cease a Pursuit,
in which you can never have any Success. For your own Sake as well as mine, I
entreat this Favour; for sure you are too noble to have any Pleasure in
tormenting an unhappy Creature. What can your Lordship propose but Uneasiness to
yourself, by a Perseverance, which, upon my Honour, upon my Soul, cannot, shall
not prevail with me, whatever Distresses you may drive me to.« Here my Lord
fetched a deep Sigh, and then said, - »Is it then, Madam, that I am so unhappy
to be the Object of your Dislike and Scorn; or will you pardon me if I suspect
there is some other?« - Here he hesitated, and Sophia answered with some Spirit,
»My Lord, I shall not be accountable to you for the Reasons of my Conduct. I am
obliged to your Lordship for the generous Offer you have made; I own it is
beyond either my Deserts or Expectations; yet I hope, my Lord, you will not
insist on my Reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it.« Lord Fellamar returned
much to this, which we do not perfectly understand, and perhaps it could not all
be strictly reconciled either to Sense or Grammar; but he concluded his ranting
Speech with saying, »That if she had pre-engaged herself to any Gentleman,
however unhappy it would make him, he should think himself bound in Honour to
desist.« Perhaps my Lord laid too much Emphasis on the Word Gentleman; for we
cannot else well account for the Indignation with which he inspired Sophia, who,
in her Answer, seemed greatly to resent some Affront he had given her.
    While she was speaking, with her Voice more raised than usual, Mrs. Western
came into the Room, the Fire glaring in her Cheeks, and the Flames bursting from
her Eyes. »I am ashamed,« says she, »my Lord, of the Reception which you have
met with. I assure your Lordship we are all sensible of the Honour done us; and
I must tell you, Miss Western, the Family expect a different Behaviour from
you.« Here my Lord interfered on Behalf of the young Lady, but to no Purpose;
the Aunt proceeded till Sophia pulled out her Handkerchief, threw herself into a
Chair, and burst into a violent Fit of Tears.
    The Remainder of the Conversation between Mrs. Western and his Lordship,
till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter Lamentations on his Side, and on
hers of the strongest Assurances that her Niece should and would consent to all
he wished. »Indeed, my Lord,« says she, »the Girl hath had a foolish Education,
neither adapted to her Fortune nor her Family. Her Father, I am sorry to say it,
is to blame for every Thing. 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 sometime
before left the Room with more Appearance of Passion than she had ever shown on
any Occasion; and now his Lordship, after many Expressions of Thanks to Mrs.
Western, many ardent Professions of Passion which nothing could conquer, and
many Assurances of Perseverance which Mrs. Western highly encouraged, took his
Leave for this Time.
    Before we relate what now passed between Mrs. Western and Sophia, it may be
proper to mention an unfortunate Accident which had happened, and which had
occasioned the Return of Mrs. Western with so much Fury as we have seen.
    The Reader then must know, that the Maid who at present attended on Sophia,
was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with whom she had lived for some Time in the
Capacity of a Comb-brush; she was a very sensible Girl, and had received the
strictest Instructions to watch her young Lady very carefully. These
Instructions, we are sorry to say, were communicated to her by Mrs. Honour, into
whose Favour Lady Bellaston had now so ingratiated herself, that the violent
Affection which the good Waiting-Woman had formerly borne to Sophia, was
entirely obliterated by that great Attachment which she had to her new Mistress.
    Now when Mrs. Miller was departed, Betty (for that was the Name of the Girl)
returning to her young Lady, found her very attentively engaged in reading a
long Letter, and the visible Emotions which she betrayed on that Occasion, might
have well accounted for some Suspicions which the Girl entertained; but indeed
they had yet a stronger Foundation, for she had overheard the whole Scene which
passed between Sophia and Mrs. Miller.
    Mrs. Western was acquainted with all this Matter by Betty, who, after
receiving many Commendations, and some Rewards for her Fidelity, was ordered,
that if the Woman who brought the Letter, came again, she should introduce her
to Mrs. Western herself.
    Unluckily Mrs. Miller returned at the very time when Sophia was engaged with
his Lordship. Betty, according to Order, sent her directly to the Aunt; who
being Mistress of so many Circumstances relating to what had past the Day
before, easily imposed upon the poor Woman to believe that Sophia had
communicated the whole Affair; and so pumped every thing 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 every thing 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 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! Miss Western,« said the Aunt, »will you deny your receiving
a Letter from him yesterday?« »A Letter, Madam,« answered Sophia, somewhat
surprised. »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 Hands.
    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 his false System of Education; and please Heaven he shall have the
Comfort of its Fruits: For once more I declare to you, that to-morrow Morning I
will carry you back. I will withdraw all my Forces from the Field, and remain
henceforth, like the wise King of Prussia, in a State of perfect Neutrality. You
are both too wise to be regulated by my Measures; so prepare yourself, for
to-morrow Morning you shall evacuate this House.«
    Sophia remonstrated all she could; but her Aunt was deaf to all she said. In
this Resolution therefore we must at present leave her, as there seems to be no
Hopes of bringing her to change it.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                   What happened to Mr. Jones in the Prison.
 
Mr. Jones past above twenty-four melancholy Hours by himself, unless when
relieved by the Company of Partridge, before Mr. Nightingale returned; not that
this worthy young Man had deserted or forgot his Friend; for indeed, he had been
much the greatest part of the time employed in his Service.
    He had heard upon Enquiry that the only Persons who had seen the Beginning
of the unfortunate Rencounter, were a Crew belonging to a Man of War, which then
lay at Deptford. To Deptford therefore he went, in search of this Crew, where he
was informed that the Men he sought after were all gone ashore. He then traced
them from Place to Place, till at last he found two of them drinking together,
with a third Person, at a Hedge-Tavern, near Aldersgate.
     Nightingale desired to speak with Jones by himself (for Partridge was in
the Room when he came in). As soon as they were alone, Nightingale taking Jones
by the Hand, cried, »Come, my brave Friend, be not too much dejected at what I
am going to tell you, I am sorry I am the Messenger of bad News; but I think it
my Duty to tell you.« »I guess already what that 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 any thing 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 sea-faring 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 Surprise 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 surprised 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 Surprise
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 the Bath.
    Now there was a certain Office in the Gift of Mr. Fitzpatrick at that Time
vacant, namely, that of a Wife; for the Lady who had lately filled that Office
had resigned, or at least deserted her Duty. Mr. Fitzpatrick therefore having
thoroughly examined Mrs. Waters on the Road, found her extremely fit for the
Place, which, on their Arrival at Bath, he presently conferred upon her, and
she, without any Scruple, accepted. As Husband and Wife this Gentleman and Lady
continued together all the Time they stayed at Bath, and as Husband and Wife
they arrived together in Town.
    Whether Mr. Fitzpatrick was so wise a Man as not to part with one good Thing
till he had secured another, which he had at present only a Prospect of
regaining; or whether Mrs. Waters had so well discharged her Office, that he
intended still to retain her as Principal, and to make his Wife (as is often the
Case) only her Deputy, I will not say; but certain it is he never mentioned his
Wife to her, never communicated to her the Letter given him by Mrs. Western, nor
ever once hinted his Purpose of re-possessing 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 dressed?.
    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 Gayety, 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 Surprise; 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
expressed 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
showed great Satisfaction in his Countenance at this Report; upon which she
affirmed the Truth of it, adding, »By the most extraordinary Accident in the
World I lodge at the same House, and have seen the Gentleman; and I promise you
he doth you Justice, and says, Whatever be the Consequence, that he was entirely
the Aggressor, and that you was not in the least to blame.«
    Jones expressed the utmost Satisfaction at the Account which Mrs. Waters
brought him. He then informed her of many Things which she well knew before, as
who Mr. Fitzpatrick was, the Occasion of his Resentment, etc. 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 yet had in Store for him, and which we shall communicate in
the second Chapter of the ensuing Book.
 

                                   Book XVIII

                           Containing about Six Days.
 

                                   Chapter I

                            A Farewel to the Reader.
 
We are now, Reader, arrived at the last Stage of our long Journey. As we have
therefore travelled together through so many Pages, let us behave to one another
like Fellow-Travellers in a Stage-Coach, who have passed several Days in the
Company of each other; and who, notwithstanding any Bickerings or little
Animosities which may have occurred on the Road, generally make all up at last,
and mount, for the last Time, into their Vehicle with Chearfulness and
Good-Humour; since, after this one Stage, it may possibly happen to us, as it
commonly happens to them, never to meet more.
    As I have here taken up this Simile, give me Leave to carry it a little
farther. I intend then in this last Book to imitate the good Company I have
mentioned in their last Journey. Now it is well known, that all Jokes and
Raillery are at this Time laid aside; whatever Characters any of the Passengers
have for the Jest-sake personated on the Road, are now thrown off, and the
Conversation is usually plain and serious.
    In the same Manner, if I have now and then, in the Course of this Work,
indulged any Pleasantry for thy Entertainment, I shall here lay it down. The
Variety of Matter, indeed, which I shall be obliged to cram into this Book, will
afford no Room for any of those ludicrous Observations which I have elsewhere
made, and which may sometimes, perhaps, have prevented thee from taking a Nap
when it was beginning to steal upon thee. In this last Book thou wilt find
nothing (or at most very little) of that Nature. All will be plain Narrative
only; and, indeed, when thou hast perused the many great Events which this Book
will produce, thou wilt think the Number of Pages contained in it, scarce
sufficient to tell the Story.
    And now, my Friend, I take this Opportunity (as I shall have no other) of
heartily wishing thee well. If I have been an entertaining Companion to thee, I
promise thee it is what I have desired. If in any Thing 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 Cotemporaries.
 

                                   Chapter II

                      Containing a very tragical Incident.
 
While Jones was employed in those unpleasant Meditations, with which we left him
tormenting himself, Partridge came stumbling into the Room with his Face paler
than Ashes, his Eyes fixed in his Head, his Hair standing an End, and every Limb
trembling. In short, he looked as he would have done had he seen a Spectre, or
had he indeed been a Spectre himself.
    Jones, who was little subject to Fear, could not avoid being somewhat
shocked at this sudden Appearance. He did indeed himself change Colour, and his
Voice a little faltered, 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,« cries Jones. »And did you really, Sir, go to Bed
with that Woman?« said he trembling. - »I am afraid what past between us is no
Secret,« said Jones. - »Nay, but pray, Sir, for Heaven's Sake, Sir, answer me,«
cries Partridge. »You know I did,« cries Jones. - »Why then the Lord have Mercy
upon your Soul, and forgive you,« cries Partridge; »but as sure as I stand here
alive, you have been a-Bed with your own Mother.«
    Upon these Words, Jones became in a Moment a greater Picture of Horror than
Partridge himself. He was indeed, for some Time, struck dumb with Amazement, and
both stood staring wildly at each other. At last his Words found Way, and in an
interrupted Voice he said - »How! how! What's this you tell me?« »Nay, Sir,«
cries Partridge, »I have not Breath enough left to tell you now - but what I
have said is most certainly true. - That Woman who now went out is your own
Mother. How unlucky was it for you, Sir, that I did not happen to see her at
that Time, to have prevented it? Sure the Devil himself must have contrived to
bring about this Wickedness.«
    »Sure,« cries Jones, »Fortune will never have done with me, till she hath
driven me to Distraction. But why do I blame Fortune? I am myself the Cause of
all my Misery. All the dreadful Mischiefs which have befallen me, are the
Consequences only of my own Folly and Vice. What thou hast told me, Partridge,
hath almost deprived me of my Senses. And was Mrs. Waters then - But why do I
ask? for thou must certainly know her. - If thou hast any Affection for me; nay,
if thou hast any Pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable Woman back
again to me. O good Heavens! Incest - with a Mother! To what am I reserved?« He
then fell into the most violent and frantic Agonies of Grief and Despair, in
which Partridge declared he would not leave him: But at last having vented the
first Torrent of Passion, he came a little to himself; and then having
acquainted Partridge that he would find this wretched Woman in the same House
where the wounded Gentleman was lodged, he dispatched 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 this
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 learnt
        something concerning you which greatly surprizes and affects me; but as
        I have not at present Leisure to communicate a Matter of such high
        Importance, you must suspend your Curiosity till our next Meeting, which
        shall be the first Moment I am able to see you. O Mr. Jones, little did
        I think, when I past that happy Day at Upton, the Reflection upon which
        is like to embitter all my future Life, who it was to whom I owed such
        perfect Happiness. Believe me to be ever sincerely your unfortunate
                                                                      J. Waters.
        P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, for Mr.
        Fitzpatrick is in no Manner of Danger; so that whatever other grievous
        Crimes you may have to repent of, the Guilt of Blood is not among the
        Number.«
 
Jones having received the Letter, let it drop (for he was unable to hold it, and
indeed had scarce the Use of any one of his Faculties). Partridge took it up,
and having received Consent by Silence, read it likewise; nor had it upon him a
less sensible Effect. The Pencil, and not the Pen, should describe the Horrors
which appeared in both their Countenances. While they both remained speechless,
the Turnkey entered the Room, and without taking any Notice of what sufficiently
discovered itself in the Faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a Man without
desired to speak with him. This Person was presently introduced, and was no
other than Black George.
    As Sights of Horror were not so usual to George as they were to the Turnkey,
he instantly saw the great Disorder which appeared in the Face of Jones. This he
imputed to the Accident that had happened, which was reported in the very worst
Light in Mr. Western's Family; he concluded therefore that the Gentleman was
dead, and that Mr. Jones was in a fair Way of coming to a shameful End. A
Thought which gave him much Uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate
Disposition, and notwithstanding a small Breach of Friendship which he had been
over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the Obligations he
had formerly received from Mr. Jones.
    The poor Fellow therefore scarce refrained from a Tear at the present Sight.
He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his Misfortunes, and begged him to
consider if he could be of any Manner of Service. »Perhaps, Sir,« said he, »you
may want a little Matter of Money upon this Occasion; if you do, Sir, what
little I have is heartily at your Service.«
    Jones shook him very heartily by the Hand, and gave him many Thanks for the
kind Offer he had made; but answered, »He had not the least Want of that Kind.«
Upon which George began to press his Services more eagerly than before. Jones
again thanked him, with Assurances that he wanted nothing which was in the Power
of any Man living to give. »Come, come, my good Master,« answered George, »do
not take the Matter so much to Heart. Things may end better than you imagine; to
be sure you ant 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?« cry'd Jones, »Hath any thing lately happened in which my Sophia is
concerned? My Sophia! How dares such a Wretch as I mention her so prophanely.« -
»I hope she will be yours yet,« answered George. - »Why, yes, Sir, I have
something to tell you about her. Madam Western hath just brought Madam Sophia
home, and there hath been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very
Right of it; but my Master he hath been in a vast big Passion, and so was Madam
Western, and I heard her say as she went out of Doors into her Chair, that she
would never set her Foot in Master's House again. I don't know what's the
Matter, not I, but every thing 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 kiss'd 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 slipp'd 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 towards 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 the Brother with the
Letter which Sophia received, which might have possibly produced ill Effects;
but to say Truth I believe it never once occurred to her Memory at this Time.
    When Mrs. Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hitherto silent, as well
indeed from Necessity as Inclination, began to return the Compliment which her
Father had made her, in taking her Part against her Aunt, by taking his likewise
against the Lady. This was the first Time of her so doing, and it was in the
highest Degree acceptable to the Squire. Again he remembered that Mr. Allworthy
had insisted on an entire Relinquishment of all violent Means; and indeed as he
made no doubt but that Jones would be hanged, he did not in the least question
succeeding with his Daughter by fair Means; he now therefore once more gave a
Loose to his natural Fondness for her, which had such an Effect on the dutiful,
grateful, tender and affectionate Heart of Sophia, that had her Honour given to
Jones, and something else perhaps in which he was concerned, been removed, I
much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed herself to a Man she did not
like, to have obliged her Father. She promised him she would make it the whole
Business of her Life to oblige him, and would never marry any Man against his
Consent; which brought the old Man so near to his highest Happiness, that he was
resolved to take the other Step, and went to Bed completely drunk.
 

                                  Chapter III

Allworthy visits old Nightingale; with a strange Discovery that he made on that
                                   Occasion.
 
The Morning after these Things had happened, Mr. Allworthy went according to his
Promise to visit old Nightingale, with whom his Authority was so great, that
after having sat with him three Hours, he at last prevailed with him to consent
to see his Son.
    Here an Accident happened of a very extraordinary Kind; one indeed of those
strange Chances, whence very good and grave Men have concluded that Providence
often interposes in the Discovery of the most secret Villany, in order to
caution Men from quitting the Paths of Honesty, however warily they tread in
those of Vice.
    Mr. Allworthy, at his Entrance into Mr. Nightingale's, saw Black George; he
took no Notice of him, nor did Black George imagine he had perceived him.
However, when their Conversation on the principal Point was over, Allworthy
asked Nightingale whether he knew one George Seagrim, and upon what Business he
came to his House. »Yes,« answered Nightingale, »I know him very well, and a
most extraordinary Fellow he is, who, in these Days, hath been able to hoard up
500 l. from renting a very small Estate of 30 l. a Year.« »And is this the Story
which he hath told you?« cries Allworthy. »Nay, it is true, I promise you,« said
Nightingale, »for I have the Money now in my own Hands, in five Bank Bills,
which I am to lay out either in a Mortgage, or in some Purchase in the North of
England.« The Bank Bills were no sooner produced at Allworthy's Desire, than he
blessed himself at the Strangeness of the Discovery. He presently told
Nightingale, that these Bank Bills were formerly his, and then acquainted him
with the whole Affair. As there are no Men who complain more of the Frauds of
Business than Highwaymen, Gamesters, and other Thieves of that Kind; so there
are none who so bitterly exclaim against the Frauds of Gamesters, etc. 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 mean Time 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
over-ballance 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 every thing, and particularly of this
sad Affair. You can testify the Affection I have formerly borne him. The World,
I know, censured me for loving him so much. I did not withdraw that Affection
from him without thinking I had the justest Cause. Believe me, Mrs. Miller, I
should be glad to find I have been mistaken.« Mrs. Miller was going eagerly to
reply, when a Servant acquainted her, that a Gentleman without desired to speak
with her immediately. Allworthy then enquired for his Nephew, and was told, that
he had been for some Time in his Room with the Gentleman who used to come to
him, and whom Mr. Allworthy, guessing rightly to be Mr. Dowling, he desired
presently to speak with him.
    When Dowling attended, Allworthy put the Case of the Bank-Notes to him,
without mentioning any Name, and asked in what manner such a Person might be
punished. To which Dowling answered, he thought he might be indicted on the
Black Act; but said, as it was a Matter of some Nicety, it would be proper to go
to Counsel. He said he was to attend Counsel presently upon an Affair of Mr.
Western's, and if Mr. Allworthy pleased he would lay the Case before them. This
was agreed to; and then Mrs. Miller opening the Door, cry'd, »I ask pardon, I
did not know you had Company;« but Allworthy desired her to come in, saying, he
had finished his Business. Upon which Mr. Dowling withdrew, and Mrs. Miller
introduced Mr. Nightingale the younger, to return thanks for the great Kindness
done him by Allworthy; but she had scarce Patience to let the young Gentleman
finish his Speech before she interrupted him, saying, »O Sir, Mr. Nightingale
brings great News about poor Mr. Jones, he hath been to see the wounded
Gentleman, who is out of all Danger of Death, and what is more, declares he fell
upon poor Mr. Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure, Sir, you would not have
Mr. Jones be a Coward. If I was a Man myself, I am sure if any Man was to strike
me, I should draw my Sword. Do pray, my Dear, tell Mr. Allworthy, tell him all
yourself.« Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs. Miller had said; and concluded
with many handsome Things of Jones, who was, he said, one of the best-natured
Fellows in the World, and not in the least inclined to be quarrelsome. Here
Nightingale was going to cease, when Mrs. Miller again begged him to relate all
the many dutiful Expressions he had heard him make use of towards Mr. Allworthy.
»To say the utmost Good of Mr. Allworthy,« cries Nightingale, »is doing no more
than strict Justice, and can have no Merit in it; but indeed I must say, no Man
can be more sensible of the Obligations he hath to so good a Man, than is poor
Jones. Indeed, Sir, I am convinced the Weight of your Displeasure is the
heaviest Burthen he lies under. He hath often lamented it to me, and hath as
often protested in the most solemn Manner he hath never been intentionally
guilty of any Offence towards you; nay, he hath sworn he would rather die a
Thousand Deaths than he would have his Conscience upbraid him with one
disrespectful, ungrateful, or undutiful Thought towards you. But I ask pardon,
Sir, I am afraid I presume to intermeddle too far in so tender a Point.« »You
have spoke no more than what a Christian ought,« cries Mrs. Miller. »Indeed, Mr.
Nightingale,« answered Allworthy, »I applaud your generous Friendship, and I
wish he may merit it of you. I confess I am glad to hear the Report you bring
from this unfortunate Gentleman; and if that Matter should turn out to be as you
represent it (and indeed I doubt nothing of what you say) I may perhaps, in
Time, be brought to think better than lately I have of this young Man: For this
good Gentlewoman here, nay all who know me, can witness that I loved him as
dearly as if he had been my own Son. Indeed I have considered him as a Child
sent by Fortune to my Care. I still remember the innocent, the helpless
Situation in which I found him. I feel the tender Pressure of his little Hands
at this Moment. - He was my Darling, indeed he was.« At which Words he ceased,
and the Tears stood in his Eyes.
    As the Answer which Mrs. Miller made may lead us into fresh Matters, we will
here stop to account for the visible Alteration in Mr. Allworthy's Mind, and the
Abatement of his Anger to Jones. Revolutions of this Kind, it is true, do
frequently occur in Histories and dramatic Writers, for no other Reason than
because the History or Play draws to a Conclusion, and are justified by
Authority of Authors; yet though we insist upon as much Authority as any Author
whatever, we shall use this Power very sparingly, and never but when we are
driven to it by Necessity, which we do not at present foresee will happen in
this Work.
    This Alteration then in the Mind of Mr. Allworthy, was occasioned by a
Letter he had just received from Mr. Square, and which we shall give the Reader
in the Beginning of the next Chapter.
 

                                   Chapter IV

                Containing two Letters in very different Stiles.
 
        »My worthy Friend,
            I informed you in my last, that I was forbidden the Use of the
        Waters, as they were found by Experience rather to increase than lessen
        the Symptoms of my Distemper. I must now acquaint you with a Piece of
        News, which, I believe, will afflict my Friends more than it hath
        afflicted me. Dr. Harrington and Dr. Brewster have informed me, that
        there is no Hopes of my Recovery.
            I have somewhere read, that the great Use of Philosophy is to learn
        to die. I will not therefore so far disgrace mine, as to show any
        Surprise 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 ancient 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 ancient
        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 uncertain and precarious, that it may be justly
        doubted on which Side their Belief turned. Plato himself concludes his
        Phædon, 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 Death-bed, 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 enoble a Man. He hath some Faults, but among them is
        not to be numbred 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,
You r 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 surprised at hearing from your worthy Nephew a fresh
        Instance of the Villany of Mr. Square the Atheist's young Pupil. I shall
        not wonder at any Murders he may commit; and I heartily pray that your
        own Blood may not seal up his final Commitment to the Place of Wailing
        and gnashing of Teeth.
            Though you cannot want sufficient Calls to Repentance for the many
        unwarrantable Weaknesses exemplified in your Behaviour to this Wretch,
        so much to the Prejudice of your own lawful Family, and of your
        Character. I say, tho' 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
        judgement which is likely to overtake this wicked Villain; and let it
        serve at least as a Warning to you, that you may not for the future
        despise the Advice of one who is so indefatigable in his Prayers for
        your Welfare.
            Had not my Hand been withheld from due Correction, I had scourged
        much of this diabolical Spirit out of a Boy, of whom from his Infancy I
        discovered the Devil had taken such entire Possession; but Reflections
        of this Kind now come too late.
            I am sorry you have given away the Living of Westerton so hastily. I
        should have applied on that Occasion earlier, had I thought you would
        not have acquainted me previous to the Disposition. - Your Objection to
        Pluralities is being righteous overmuch. 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
        worthy Considerations are as trifling as the small Tithes mentioned in
        Scripture are, when compared to the weighty Matters of the Law.
I am, Sir,
Your faithful humble Servant,
                                                                Roger Thwackum.«
 
This was the first Time Thwackum ever wrote in this authoritative Stile to
Allworthy, and of this he had afterwards sufficient Reason to repent, as in the
Case of those who mistake the highest Degree of Goodness for the lowest Degree
of Weakness. Allworthy had indeed never liked this Man. He knew him to be proud
and ill-natured; he also knew that his Divinity itself was tinctured with his
Temper, and such as in many Respects he himself did by no means approve: But he
was at the same Time an excellent Scholar, and most indefatigable in teaching
the two Lads. Add to this the strict Severity of his Life and Manners, an
unimpeached Honesty, and a most devout Attachment to Religion. So that upon the
whole, though Allworthy did not esteem nor love the Man, yet he could never
bring himself to part with a Tutor to the Boys, who was both by Learning and
Industry, extremely well qualified for his Office; and he hoped, that as they
were bred up in his own House, and under his own Eye, he should be able to
correct whatever was wrong in Thwackum's Instructions.
 

                                   Chapter V

                       In which the History is continued.
 
Mr. Allworthy, in his last Speech, had recollected some tender Ideas concerning
Jones, which had brought Tears into the good Man's Eyes. This Mrs. Miller
observing, said, »Yes, yes, Sir, your Goodness to this poor young Man is known,
notwithstanding all your Care to conceal it; but there is not a single Syllable
of Truth in what those Villains said. Mr. Nightingale hath now discovered the
whole Matter. It seems these Fellows were employed by a Lord, who is a Rival of
poor Mr. Jones, to have pressed him on board a Ship. - I assure them I don't
know who they will press next. Mr. Nightingale here hath seen the Officer
himself, who is a very pretty Gentleman, and hath told him all, and is very
sorry for what he undertook, which he would never have done had he known Mr.
Jones to have been a Gentleman; but he was told that he was a common strolling
Vagabond.«
    Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a Stranger to every Word
she said. »Yes, Sir,« answered she, »I believe you are. - It is a very different
Story, I believe, from what those Fellows told 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 enquire into the Affair.« »I am still in the Dark,
upon my Honour,« said Allworthy. »Why then do you tell him, my dear Sir,« cries
she. »Indeed, Sir,« said Nightingale, »I did see that very Lawyer who went from
you when I came into the Room, at an Alehouse in Aldersgate, in Company with two
of the Fellows who were employed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr. Jones, and who
were by that Means present at the unhappy Rencounter between him and Mr.
Fitzpatrick.« »I own, Sir,« said Mrs. Miller, »when I saw this Gentleman come
into the Room to you, I told Mr. Nightingale that I apprehended you had sent him
thither to enquire 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 surprised at what you tell me, than I have ever been
before at any Thing 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 falsehood,
the Lawyer then desired the Fellows to say nothing but what was the Truth, and
seemed to speak so much in Favour of Mr. Jones, that when I saw the same Person
with you, I concluded your Goodness had prompted you to send him thither.« -
»And did you not send him thither?« says Mrs. Miller. - »Indeed I did not,«
answered Allworthy; »nor did I know he had gone on such an Errand till this
Moment.« - »I see it all!« said Mrs. Miller: »Upon my Soul, I see it all! No
Wonder they have been closetted 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 up Stairs 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 a-kin 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 any Thing 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 Surprise on a
Man, whose Business it is to conceal Truth, or to defend falsehood. 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 Trial, that they may be supply'd 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 cry'd out, »Guilty, upon my
Honour! Guilty, upon my Soul!«
    Mr. Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this Impetuosity; and then turning to
Blifil, who seemed sinking into the Earth, he said, »Why do you hesitate, Sir,
at giving me an Answer? You certainly must have employed him, for he would not,
of his own Accord, I believe, have undertaken such an Errand, and especially
without acquainting me.«
    Blifil then answered, »I own, Sir, I have been guilty of an Offence, yet may
I hope your Pardon?« - »My Pardon?« said Allworthy very angrily. - »Nay, Sir,«
answered Blifil, »I knew you would be offended; yet surely my dear Uncle will
forgive the Effects of the most amiable of Human Weaknesses. Compassion for
those who do not deserve it, I own, is a Crime; and yet it is a Crime from which
you yourself are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty of it in more than
one Instance to this very Person; and I will own I did send Mr. Dowling, not on
a vain and fruitless Enquiry, but to discover the Witnesses, and to endeavour to
soften their Evidence. This, Sir, is the Truth; which though I intended to
conceal from you, I will not deny.«
    »I confess,« said Nightingale, »this is the Light in which it appeared to me
from the Gentleman's Behaviour.«
    »Now, Madam,« said Allworthy, »I believe you will once in your Life own you
have entertained a wrong Suspicion, and are not so angry with my Nephew as you
was.«
    Mrs. Miller was silent; for though she could not so hastily be pleased with
Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the Ruin of Jones, yet in this
particular Instance he had imposed upon her as well as upon the rest; so
entirely had the Devil stood his Friend. And, indeed, I look upon the vulgar
Observation, That the Devil often deserts his Friends, and leaves them in the
Lurch, to be a great Abuse on that Gentleman's Character. Perhaps he may
sometimes desert those who are only his Cup Acquaintance; or who, at most, are
but half his; but he generally stands by those who are thoroughly his Servants,
and helps them off in all Extremities till their Bargain expires.
    As a conquered Rebellion strengthens a Government, or as Health is more
perfectly established by Recovery from some Diseases; so Anger, when removed,
often gives new Life to Affection. This was the Case of Mr. Allworthy; for
Blifil having wiped off the greater Suspicion, the lesser, which had been raised
by Square's Letter, sunk of Course, and was forgotten; and Thwackum, with whom
he was greatly offended, bore alone all the Reflections which Square had cast on
the Enemies of Jones.
    As for that young Man, the Resentment of Mr. Allworthy began more and more
to abate towards him. He told Blifil, »he did not only forgive the extraordinary
Efforts of his Good-Nature, but would give him the Pleasure of following his
Example.« Then turning to Mrs. Miller, with a Smile which would have become an
Angel, he cry'd, »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 past 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 this 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 surprised at hearing any Objection
from me to the kind Proposal you just now made; and yet I am afraid of the
Consequence of it, if carried immediately into Execution. You must imagine, Sir,
that all the Calamities which have lately befallen this poor young Fellow, must
have thrown him into the lowest Dejection of Spirits: And now, Sir, should we
all on a sudden fling him into such a violent Fit of Joy, as I know your
Presence will occasion, it may, I am afraid, produce some fatal Mischief,
especially as his Servant, who is without, tells me he is very far from being
well.«
    »Is his Servant without?« cries Allworthy; »pray call him hither. I will ask
him some Questions concerning his Master.«
    Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr. Allworthy; but was at
length persuaded, after Mrs. Miller, who had often heard his whole Story from
his own Mouth, had promised to introduce him.
    Allworthy recollected Partridge the Moment he came into the Room, though
many Years had passed since he had seen him. Mrs. Miller therefore might have
spared here a formal Oration, in which indeed she was something prolix: For the
Reader, I believe, may have observed already that the good Woman, among other
Things, had a Tongue always ready for the Service of her Friends.
    »And are you,« said Allworthy to Partridge, »the Servant of Mr. Jones?« »I
can't say, Sir,« answered he, »that I am regularly a Servant, but I live with
him, an't please your Honour, at present. Non sum qualis eram, as your Honour
very well knows.«
    Mr. Allworthy then asked him many Questions concerning Jones, as to his
Health, and other Matters; to all which Partridge answered, without having the
least Regard to what was, but considered only what he would have Things appear;
for a strict Adherence to Truth was not among the Articles of this honest
Fellow's Morality, or his Religion.
    During this Dialogue Mr. Nightingale took his Leave, and presently after
Mrs. Miller left the Room, when Allworthy likewise 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 VI

                   In which the History is farther continued.
 
»Sure, Friend,« said the good Man, »you are the strangest of all Human Beings.
Not only to have suffered as you have formerly, for obstinately persisting in a
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 any Thing 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 any Thing of this young Man?
Where did you meet with him, unless you had kept some Correspondence together.
Do not deny this; for I promise you it will greatly raise your Son in my
Opinion, to find that he hath such a Sense of filial Duty, as privately to
support his Father for so many Years.«
    »If your Honour will have Patience to hear me,« said Partridge, »I will tell
you all.« - Being bid go on, he proceeded thus: »When your Honour conceived that
Displeasure against me, it ended in my Ruin soon after; for I lost my little
School; and the Minister, thinking I suppose it would be agreeable to your
Honour, turned me out from the Office of Clerk; so that I had nothing to trust
to but the Barber's Shop, which, in a Country Place like that, is a poor
Livelihood; and when my Wife died, (for till that Time I received a Pension of
12 l. a Year from an unknown Hand, which indeed I believe was your Honour's own,
for no Body 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 one23 which an
Attorney brought up by Law-charges from 15s. to near 30 l.) and as I found all
my usual Means of living had forsook me, I packed up my little All as well as I
could, and went off.
    The first Place I came to was Salisbury, where I got into the Service of a
Gentleman belonging to the Law, and one of the best Gentlemen that ever I knew;
for he was not only good to me, but I know a thousand good and charitable Acts
which he did while I staid with him; and I have known him often refuse Business
because it was paltry 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 confoundedst
Lies about me; he said, that I used to drive my Hogs into other Folks 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 wou'd 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 Goal).« - »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 stayed 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 every Thing as well as he could remember, which had happened
from that Day to this, frequently interlarding his Story with Panegyricks on
Jones, and not forgetting to insinuate the great Love and Respect which he had
for Allworthy. He concluded with saying, »Now, Sir, I have told your Honour the
whole Truth:« And then repeated a most solemn Protestation, »That he was no more
the Father of Jones than of the Pope of Rome;« and imprecated the most bitter
Curses on his Head if he did not speak Truth.
    »What am I to think of this Matter?« cries Allworthy. »For what Purpose
should you so strongly deny a Fact, which I think it would be rather your
Interest to own?« - »Nay, Sir,« answered Partridge, (for he could hold no
longer) »if your Honour will not believe me, you are like soon to have
Satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the Mother of this young Man, as
well as you have his Father.« - And now being asked what he meant, with all the
Symptoms of Horror both in his Voice and Countenance, he told Allworthy the
whole Story, which he had a little before expressed such Desire to Mrs. Miller
to conceal from him.
    Allworthy was almost as much shocked at this Discovery as Partridge himself
had been while he related it. »Good Heavens!« says he, »in what miserable
Distresses do Vice and Imprudence involve Men! How much beyond our Designs are
the Effects of Wickedness sometimes carried!« He had scarce uttered these Words,
when Mrs. Waters came hastily and abruptly into the Room. Partridge no sooner
saw her, than he cry'd, »Here, Sir, here is the very Woman herself. This is the
unfortunate Mother of Mr. Jones; I am sure she will acquit me before your
Honour. - Pray, Madam -«
    Mrs. Waters, without paying any Regard to what Partridge said, and almost
without taking any Notice of him, advanced to Mr. Allworthy. »I believe, Sir, it
is so long since I had the Honour of seeing you, that you do not recollect me.«
- »Indeed,« answered Allworthy, »you are so very much altered, on many Accounts,
that had not this Man already acquainted me who you are, I should not have
immediately called you to my Remembrance. Have you, Madam, any particular
Business which brings you to me?« - Allworthy spoke this with great Reserve; for
the Reader may easily believe he was not well pleased with the Conduct of this
Lady; neither with what he had formerly heard, nor with what Partridge had now
delivered.
    Mrs. Waters answered, - »Indeed, Sir, I have very particular Business with
you; and it is such as I can impart only to yourself. - I must desire therefore
the Favour of a Word with you alone; for I assure you what I have to tell you is
of the utmost Importance.«
    Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, he begged the
Lady to satisfy Mr. Allworthy that he was perfectly innocent. To which she
answered - »You need be under no Apprehension, Sir, I shall satisfy Mr.
Allworthy very perfectly of that Matter.«
    Then Partridge withdrew, and that past between Mr. Allworthy and Mrs. Waters
which is written in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VII

                          Continuation of the History.
 
Mrs. Waters remaining a few Moments silent, Mr. Allworthy could not refrain from
saying, »I am sorry, Madam, to perceive by what I have since heard, that you
have made so very ill a Use -« »Mr. Allworthy,« says she, interrupting him, »I
know I have Faults, but Ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never can nor
shall forget your Goodness, which I own I have very little deserved; but be
pleased to wave all Upbraiding me at present, as I have so important an Affair
to communicate to you concerning this young Man, to whom you have given my
Maiden Name of Jones.« »Have I then,« said Allworthy, »ignorantly punished an
innocent Man in the Person of him who hath just left us? was he not the Father
of the Child?« - »Indeed he was not,« said Mrs. Waters. »You may be pleased to
remember, Sir, I formerly told you, you should one Day know; and I acknowledge
myself to have been guilty of a cruel Neglect, in not having discovered it to
you before. - Indeed I little knew how necessary it was.« - »Well, Madam,« said
Allworthy, »be pleased to proceed.« »You must remember, Sir,« said she, »a young
Fellow, whose Name was Summer.« »Very well,« cries Allworthy, »he was the Son of
a Clergyman of great Learning and Virtue, for whom I had the highest
Friendship.« »So it appeared, Sir,« answered she; »for I believe you bred the
young Man up, and maintained him at the University; where, I think, he had
finished his Studies, when he came to reside at your House; a finer Man, I must
say, the Sun never shone upon; for, besides the handsomest Person I ever saw, he
was so genteel, and had so much Wit and good Breeding.« »Poor Gentleman,« said
Allworthy, »he was indeed untimely snatch'd 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,
Sir,« said she, »which I am concerned falls to my Lot to unfold to you. - O,
Sir, prepare to hear something which will surprise 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 Falsehood.
Remember there is one from whom you can conceal nothing, and before whose
Tribunal Falsehood 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 confessed it before me.« - »So far what I
confessed,« 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, showed 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
stopped, and after a Silence of a few Minutes, during which she often wiped her
Eyes, she enquired of me, if I thought my Mother might safely be confided in. I
answered, I would stake my Life on her Fidelity. She then Imparted to me the
great Secret which laboured in her Breast, and which, I believe, was delivered
with more Pains than she afterwards suffered in Child-birth. It was then
contrived, that my Mother and myself only should attend at the Time, and that
Mrs. Wilkins should be sent out of the way, as she accordingly was to the very
furthest Part of Dorsetshire to enquire the Character of a Servant; for the Lady
had turned away her own Maid near three Months before, during all which Time I
officiated about her Person, upon Trial as she said, tho', 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 entrusted such a Secret. You may be assured, Sir, I was well paid for all
these Affronts, which, together with being informed of 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 show'd him was out of
meer Complaisance 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 expressed 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 apprised 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 Heavens, 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 stepped to the Door, in order to call a Servant, when in came, not Mr.
Dowling, but the Gentleman who will be seen in the next Chapter.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

                             Further Continuation.
 
The Gentleman who now arrived was no other than Mr. Western. He no sooner saw
Allworthy, than without considering in the least the Presence of Mrs. Waters, he
began to vociferate in the following Manner. »Fine Doings at my House! A rare
Kettle of Fish I have discovered at last; who the Devil would be plagued with a
Daughter?« »What's the Matter, Neighbour,« said Allworthy. »Matter enough,«
answered Western, »when I thought she was a just 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 a sent for the Lawyer and finished all. What do
you think I have found out? that the little B- hath bin playing Tricks with me
all the while, and carrying on a Correspondence with that Bastard of yours.
Sister Western, whom I have a quarrelled with upon her Account, sent me Word
o't, and I ordered her Pockets to be searched when she was asleep, and here I
have got un signed with the Son of a Whore's own Name. I have not had Patience
to read half o't, for 'tis longer than one of Parson Supple's Sermons; but I
find plainly it is all about Love, and indeed what should it be else? I have
packed her up in Chamber again, and To-morrow Morning down she goes into the
Country, unless she consents to be married directly, and there she shall live in
a Garret upon Bread and Water all her Days; and the sooner such a B- breaks her
Heart the better, though d-n her, that I believe is too tough. She will live
long enough to plague me.« »Mr. Western,« answered Allworthy, »you know I have
always protested against Force, and you yourself consented that none should be
used.« »Ay,« cries he, »that was only upon Condition that she would consent
without. What the Devil and Doctor Faustus, shan't I do what I will with my own
Daughter, especially when I desire nothing but her own Good?« »Well, Neighbour,«
answered Allworthy, »if you will give me Leave, I will undertake once to argue
with the young Lady.« »Will you,« said Western, »why that is kind now and
neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been able to do with her;
for I promise you she hath a very good Opinion of you.« »Well, Sir,« said
Allworthy, »if you will go Home and release the young Lady from her Captivity, I
will wait upon her within this half Hour.« - »But suppose,« said Western, »she
should run away with un in the mean Time? for Lawyer Dowling tells me there is
no Hopes of hanging the Fellow at last, for that the Man is alive, and like to
do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of Prison again presently.« -
»How,« said Allworthy, »what, did you employ him then to enquire or to do any
Thing 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. - I cod! 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 try'd 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 lock'd up all her Life in a Garret
in this, and be kept only upon Bread and Water.« »I will do all I can,« said
Allworthy, »for I promise you there is nothing I wish 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 n'arrow a Father within a hundred Miles o' the Place that loves a
Daughter better than I do; but I see you are busy with the Lady here, so I will
go Huome and expect you, and so your humble Servant.«
    As soon as Mr. Western was gone, Mrs. Waters said, »I see, Sir, the Squire
hath not the least Remembrance of my Face. I believe, Mr. Allworthy, you would
not have known me neither. I am very considerably altered since that Day when
you so kindly gave me that Advice, which I had been happy had I followed.« -
»Indeed, Madam,« cries Allworthy, »it gave me great Concern when I first heard
the contrary.« »Indeed, Sir,« says she, »I was ruined by a very deep Scheme of
Villany, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think it would justify me in
your Opinion, it would at least mitigate my Offence, and induce you to pity me;
you are not now at Leisure to hear my whole Story; but this I assure you, I was
betrayed by the most solemn Promises of Marriage; nay in the Eye of Heaven I was
married to him; for after much reading on the Subject, I am convinced that
particular Ceremonies are only requisite to give a legal Sanction to Marriage,
and have only a worldly Use in giving a Woman the Privileges of a Wife; but that
she who lives constant to one Man, after a solemn private Affiance, whatever the
World may call her, hath little to charge on her own Conscience.« »I am sorry,
Madam,« said Allworthy, »you made so ill an 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 stripped 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 Capt. Waters,
with whom, though still unmarried, I lived as a Wife for many Years, and went by
his Name. I parted with this Gentleman at Worcester, on his March against the
Rebels, and it was then I accidentally met with Mr. Jones, who rescued me from
the Hands of a Villain. Indeed he is the worthiest of Men. No young Gentleman of
his Age is, I believe, freer from Vice, and few have the twentieth Part of his
Virtues; nay, whatever Vices he hath had, I am firmly persuaded he hath now
taken a Resolution to abandon them.« »I hope he hath,« cries Allworthy, »and I
hope he will preserve that Resolution. I must say I have still the same Hopes
with Regard to yourself. The World, I do agree, are apt to be too unmerciful on
these Occasions, yet Time and Perseverance will get the better of this their
Disinclination, as I may call it, to Pity, for though they are not, like Heaven,
ready to receive a penitent Sinner, yet a continued Repentance will at length
obtain Mercy even with the World. This you may be assured of, Mrs. Waters, that
whenever I find you are sincere in such good Intentions, you shall want no
Assistance in my Power to make them effectual.«
    Mrs. Waters fell now upon her Knees before him, and, in a Flood of Tears,
made him many most passionate Acknowledgments of his Goodness, which, as she
truly said, savoured more of the divine than human Nature.
    Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender Manner, making use of
every Expression which his Invention could suggest to comfort her, when he was
interrupted by the Arrival of Mr. Dowling, who, upon his first Entrance, seeing
Mrs. Waters, started, and appeared in some Confusion; from which he soon
recovered himself as well as he could, and then said, he was in the utmost Haste
to attend Counsel at Mr. Western's Lodgings; but however thought it his Duty to
call and acquaint him with the Opinion of Counsel upon the Case which he had
before told him, which was that the Conversion of the Moneys in that Case could
not be questioned in a Criminal Cause, but that an Action of Trover might be
brought, and if it appeared to the Jury to be the Moneys of Plaintiff, that
Plaintiff would recover a Verdict for the Value.
    Allworthy, without making any Answer to this, bolted the Door, and then
advancing with a stern Look to Dowling, he said, »Whatever be your Haste, Sir, I
must first receive an Answer to some Questions. Do you know this Lady?« - »That
Lady, Sir?« answered Dowling with great Hesitation. Allworthy then, with the
most solemn Voice, said, »Look you, Mr. Dowling, as you value my Favour, or your
Continuance a Moment longer in my Service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; but
answer faithfully and truly to every Question I ask. - Do you know this Lady?« -
»Yes, Sir,« said Dowling, »I have seen the Lady.« »Where, Sir?« »At her own
Lodgings.« - »Upon what Business did you go thither, Sir, and who sent you?« »I
went, Sir, to enquire, Sir, about Mr. Jones.« »And who sent you to enquire about
him?« »Who, Sir, why, Sir, Mr. Blifil sent me.« »And what did you say to the
Lady concerning that Matter?« »Nay, Sir, it is impossible to recollect every
Word.« »Will you please, Madam, to assist the Gentleman's Memory?« »He told me,
Sir,« said Mrs. Waters, »that if Mr. Jones had murdered my Husband, I should be
assisted by any Money I wanted to carry on the Prosecution, by a very worthy
Gentleman, who was well apprised 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 any Thing 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 Subordination 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 dy'd 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 any Thing 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 that 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 should not be able to keep them, he thought
proper to make this Confession, which the Promises of Forgiveness, joined to the
Threats, the Voice, the Looks of Allworthy, and the Discoveries he had made
before, extorted from him, who was besides taken unawares, and had no Time to
consider of Evasions.
    Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this Relation, and having enjoined on
Dowling strict Silence as to what had past, conducted that Gentleman himself to
the Door, lest he should see Blifil, who was returned to his Chamber, where he
exulted in the Thoughts of his last Deceit on his Uncle, and little suspected
what had since passed below Stairs.
    As Allworthy was returning to his Room, he met Mrs. Miller in the Entry, who
with a Face all pale and full of Terror, said to him, »O! Sir, I find this
wicked Woman hath been with you, and you know all; yet do not on this Account
abandon the poor young Man. Consider, Sir, he was ignorant it was his own
Mother, and the Discovery itself will most probably break his Heart, without
your Unkindness.« »Madam,« says Allworthy, »I am under such an Astonishment at
what I have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy you; but come with me into
my Room. Indeed, Mrs. Miller, I have made surprising 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 cry'd, »And is my clear 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,« cry'd 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 the 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 down Stairs to attend upon his
Uncle, for he never was deficient in such Acts of Duty. He asked his Uncle if he
was going out, which is a civil Way of asking a Man whither he is going; to
which the other making no Answer, he again desired to know when he would be
pleased to return. - Allworthy made no Answer to this neither, till he was just
going into his Chair, and then turning about he said - »Harkee, Sir, do you find
out, before my Return, the Letter which your Mother sent me on her Death-bed.«
Allworthy then departed, and left Blifil in a Situation to be envied only by a
Man who is just going to be hanged.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                            A further Continuation.
 
Allworthy took an Opportunity whilst he was in the Chair of reading the Letter
from Jones to Sophia, which Western delivered him; and there were some
Expressions in it concerning himself, which drew Tears from his Eyes. At length
he arrived at Mr. Western's, and was introduced to Sophia.
    When the first Ceremonies were past, and the Gentleman and Lady had taken
their Chairs, a Silence of some Minutes ensued; during which, the latter, who
had been prepared for the Visit by her Father, sat playing with her Fan, and had
every Mark of Confusion both in her Countenance and Behaviour. At length
Allworthy, who was himself a little disconcerted, began thus; »I am afraid, Miss
Western, my Family hath been the occasion of giving you some Uneasiness; to
which, I fear, I have innocently become more instrumental than I intended. Be
assured, Madam, had I at first known how disagreeable the Proposals had been, I
should not have suffered you to have been so long persecuted. I hope therefore
you will not think the Design of this Visit is to trouble you with any further
Solicitations of that kind, but entirely to relieve you from them.«
    »Sir,« said Sophia, with a little modest Hesitation, »this Behaviour is most
kind and generous, and such as I could expect only from Mr. Allworthy: But as
you have been so kind to mention this Matter, you will pardon me for saying, it
hath indeed given me great Uneasiness, and hath been the occasion of my
suffering much cruel Treatment from a Father, who was, till that unhappy Affair,
the tenderest and fondest of all Parents. I am convinced, Sir, you are too good
and generous to resent my Refusal of your Nephew. Our Inclinations are not in
our own Power; and whatever may be his Merit, I cannot force them in his
Favour.« »I assure you, most amiable young Lady,« said Allworthy, »I am capable
of no such Resentment, had the Person been my own Son, and had I entertain'd 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 to 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 surprises
me.« - »It hath surprised 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 restor'd 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 yours! 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 surprised 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 Villainy may have injured him every where. -
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 marry'd 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 press'd; 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 prest 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 recall 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 Juones; 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.« - »Od-rabbit-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
wou'd 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 show you what she deserves. - See here, Sir, here
is a Letter from my Cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is so kind to gi me
to understand, that the Fellow is got out of Prison again; and here she advises
me to take all the Care I can o' the Wench. Odzookers! Neighbour Allworthy, you
don't know what it is to govern a Daughter.«
    The Squire ended his Speech with some Compliments to his own Sagacity; and
then Allworthy, after a formal Preface, acquainted him with the whole Discovery
which he had made concerning Jones, with his Anger to Blifil, and with every
Particular which hath been disclosed to the Reader in the preceding Chapters.
    Men over-violent in their Dispositions, are, for the most Part, as
changeable in them. No sooner then was Western informed of Mr. Allworthy's
Intention to make Jones his Heir, than he joined heartily with the Uncle in
every Commendation of the Nephew, and became as eager for her Marriage with
Jones, as he had before been to couple her to Blifil.
    Here Mr. Allworthy was again forced to interpose, and to relate what had
passed between him and Sophia, at which he testified great Surprise.
    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 Esteate as you, and am in the Commission of
the Peace as well as yourself.«
 

                                   Chapter X

            Wherein the History begins to draw towards a Conclusion.
 
When Allworthy returned to his Lodgings, he heard Mr. Jones was just arrived
before him. He hurried therefore instantly into an empty Chamber, whither he
ordered Mr. Jones to be brought to him alone.
    It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving Scene, than the Meeting
between the Uncle and Nephew (for Mrs. Waters, as the Reader may well suppose,
had at her last Visit discovered to him the Secret of his Birth). The first
Agonies of Joy which were felt on both Sides, are indeed beyond my Power to
describe: I shall not therefore attempt it. After Allworthy had raised Jones
from his Feet, where he had prostrated himself, and received him into his Arms,
»O my Child,« he cried, »how have I been to blame! How have I injured you! What
Amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those unjust Suspicions which I
have entertained; and for all the Sufferings they have occasioned to you?« »Am I
not now made Amends?« cries Jones, »Would not my Sufferings, if they had been
ten Times greater, have been now richly repaid? O my dear Uncle! this Goodness,
this Tenderness overpowers, unmans, destroys me. I cannot bear the Transports
which flow so fash 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 every thing 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
Villainy, 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 Candour may construe into Imprudence, and those which can be
deduced from Villainy 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 Villainy, 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 Public, 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. Where-ever he turns his Eyes, Horror presents itself; if he
looks backward, unavailable Repentance treads on his Heels; if forward,
incurable Despair stares him in the Face; till, like a condemned Prisoner,
confined in a Dungeon, he detests his present Condition, and yet dreads the
Consequence of that Hour which is to relieve him from it. Comfort yourself, I
say, my Child, that this is not your Case; and rejoice, with Thankfulness to him
who hath suffered you to see your Errors, before they have brought on you that
Destruction to which a Persistance in even those Errors must have led you. You
have deserted them, and the Prospect now before you is such, that Happiness
seems in your own Power.« - At these Word 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 entirely by the
Determination of the young Lady, whether it shall be in your Favour, or no. She
hath already suffered enough from Sollicitations which I hate to think of; she
shall owe no further Constraint to my Family: I know her Father will be as ready
to torment her now on your Account, as he hath formerly been on another's; but I
am determined she shall suffer no more Confinement, no more Violence, no more
uneasy Hours.« - »O my dear Uncle,« answered Jones, »lay, I beseech you, some
Command on me, in which I shall have some Merit in Obedience. Believe me, Sir,
the only Instance in which I could disobey you, would be to give an uneasy
Moment to my Sophia. No, Sir, if I am so miserable to have incurred her
Displeasure beyond all Hope of Forgiveness, that alone, with the dreadful
Reflection of causing her Misery, will be sufficient to overpower me. To call
Sophia mine is the greatest, and now the only additional Blessing which Heaven
can bestow; but it is a Blessing which I must owe to her alone.« »I will not
flatter you, Child,« cries Allworthy; »I fear your Case is desperate: I never
saw stronger Marks of an unalterable Resolution in any Person, than appeared in
her vehement Declarations against receiving your Addresses; for which, perhaps,
you can account better than myself.« - »Oh, Sir! I can account too well,«
answered Jones; »I have sinned against her beyond all Hope of Pardon; and,
guilty as I am, my Guilt unfortunately appears to her in ten Times blacker than
the real Colours. O my dear Uncle, I find my Follies are irretrievable; and all
your Goodness cannot save me from Perdition.«
    A Servant now acquainted them, that Mr. Western was below Stairs; for his
Eagerness to see Jones could not wait till the Afternoon. Upon which Jones,
whose Eyes were full of Tears, begged his Uncle to entertain Western a few
Minutes, till he a little recovered himself: To which the good Man consented,
and having ordered Mr. Western to be 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 any thing so inexorable I never saw. Jones, with some Appearance
of Surprise, asked her, what she meant. »Why then,« says she, »I have been with
your young Lady, and have explained all Matters to her, as they were told 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 Teatable.
    The Conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; and with which, had
it happened earlier in our History, we would have entertained our Reader; but as
we have now Leisure only to attend to what is very material, it shall suffice to
say, that Matters being entirely adjusted as to the Afternoon-visit, Mr. Western
again returned home.
 

                                   Chapter XI

                   The History draws nearer to a Conclusion.
 
When Mr. Western was departed, Jones began to inform Mr. Allworthy and Mrs.
Miller, that his Liberty had been procured by two noble Lords, who, together
with two Surgeons, and a Friend of Mr. Nightingale's, had attended the
Magistrate by whom he had been committed, and by whom, on the Surgeons Oaths
that the wounded Person was out of all Manner of Danger from this 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 surprised 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, and
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 possibly, 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 having been so well satisfied by Mrs. Waters concerning the
Innocence of his Wife with Jones at Upton, or perhaps from some other Reasons,
was now become so indifferent to that Matter, that he spoke highly in Favour of
Jones, to Lord Fellamar, took all the Blame upon himself, and said the other had
behaved very much like a Gentleman, and a Man of Honour; and upon that Lord's
further Enquiry concerning Mr. Jones, Fitzpatrick told him he was Nephew to a
Gentleman of very great Fashion and Fortune, which was the Account he had just
received from Mrs. Waters, after her Interview with Dowling.
    Lord Fellamar now thought it behoved him to do every Thing in his Power to
make Satisfaction to a Gentleman whom he had so grosly 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, and 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 villainously contrived.« - »Pardon
me, dear Sir,« said Jones; »a Moment's Reflection will, I am sure, convince you
of the contrary. What might be perhaps 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 inexcuseable than
any Thing 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 entring 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 extatic
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 blessed 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 Harris 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.« »O,« cries she, »if
that be the Case, leave the Matter to me; I'll soon show him the Outside 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 any Thing 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 Villainy 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 surprised 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 made concerning the 500 l. Bank-Notes. »I have,« said he, »already consulted
a Lawyer, who tells me, to my great Astonishment, that there is no Punishment
for a Fraud of this Kind. Indeed, when I consider the black Ingratitude of this
Fellow toward you, I think a Highwayman, compared to him, is an innocent
Person.«
    »Good Heaven!« says Jones, »is it possible? - I am shocked beyond Measure at
this News. I thought there was not an honester Fellow in the World. - The
Temptation of such a Sum was too great for him to withstand; for smaller Matters
have come safe to me through his Hand. Indeed, my dear Uncle, you must suffer me
to call it Weakness rather than Ingratitude; for I am convinced the poor Fellow
loves me, and hath done me some Kindnesses, which I can never forget; nay, I
believe he hath repented of this very Act: For it is not above a Day or two ago,
when my Affairs seemed in the most desperate Situation, that he visited me in my
Confinement, and offered me any Money I wanted. Consider, Sir, what a Temptation
to a Man who hath tasted such bitter Distress, it must be to have a Sum in his
Possession, which must put him and his Family beyond any future Possibility of
suffering the like.«
    »Child,« cries Allworthy, »you carry this forgiving Temper too far. Such
mistaken Mercy is not only Weakness, but borders on Injustice, and is very
pernicious to Society, as it encourages Vice. The Dishonesty of this Fellow I
might perhaps have pardoned, but never his Ingratitude. And give me Leave to
say, when we suffer any Temptation to attone 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 spoke 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 clothes.
    Partridge had scarce seen his Master since the happy Discovery. The poor
Fellow was unable either to contain or express his Transports. He behaved like
one frantic, and made almost as many Mistakes while he was dressing Jones, as I
have seen made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the Stage.
    His Memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He recollected now many
Omens and Presages of this happy Event, some of which he had remarked at the
Time, but many more he now remembered; nor did he omit the Dreams he had dreamt
the Evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded with saying, »I always
told your Honour something boded in my Mind, that you would one Time or other
have it in your Power to make my Fortune.« Jones assured him, that this Boding
should as certainly be verified with regard to him, as all the other Omens had
been to himself; which did not a little add to all the Raptures which the poor
Fellow had already conceived on account of his Master.
 

                                  Chapter XII

                      Approaching still nearer to the End.
 
Jones being now completely dressed, attended his Uncle to Mr. Western's. He was
indeed one of the finest Figures ever beheld, and his Person alone would have
charmed the greater Part of Womankind; but we hope it hath already appeared in
this History, that Nature, when she formed him, did not totally rely, as she
sometimes doth, on this Merit only, to recommend her Work.
    Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the best Advantage,
for which I leave my female Readers to account, appeared so extremely beautiful,
that even Allworthy, when he saw her, could not forbear whispering Western, that
he believed she was the finest Creature in the World. To which Western answered,
in a Whisper overheard by all present, »So much the better for Tom; - for d-n me
if he shan't ha the tousling her.« Sophia was all over Scarlet at these Words,
while Tom's Countenance was altogether as pale, and he was almost ready to sink
from his Chair.
    The Tea-table was scarce removed, before Western lugged Allworthy out of the
Room, telling him, »He had Business of Consequence to impart, and must speak to
him that Instant in private before he forgot it.«
    The Lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, appear strange to
many Readers, that those who had so much to say to one another when Danger and
Difficulty attended their Conversation, and who seemed so eager to rush into
each others 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 apprised of all my Demerits. Mrs. Miller has 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
confessed, 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 flatter'd
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.« - »O! 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 entreat, 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 surprised. »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 those 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,« said 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 any thing further than you permit me.
Yet let me entreat you to appoint a short Trial. O! tell me, when I may expect
you will be convinced of what is most solemnly true.« »When I have gone
voluntarily thus far, Mr. Jones,« said she, »I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I
will not.« - »O don't look unkindly thus, my Sophia,« cries he. »I do not, I
dare not press you. - Yet permit me at least once more to beg you would fix the
Period. O! consider the Impatience of Love.« - »A Twelvemonth perhaps,« said
she. - »O! my Sophia,« cries he, »you have named an Eternity« - »Perhaps it may
be something sooner,« says she, »I will not be teased. 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, extatic 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, cry'd 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 had'st been a Lad of higher Mettle, than to give way to
a Parcel of maidenish Tricks. - I tell thee 'tis all Flimflam. Zoodikers! she'd
have the Wedding to-Night with all her Heart. Would'st not, Sophy? Come confess,
and be an honest Girl for once. What, art dumb? Why do'st 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 do'st consent then?«
»No indeed, Sir,« says Sophia, »I have given no such Consent.« - »And wunt nut
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 forbid 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,« said 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 awhile; I was forced to use a little fatherly Authority
to bring her to.« »I hope not, Sir,« cries Allworthy. »I hope there is not the
least Constraint.« »Why there,« cries Western, »you may bid her unsay all again,
if you will. Do'st repent heartily of thy Promise, do'st not, Sophy?« »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 Pound 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 every Thing 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 such other. 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 superiour 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 do'st not talk Boy! Why do'st 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 no Body 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, tho' contrary perhaps to thy Expectation, Mr.
Jones appears to be the happiest of all human Kind: For what Happiness this
World affords equal to the Possession of such a Woman as Sophia, I sincerely own
I have never yet discovered.
    As to the other Persons who have made any considerable Figure in this
History, as some may desire to know a little more concerning them, we will
proceed in as few Words as possible, to satisfy their Curiosity.
    Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, but he hath
yielded to the Importunity of Jones, backed by Sophia, to settle 200 l. a Year
upon him; to which Jones hath privately added a third. Upon this Income he lives
in one of the northern Counties, about 200 Miles distant from London, and lays
up 200 l. 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- 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 OEconomist, 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 60 l. 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, run away, and was
never since heard of; and Jones bestowed the Money on his Family, but not in
equal Proportions, for Molly had much the greatest Share.
    As for Partridge, Jones hath settled 50 l. 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 every
Thing 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 Anti-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 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, and by his Union with
the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He hath also, by Reflexion 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 increased and
confirmed by mutual Endearments, and mutual Esteem. Nor is their Conduct towards
their Relations and Friends less amiable, than towards one another. And such is
their Condescension, their Indulgence, and their Beneficence to those below
them, that there is not a Neighbour, a Tenant, or a Servant, who doth not most
gratefully bless the Day when Mr. Jones was married to his Sophia.
 
                                     Finis.
 

                                     Notes

1 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.
 
2 The English Reader will not find this in the Poem: For the Sentiment is
entirely left out in the Translation.
 
3 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.
 
4 »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.
 
5 This is an ambiguous Phrase, and may mean either a Forest well clothed with
Wood, or well stripped of it.
 
6 The Reader may perhaps subdue his own Patience, if he searches for this in
Milton.
7 The DEITY.
 
8 By this Word here, and in most other Parts of our Work, we mean every Reader
in the World.
 
9 It is happy for M. Dacier that he was not an Irishman.
 
10 Firm in himself, who on himself relies,
Polish'd and round, who runs his proper Course,
And breaks Misfortunes with superior Force.
                                                                    MR. FRANCIS.
 
11 - Each desperate Blockhead dares to write,
Verse is the Trade of every living Wight.
                                                                         FRANCIS
.
12 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.
 
13 This Word, which the Serjeant unhappily mistook for an Affront, is a Term in
Logic, and means that the Conclusion doth not follow from the Premises.
 
14 Whose Vices are not allayed with a single Virtue.
15 A celebrated Mantua-maker in the Strand, famous for setting off the Shapes of
Women.
 
16 Possibly Circassian.
 
17 This was the Village where Jones met the Quaker.
 
18 Place me where never Summer Breeze
Unbinds the Glebe, or warms the Trees;
Where ever lowering Clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th' inclement Year.
 
Place me beneath the burning Ray,
Where rolls the rapid Carr of Day;
Love and the Nymph shall charm my Toils,
The Nymph who sweetly speaks, and sweetly smiles.
Mr. Francis.
 
19 Nerva, Trajan, Adrian, and the two Antonini.
 
20 See the 2d Odyssey, ver. 175.
 
21 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 Hay-Market, 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, etc.
incident to Combatants, will be fully taught and explain'd; and that Persons of
Quality and Distinction may not be deterred from entering into a Course of these
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 Mufflers
are provided, that will effectually secure them from the Inconveniency of black
Eyes, broken Jaws, and bloody Noses.
 
22 Meaning, perhaps, the Bank-bill for 100 l.
 
23 This is a Fact which I knew happen to a poor Clergyman in Dorsetshire, by the
Villainy 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 judgement, as it is called. A Method frequently used to oppress the poor, and
bring Money into the Pockets of Attornies, to the great Scandal of the Law, of
the Nation, of Christianity, and even of Human Nature itself.
